There I was. A young girl. Wondering if any of those boys wandering around the halls of the high school were going to ask me to Homecoming. “Probably not,” I whispered to myself, head down. I walked outside, through the parking lot. I walked home. Within the week, I discovered something. One of those boys cruising along, walking from class to class noticed me. Had thought about me. And had wanted to ask me to the dance. And he did. Ask me. And I said “OK.” I didn’t mind that he was shorter than my average [girl] height. His glasses didn’t bother me either. What I did know what that he was kind. And polite. Not overbearing or pushy.

Within the following week, I discovered something else. Some more of those boys striding along, ambling through the corridors, also had intentions of asking me to the first formal dance of my freshman year. One. Two. Three. Four. Four more boys, which included the boy I was crushing on, and the one I adored in third grade. All four boys asked me on a date. To the dance. Each boy, at a different time, approached me. Quietly, sort of shyly. And each asked, “Would you like to go to Homecoming with me?” I smiled all four times. And, in my head, in my heart, I wished I could have said “Yes!” to each boy. But I didn’t. I had already told someone I’d go with him. Someone kind and polite. So I told each of those boys, the ones who asked me too late, “Sorry, but I have already been asked.” I lowered my head, feeling bad. Yet, feeling pretty happy. Realizing that I had had it wrong. Completely wrong. Boys did want to dance with me.