Homecoming perspective
Photo Credit: M. Mielke
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October 22, 2009 • Caroline Streff, Reporter
Filed under 2009-2010
The Week Prior to Homecoming:
Even at the best of times, high school tiptoes along the line between an educational system and a mad house. It is a raging sea of hormones that can slam boys into lockers and reduce girls to watery puddles of eye shadow and mascara. But when that fateful week of Homecoming arrives, it is pushed almost beyond human limits. It is at this time that the emotional boundaries between classes and ages are all but erased; even the most cynical of high school girls fret as to who will ask them to the dance, or if they will be asked out at all. Even the boy with the staunchest anti-female defense will wonder if the girl next to him would go with him if he asked her. I have never really cared for it myself, but I prefer to go along for the ride rather than just refuse to enjoy myself. But this year was different than the one before, because this year I was in the real thick of things. I’d decided to join student council and after our first meeting, it was clear to me that I had had no idea what I was getting into…
It seemed like I was thrown into a throng of ballots, raffle tickets and other assorted pieces of paper that were undoubtedly important to the school’s well being.
My first assignment was to take all the raffle tickets, which were in groups of ten, and take the number of students in the envelope and multiply it by four and then put that number of tickets back into the envelope. I was only in Algebra B, and I really wondered how I was supposed to be able to multiply double digits in my head. But gradually I realized that some girls really can count and chat at the same time (myself excluded) and reduced my workload to simply overcoming mental math.
The great part about Homecoming preparation in student council is there really isn’t enough time for self-deprecating introspection like many other classes. You are essentially thrown into a seething, churning mass of paper, fliers and art supplies; battling through which can be intensely frustrating and wonderfully distracting from all the other things on your mind. Thankfully there was plenty of work.
It wasn’t until I was leaving the class that I remembered something crucial, “Crap! I need to get costumes for next week!”
Saturday before Homecoming week:
A few days later and I was pawing through the racks at Value Village, searching for something eighties, western, bookish or yellow. There were shoulder pads aplenty, but I absolutely refused to wear something I would find in my grandmother’s closet. As for western, well Value Village was having a Halloween Sale so you can imagine the difficulty of finding that. For a book-character I had settled upon the Mad Hatter from Alice in Wonderland. And yellow? Well I had an orange sari at home that would have to do. At the moment though, eighties was the priority. My mother finally convinced me that leather knee-length skirts paired with a men’s shirt, vest and tie, was as eighties as you could get without having to get a hairdo like Amy Winehouse. I honestly didn’t want to be a part of the Western costume fiasco so I tiptoed off towards the book aisle where I might be able to find solace in some battered copy of a bestseller. I was there only a few minutes because I decided that if I wanted to get out of here I should probably go find something along the lines of the Mad Hatter. I found a shoddy cardboard based top hat (who likes to be called Fedora so he feels like he lives a life of adventure) and a red button-up dress that I decided could be worn as some kind of a coat. I rushed back to my mother and Jackie, a friend we had brought along for input, with my prize billowing behind me.
“What do you think?” I asked.
Jackie and my mother looked at it, both pursing their lips like Meryl Streep in The Devil Wears Prada. “It’s nice,” my mom said, “but what will you wear it with?’
“My black pinstripe pants.”
“So you’re going to wear it like a jacket?”
“Yup.”
“What kind of top?”
I waved it off with a carefree movement of my hand, “I’m sure I have something at home I can use.”
My mother shrugged her shoulders in assent. An hour and a half later and we all tumbled out of the store, lugging heavy plastic bags, their handles twisting around our fingers and cutting off circulation. We had everything we needed except my red button-up dress which sadly had to remain behind until tomorrow when it could be bought for half price. My mother thought that 24 dollars is a bit too much to be spent on a used article of clothing that would probably only ever be worn once.
So we went out to lunch, went home, hung up my costumes, and that night I dreamed of white rabbits that danced with Amy Winehouse in shoulder pads.
Tuesday, Homecoming Week:
“Oh my God…” I stared at the sea of neon before me. I had never seen so much color in one place. Girls were wearing shorts and leotards that were only even barely acceptable because of the electric blue leggings they wore beneath them, and the guys showed up attired in incredibly bright sweatbands and socks. I was almost blinded; people were practically glowing. I stuck out like a sore thumb and I knew it. My toes curled inside my boots. I hustled to LPF, making absolutely no eye contact with anyone.
By third hour I knew people were wondering what the heck I was wearing. A girl looked at me, askance. “Is that really eighties?” she asked.
I blushed a little, “Yeah, my mom said it was the ‘preppy look.’”
“Oh,” she replied.
Yeah, after that day I knew one thing for certain: while I had the rest of the outfit down, I would never wear a leather skirt again.
Wednesday, Homecoming Week
“I am not wearing this!” I seethed as I threw the western hat into my locker. I had learned that even if your mother says something looks cute it doesn’t mean others will.
A note to all girls out there, don’t ever wear a leopard print cowgirls hat even if it is western wear; someone will ask you if you’re of a questionable reputation. At least that’s what happened to me. Why it sparked the inquiry I’ll never know, because I saw girls striding around in shorts the length of which you hardly see in Florida–much less Alaska. Oh well, there’s not much you can do. High school students will be high school students.
Thursday, Homecoming Week
“This I like,” I said approvingly as I twirled before my mirror, examining myself as the Mad Hatter. I had gotten my button down dress back–thank goodness–and had decided that I would use my gray vest and a white shirt to complete my ensemble. My top hat was set at a jaunty angle, and I smirked at myself a little in the mirror. I practically flew down the stairs that morning, just to feel my “coat” billow out behind me. I was asked who I was a lot that day, and every time I answered, I tipped my hat. There were vampires, and Gossip Girls, ninjas and time-travelers; the list of characters that day was almost endless. I even saw the Cat in the Hat, and the Man in the Yellow Hat, with Curious George in tow!
Friday, Homecoming Week
“Alright, this’ll do,” I was wearing all black, with my bright yellow and orange sari draped across my shoulders. When I walked into school that morning it looked as though there had been a paintball fight. Everyone was spattered with colors: red, yellow, green and blue. It was amazing. I saw students sneak up behind each other with pieces of tape or bits of paint on their fingers, and tag them with the colors of their class. For some reason I always liked this day better, probably because we had an assembly at the end, which almost always ends the day on a good note. I cheered with everyone, booing and heckling the other classes as they took the lead. I’ll admit it; Sophomore sportsmanship wasn’t at it’s best, but hey, at least we weren’t as bad as some of the other classes…right?
Saturday, Homecoming
“You have got to be kidding me!” I shouted, “C’mon ref; he knocked the ball out of our guy’s hands!” The game had just ended and we had suffered a loss by four measly points.
“You wanna go tackle him?” my friend asked. She must have been amused; she had never seen me that exasperated over something like football.
“Sure,” I said and started toward the gate onto the field.
“NO!” she shouted, “I wasn’t serious!”
“What?” I demanded in mock outrage, “This is ridiculous; this is our field we ought to win by default!”
Later that night I was at another friend’s house getting ready for the dance. I had already been informed that I would not be allowed to sit and write a vicious commentary as I had done last year. I was going to be forced to enjoy myself.
And enjoy myself I did; I laughed; I danced, and I sang along. I even plunged into the “mosh pit” (as I had nicknamed the center of the dance floor) once or twice just for kicks. When the dance ended and we all headed to the coat check, I was smiling and had decided that it had—in fact—been a good night. And I think that’s as good a note as any to end on.
