The dance

When the sophomore dance rolled around, I didn't go with Sharon. I was asked by Samantha Beesley, a greasy-haired brunette, a real noodle of a girl. I said 'yes' right away, before I had time to think about it.

'You're going with Samantha?' Smiths said to me at lunch.

'Yes,' I said. 'Sadly, yes.'

Smiths bit deep into his peanut-butter-and-tofu sandwich. 'I just don't get it. Why wouldn't you just ask Sharon, like a normal guy? I even think she might be into you.'

I bit into a section of my orange. 'I thought about it, Smiths--I really did. Claude Reeves beat me to it, man.'

'Well, you're a fool,' Smiths told me. 'Timing is everything. You've got to go right out and grab a woman or she'll slip away.'

'At least I've got Sandra,' I said.

Smiths looked at me as if I belonged in a sanitarium.

'I sure do dislike that Claude, though. . .'