“What was it like in there?” asked one of the others. Their eyes were full of wonder and fear.
“It was hairy in there,” said Shasta on lunch court. “Some of us didn’t make it.”
The Mist-Blue Newport II
The cars, all washed shiny new, swished slowly past the entrance and into the parking lot. There were Ridgemont students everywhere, all headed for the red carpet leading into the Twentieth Annual Ridgemont High School Senior Prom.
This year the prom was being held at the Sheraton Airport Inn, in the “world famous” Lagoon Room. There was nothing about the location and motif that suggested a lagoon, but the ballroom did have all the essentials of a prom site. There was a splendid view of the city, a bandstand, room for the hors d’oeuvres table, and plenty of space for sitting and dancing. Best of all, the Lagoon Room had cork walls.
It happened to be a Ridgemont tradition to line the walls of the prom site with silver hearts. Each heart bore the names of a prom couple. The idea was to spend your first half hour working your way around the room, squinting at the names and reminiscing with any kids or teachers you met along the way, no matter how well you knew them.
If ever it was a time to drop the hierarchy of the high school lunch court, this was it. The conversations between even the most bitter enemies were the equivalent of verbal yearbook signatures on prom night.
“Oh, Rachel, I know we haven’t gotten along much all year. And I stole your boyfriend and badmouthed you all year long, but—I JUST LOVE YOUR DRESS!”
Next, a student was expected to make a pass by the table of Principal Gray and his wife, Nancy. They were seated by the hors d’oeuvres, bright and attentive. Principal Gray looked everyone in the eye as if he knew them. The rumor was that he had studied last year’s annual.
“Well hello, Charles, how’s your science work? Have you met my wife, Nancy? Charles was an excellent basketball player for us . . .”
And a student was expected to toss the bull around a little with the Grays.
“I had a great year, Mr. Gray. I’ll always remember the great times and my friends here at RHS.”
Most of the faculty chaperones sat together at other tables. On prom night there wasn’t a whole lot for them to do. It wasn’t like the usual Friday-night dance orgies, as they called them. On those nights a chaperone really got to use his flashlight. On one Friday night he might snag thirty groping couples in and under the bleachers.
The senior prom was classier than that. Kids in suits and gowns felt a responsibility to give up the fighting and groping for this night. This thing cost me forty-nine bucks to rent!
For most girls the question of what to wear on prom night was a matter that required some thought. To make her own or buy one? And if she bought it, God forbid there was another girl with the same one . . .
For the boys there was only one avenue to travel. A tux. And you got it at Regis. Regis Formalwear carried four basic prom-class tuxedos. The style a kid picked was a statement in itself:
The Black (or Brown) Regency—A standard choice, it was single-breasted and simply cut. Many chose the Regency, and who could say it wasn’t a fine conservative suit.
Or Camel Camelot—A brown-and-black velvet affair, as it was called in the Regis brochure, this outfit meant the difference between “arriving and making an impression.”
For the more daring, the Yellow Seville—A colorful, Gatsbyesque piece, the Yellow Seville was a “classic vision in soft yellow, with the added comfort of a suppressed waist.”
They were impressive offerings for any prom goer. Impressive, but none of the aforementioned tuxes could match the fourth and final Regis selection: There was nothing that matched the Mist-Blue Newport II.
The Mist-Blue Newport II was an awesome tux. It was turquoise, with black lapels like the fins on a ’56 Cadillac. They flapped as its wearer walked. The Mist-Blue Newport II cost a little extra, but it was also equipped with a Charleston tailcoat and a ruffled front—the better to go along with the half-size top hat that came with it.
Steve Shasta entered the Ridgemont prom at 8:30 in a Mist-Blue Newport II. He stood briefly in the doorway of the Lagoon Room. Then he turned to his date, Laurie Beckman.
“Come,” said Shasta, “let us find our silver heart.”
Brad Hamilton arrived a few minutes later with his date, Jody, a junior he’d met two weeks before. Like many prom couples his was a match bred out of necessity. Both shared friends, both wanted to go to the prom, and neither had the right date. They both looked grittily determined to have a good time.
There were many, of course, whose personalities prevented them from attending such an undeniably sosh school event like The Prom. There were still others who had at first dismissed the prom as “useless tradition.” Then, faced with an evening home alone, they began madly looking for a date in the last few days. William Desmond, the wrestler-columnist was such a case. He’d been slamming the prom like crazy, then in the last week had asked four girls to go with him. He discovered an odd phenomenon.
“Do you have plans for the prom?” he’d ask.
“Well . . . no.”
“All right! You’re going with me!”
And here was the weird part for Desmond.
“But I can’t go with you, William.”
“Why?”
“Because.”
“Why? I know a couple of people on the prom committee and everything. They’ll take care of us. I know the band . . .”
“I can’t, William, because someone else wants you to ask her.”
“Who?”
“I can’t tell you who. It wouldn’t be right.”
“Who!” Desmond would start to get excited. “You’ve got to tell me!”
“I can’t! I promised!” And the girl would scurry off.
Desmond thought about it. It was killing him. He ended up going with no one and spending another evening at the mall. He ran into Jeff Spicoli at Rock City.
“Why aren’t you at the prom, Desmond?” asked Spicoli.
“I hate the fuckin’ prom,” said Desmond.
“Why?”
“I’ll tell you why. Because you have to be a certain way. How can I explain it? They want you to be a certain way or they don’t accept you in high school. I’d like to get hold of the person who started all this prom and letter jacket and A.S.B. shit and . . .” Desmond crumpled a paper cup sitting on top of Space Invaders. “And KICK HIS ASS.”
“You got it,” said Spicoli.
Ridgemont High had worked up to its Twentieth Annual Senior Prom with . . . well, a guy like A.S.B. President Kenneth Quan would have to call it spirit. There was quite a turnout tonight.
The only trouble was, like Brad and Jody, no one seemed to be having “the time of their lives.” Perhaps it came down to the “Hello Richard” thing. When couples began pairing off at the beginning of the year, it seemed that one of the first things said in the heat of passion was, “We’ll do this and this and this and then, at the end of the year, we’ll go to the prom together!”
But during the year they broke up, and when prom time came they reluctantly called each other.
“Hello, Richard. It’s Brenda.”
“I know it’s you, Brenda. I recognize your voice. How’s it going?”
“Oh, pretty good. I’m getting a little nervous about going to college. I’ll be okay. It’s just the end-of-the-year blues.” Translation: I didn’t get asked to the prom.
“Yeah. Things are the same with me.” Me neither.
“Richard, I was driving around the other day, and I heard ‘Beast of Burden,’ and . . . God, I thought of us! I got a little sad.”
“Yeah, me too.”
“You know what?”
“What, Brenda?”
“Richard, we should go to the prom together. Wouldn’t that surprise a few people!”
And on prom night, just as they were getting through with that expensive steak and lobster dinner, sitting there in tails and gown, all the old irritations would return.