Dancing Shoes I remember a time when I was party pooping all over the gymnasium bleachers during the first junior high dance. Everybody else was on the floor having fun and for some reason I wasn't. For some reason, I was on the bleachers, pouting and self-pitying, dressed for a gala when everyone else was dressed for Friday night. Grade seven was an odd time. I'd left sixth grade feeling popular but something changed over the summer. People changed. Now I had so few people to talk to, so few people that would talk to me. I was now awkward and out of place.

When Jayme came over to drag me out to dance, I pretended not to want to. I was tired, I didn't like the song. Really, I was so grateful that when we reached the dance floor, my feet moved as extensions of my smile for hours until the dance was over.

The remaining two years and eight months of junior high were still awkward for me. I never quite cracked my shell, not that I wanted to. But for that one Friday night, I did. And I enjoyed it.  ¶ 9:45 AM