Ice, Ice, Baby

Cam was the hottest guy on the dance floor by far, the guy with the best suit, the best moves and a white tophat, (brand new, for purchase, twenty-five dollars extra), cocked over his left eye in the best imitation of music video style. The music was only the best in eighties hits, standard music for proms everywhere since this year's harvest of punk, punk and punk didn't do as well for dancing as it did for moping and writing bad poetry about one's life. All night the eighties pumped through the speakers and all night, Cam danced like only he could, soaking in the catchy rhymes and overused record scratches and recycled beats.

Eighties music, to Cam's ears, was the sweet serenading of angels above, blessed music that never, ever went out of style. As he danced, all the girls stood around him in a circle and he felt like a king, a modern day Michael Jackson before the nose incident or the accusations of pedophilia. When he pulled at the crotch of his white tailored pants as he'd seen Eminem do, the girls all shrieked and clapped in delight, their hands a white blur above the myriad colours of what Cosmo called the Season's Hottest Dresses. When he sidled up to one, grooving with the beat, she giggled and blushed and attempted to flirtaciously play with her hair, which was, as fashion dictated, cemented into a mass of goldilocks curls spilling from the top of her scalp. Under the guise of taking her as his dance partner, he took a quick assessment of her boobs, tiny and sort of triangular but perky with fantastic nipples that prodded through the flimsy fabric of her magenta dress. Bah, he thought to himself, mosquito bites, and was relieved when she refused his offer with an embarassed shriek. He gave her one last once over, regretful that she had such tiny boobs because she had fantastic legs. Following the music's lead, he returned to the centre of the circle for a few of his signature breakdance moves, soaking in the sounds of girls cheering. He swung in a circle, eyes lingering on pair after blurry pair of boobs. Perky, saggy, round, cone shaped, propped up by corsets or hanging loose, sporting cleavage or skin stretched over sternum. All small. He adjusted the level of his vision and out of the corner of his eye he saw their assorted dates and boyfriends huddled over the tables at the edge of the dance floor and couldn't decide whether they were jealous or thankful he'd stolen all their girlfriends' attention. He figured he'd know the answer to that after prom had finally ended.

With a round of enthusiastic applause and cheering that stung his ears, the song that had been his glory ended and he removed his tophat to take a dramatic bow. The DJ cheered him too, before announcing into the grainy microphone that he'd be "Slowing it down." The sounds of chairs shuffling as two hundred obliged boyfriends in matching drab black suits rose from their seats to disperse over the dance floor, pairing off with girl after Cosmo-approved girl in blue or pink or red or maroon. Cam stood waiting, still in the centre of the floor, for some lucky girl to be his partner. The music started, Aerosmith's infamous asteroid-movie love ballad. Everyone paired off, looped their arms around one another in the prescribed way and began to sway lethargically, traversing the dance floor slowly. Couples stared into each other's eyes, stared at other couples jealously, rested together with a girl's head on her partner's shoulder, kissed with sloppy tongues. Cam, his hands behind his back now, wasn't approached once.

Defeated, he took a seat at one of the now abandoned tables, fishing out an unopened can of soda from the pile of discarded purses and cameras. He opened it, drank a bit, found it to be lukewarm and flavoured, to his dismay, with aspartame instead of sugar. He watched as the couples broke away from one another, song ended, and the other guys returned to the tables with shuffling feet. When they noticed him, they simply scoffed and shuffled away squishing too many people into other tables in order to avoid having to sit with the night's big showoff and girlfriend stealer. The music resumed with the opening lines to Cam's favourite song, Vanilla Ice's narcissistic single hit, but Cam didn't feel like dancing. The girls broke off into groups of their own, for the most part standing in large, hollow circles of ten or so. A few broke off into lesbian pairs, engaging in gratuitously skanky dancing which the seated guys watched appreciatively. They didn't seem to miss Cam at all, which disheartened him even more.

The night went on with Cam slumped over his lonely table, song after song passing him by. The eighties music left a bad taste in his mouth. If he hadn't have paid so much for his tacky white suit, he'd probably have left during the opening lines of "Billie Jean". At long last, the night was drawing to a close and the DJ, purring into his crappy microphone, announced that the last song would be a slow dance. The couples, looking considerably more tired and bored, once again took to the floor. Even the girls looked like they wished the night would just end, but couldn't allow themselves to miss out on the customary last dance. The last song was Lifehouse, for some reason, despite their lack of popularity, and Cam assumed the song had been a request. The couples on the floor didn't seem to really care about the choice of music and swayed to it just as they'd done before, looking like mere shadows in the dim lighting.

That was when there was a tap on Cam's shoulder. He turned irritably, growling, "Whaddya want?" The girl who'd tapped him recoiled nervously at his tone, beginning to blubber out stuttering apologies. Her round face was flushed red, sweat glistening on her wobbly double chin. Her hairdo had flopped, hairspray-sticky red hair hanging in her face, and the mascara around her muddy eyes was smeared. Her expansive torso was strapped up in an ineffective corset and her green skirt exploded like a firework into multiple layers of tulle-- last year's style. Tammy Smith. One of the nerdiest girls in the school, the only one Cam had ever seen in the library playing Magic cards with the pimpliest guys. Cam didn't think she'd ever had a boyfriend, not hanging out with that lot.

"I," she stammered in a slightly nasal voice, "I r-requested this s-song just for you and me and I. . . I'd like if we could dance together to it." Cam looked up at her incredulously. Did she know who she was talking to, here? He wasn't the type of guy to just dance with anyone, especially not a fat nerd like her. He stood up, about to tell her off for being so presumptuous, when his eyes drifted automatically to her chest. He was greeted by a pair of double-d's, freckled and spilling out of the corset like a cup running over. He could prop up a flag in her cleavage. He froze, one finger up in lecturing position, mouth hanging open about to speak. She was wincing, apparantly bracing herself against the sound rejection she was about to recieve. She started to turn. He dropped a hand on her shoulder.

"I thought you'd never ask," he breathed.