Alley-Oops I Think I'm Falling in Love (With the Wrong Guy)

Adolescence wouldn't be adolescence without a moment so embarrassing that it alters the trajectory of your life. Right? Anybody? No? Or is it just me? Well, I've had several.

Buckle up butter cup. This one is fun.

My earliest came in the form of our very first school dance at the end of sixth grade. It was held during the last two periods in the gymnasium.

Every girl, except one, wore a dress that day.

I had asked my mom to check me out so that I wouldn't have to go—there was no way I was subjecting myself to this particular form of social torture.

As the clock drew near, I grew nervous.

Whitney raised her hand and asked to visit the restroom. Mr. Powell waved her off and didn't notice—or didn't care—when Allie slipped out with her.

Tapping my fingers on my desk, I packed up my things, sure that at any moment I'd hear my name called out over the intercom.

Everyone was whispering excitedly about the dance—spreading rumors about who might have crushes on who, about how weird it would be to slow dance, and of course, predictions on who would ask who to dance.

It was my literal worst nightmare.

While I didn't have a crush yet, the unforgiving nature of sixth grade politics had hardened me. I'd figured out that there was no such thing as a benign conversation anymore, which is every introvert's biggest fear.

My degree of self consciousness had grown exponentially. Now every time I even considered speaking to a boy, I clammed up, because everyone would assume I had a crush on him. Boys were supposed to be the ones I could talk to!

I glanced up from my book at the sound of Whitney and Allie giggling, as they pushed open the door. They pranced and preened as they returned to their desks, dark mascara now visible on their lashes, a tinge of blue eye shadow, and a shiny, wet, lip gloss on their lips.

Had they gone to the bathroom just to put on make-up? I was years away from wearing make-up.

The day before they had all compared how long it took to get ready in the morning — those with the longest times viewed their sacrifice of sleep like a martyrdom, a badge of honor.

Today, they'd spent an hour blow drying their hair and one more crimping it. Whitney and Allie both wore form-fitting, spaghetti-strap dresses, that hit right above the knee. The necklines were lower than anything I'd ever seen my peers wear before.

It was very apparent that they were years ahead of me in the puberty department. They were very eager to show off their blossoming assets. They actually had breasts. If they squeezed their arms together just right, they could even muster some cleavage.

They say God doesn't have favorites, but it sure seemed that way.

At any rate, even then, I recognized this for what it was — the twelve year old version of low hanging fruit, a la "the thirst trap."

I thought they looked ridiculous.

But you know who didn't think so?

Freaking Taylor Arroyo and Roscoe Tate. They ate it up like freaking bread. Like it was the last bread on earth.

My eyes trailed towards them, wondering if Whitney's ploy would have the desired effect.

It did.

I almost dry heaved.

I'd expect that from Taylor—they were like a shiny new object, or a squirrel and he a dog—but I had thought Roscoe might be more sophisticated. This was beneath them.