New School…
We moved a lot when I was growing up, which meant many different schools…18 in my 12 years, actually. Lots of “first days”. As I’ve mentioned before, that never bothered me, I always saw it as a new adventure. My senior year was no acception. I had attended the same school for two years, a record for us, and started my final year at the same place. However, as luck would have it, we moved again and I found myself in a new place. In spite of being in the other school for two years, I hated it and was happy to leave. At the new school, I fell in with a great group of kids and was accepted immediately. I loved hanging out with this bunch and being a “popular” kid. It was going to be a great Senior year.
One extremely cold, snowy Friday evening there was a basketball game followed by a school dance. We only lived about six blocks from the school but I begged Dad to let me drive the car. He agreed, on the condition that I come home immediately after the game, no dance. Well, that seemed reasonable to me at the time, I didn’t know how to dance anyway, so I agreed.
But of course, after the game, all my friends were staying for music, munchies, and dancing. I really wanted to be a part of this school function, and since Dad would have no idea when the game ended and the dance started, and I only planned to stay a few minutes, I decided it was safe to go in for a look-see.
As it turned out, I actually could dance, (well, it was the 70s so it was basically throwing ourselves around to ‘Jeremiah Was A Bullfrog’) and apparently pretty well because I kept getting asked, kept dancing, and totally lost track of time. Just as I was shaking my groove thang, with a male friend my Dad actually liked, I heard, above the screaming din, an extremely loud, shrill whistle. So did everyone else in the place.
The DJ had refused to stop the music, but as if in slow motion, the dancing came to a standstill and kids parted like the sea, allowing one lone man, bundled in heavy coat, gloves, scarf and stocking cap, to slowly walk across the floor towards his errant daughter. My dance partner saw Dad coming, called out a warning and promptly disappeared, not wanting to screw up his friendship with the older man by being seen with the criminal. The warning was wasted, I didn’t need it, I recognized the sound instantly. It was my father’s whistle to call his kids in from around the neighborhood in the evening. He had just used it to call down his 17 year old offspring. And I was furious.
He had bundled up, walked six blocks in the snow to the high school, asked the DJ to page his daughter, and when that didn’t work, just used his own paging system. I truly could not believe he would embarrass me in such a way in front of my peers.
I knew he was right behind me, but I wouldn’t even turn around and look at him. I walked off the dance floor, (he just followed me), grabbed my coat and purse, threw my cup into the big, yellow trash can and shoved through the double doors to the outside, never making eye contact with anyone. I stormed to the car, yanked open the driver’s side door and flopped behind the wheel. For some reason it was most important that I drive. He didn’t seem to care, just got in on the other side, never saying a word. We drove home in total silence.
My poor mother had no idea what had happened and neither of us bothered to stop and explain. I stomped to my room, shut the door (To slam would have pushed him right over the edge) and fumed for the next few days. Apparently Dad did the same thing. It was days before we were on speaking terms again, and oddly enough, I don’t remember us ever discussing the incident. It is the only time in my childhood that I can remember being angry at my Dad. Offended or frustrated, yes, but never so angry I couldn’t speak to him.
Years later, at a school reunion, a number of friends, reminiscing, brought it up. They remembered it well. Of course we all laughed about it then, but it sure wasn’t funny at the time.
Thesignpaintersdaughter 