It was 1966, the eighth grade school dance. In the middle of January, Siberia-like weather blew across the Canadian prairies and Winnipeg, Manitoba was crisp at thiry below zero. When I entered the gym, I felt my frozen cheeks and nyloned legs begin to tingle with the abrupt change in temperature.

My red curls hung on the sleeveless shoulders of my safe black velvet dress.  Best friend, Jennifer stood beside me. Her dark hair moved across the front of a green a-line dress as she executed the necessary survey for friends whom we could hook up with. It was scary without a gaggle of girls to share whispers while we all pretended not to be watching the boys.

Rick had zit-free Mediterranean skin and was the captain of the hockey team. He was also my neighbor and although we were friends outside of school, during class, he rarely spoke to me. He was all-the-more attractive to me with this cool veneer. I knew there was a sweet guy behind the aloof exterior.  I prayed that he would ask me to slow dance and then walk me home. In my head, he’d already asked me to go steady.

“Jen,” I said out of the corner of my mouth. “Rick’s headed this way.” I can still feel those sweet butterflies make mincemeat of my tummy. I had already noted his white shirt and beige khakis so I could pick him out of the crowd. I flicked a curl from my shoulder and looked the other way. The DJ was spinning Unchained Melody. Perfect. Rick and I would sway in each other’s arms to the Righteous Brothers’ haunting tune.

Rick was three feet from my ‘yes,’ when he suddenly veered slightly to the right and asked Jennifer if she would like to dance. Jennifer, of course, had been well-versed in my crush. She was supposed to say ‘no.’ Instead, she glanced at me and shrugged before she took his hand. I watched this dual betrayal in slow motion while automatically replacing the shocked ‘O’ my mouth had formed with a pasted smile.

I now stood alone, my baked-in-place grin getting older and faker by the minute. But girls didn’t stomp off in those days. We pretended to have to go to the bathroom. We brushed our hair, applied more pink lipstick and willed the tears to stay behind our eyes. We were all accomplished actresses.

Although I’d already run through several forms of torture that were too good for my ex-best friend, I knew in reality I’d just say, ‘no big deal’ when we talked about it later.

When I returned to the gym, the final notes of the song were still in the air. I watched Rick hold Jen a little too close, a little too long. My stomach was in the clutches of the demons that have haunted school dances since young women began to grace the doors of learning. I looked the other way. I pretended to wave to someone. I got over it.

Or did I?

A year later, Rick became my boyfriend. Unchained Melody was certainly not our song. That was Happy Together by The Turtles. And although, like a sap, I had forgiven Jennifer, there was a corner of my heart that Rick could never own because of that dance.

Wood chips litter the shop floor.

The table saw whines down.  “Looks clean,” I say as I rub my hand across the edge of the 2 x 4 piece of wood.  It’s 10:23 a.m. on a Thursday morning, and I’m wasting time in shop class.  I don’t actually need to be here.  But, I have two electives to complete if I’m going to graduate.  I wisely chose food service as my second choice.  The food is free.

As I prepare to run some sand paper across the edge of my freshly cut board, I turn to the left, just in time to see him watching me, again.  He’s a junior.  His name is John.  He’s also a loner – easy to pick on.  I’ve said “hi” a couple times, nothing more.  Seniors aren’t supposed to interact with lower classmen, unless they have to.  It’s one of those unspoken rules.  Personally, I don’t give a shit.

“How’s it going?” he says to me.  I don’t answer at first.  Bill and Ted, two seniors are standing nearby.  Guilt tugs at my gut the longer I wait to say anything.  I say “good” with a smile and a nod.  He smiles back.  At 5’9”, athletic and husky, with a blonde crop of hair trimmed neatly around his ears, he looks All-American.  Which is why I’m not sure he keeps trying with me.

When the bell rings I grab my books and head for the door.

“See ya later,” he says as I walk by.

“Yeah, catch you later.” I make eye contact, and for a split second, I see a reflection of myself.

At home that night I sit behind a locked door on my bed and ponder my future.  It hits me that I have no future.  I’m going to graduate in six month’s and I have no Goddamned future.  My dad and I have waged war for years.  And the years of being told I couldn’t do anything have taken their toll.  I get up, go to the dresser, open the third drawer and pull out a tin box.  Hidden under some playing cards is my only source of relief from the pain of loneliness that has gripped me since my sophomore year.  My pipe and the small bag of weed, which is getting too low again.  I stuff the goods in my coat pocket, run a comb through my curly brown hair, and head for the door.  I’ve promised Fred I’d come over tonight and help him with his algebra.  Fred’s first introduced me to pot.

The next day at school I spy John standing in the hallway.  A couple of assholes walk by and knock the books out of his hands.  He reaches down and picks them up.  Ginger, our mutual petite blonde friend, runs up and grabs him by the arm.  “You promised to go to the movies remember?”  John looks away.

Later in shop class I notice he’s just standing around, watching the two guys that knocked his books to the floor.

I look over and try to make eye contact.  He shoots me a look of rage that says  “stay away, and don’t come near.”  Later, I see him standing alone next to his locker. Just standing.

That night I toss and turn with his image in my mind.  I can’t stop.

The next day at school, Ginger is standing next to her locker, crying, while her friends try to consol her.

I gently approach the situation. “What’s wrong?”

Ginger looks away.  Her best friend Tina turns to me.  “John killed himself last night.  He used his dad’s shot gun.”

I feel like someone slugged me in the gut.  The last image of John in shop class, standing alone with that vacant expression on his face, haunts me for the rest of the day.

When I drive the noon food service run with Elsie, our blabbermouth cook who had to accompany us on the trips, our route takes us past John’s house.  Elsie cranes her neck as we drive by, “I heard they had to use a mop to clean up all the blood,” she says.

When I get home that night, I go straight to my bedroom, toss my stuff on the bed and look in the mirror.