Juniors Prom Quotes

a pink taffeta evening gown. It looked like it had run away from a junior high prom... The dress looked like a petunia on steroids to me.

As luck would have it, I happened to have a top hat that I previously wore to my junior prom.

Think: What has happened to me? Why am I lying like this on top of my covers with too much Jontue and mascara and jewelry, pretending casually that this is how I always go to bed, while a pervert with six new steak knives is about to sneak through my unlocked door. Remember: at Blakely Falls High, Willis Holmes would have done anything to be with you. You don’t have to put up with this: you were second runner-up at the Junior Prom.

While the phone was handy, I also called Wendy and got her mother again. She said that Wendy had a sore throat and couldn’t talk. I wasn’t about to quit that easily. “Can she listen?” I asked. “I’ll do the talking, and she can tap once for yes and twice for no.” Mrs. Westfall laughed. “I’m serious. Can she do that?” “Only for a minute. I’ll get her.” The next thing I heard was a whispered, “Hi.” “No talking,” Mrs. Westfall called out. “Hi, Wendy. Did your mom tell you the code? One tap for yes, two for no, three if you’re being held prisoner against your will.” Three quick taps from her. “That’s what I figured. Well, you haven’t missed much at school. Same old stuff. Somebody tried to assassinate Mr. Crowell, but he was wearing a bulletproof vest. And then when the cops came, they found marijuana growing in the teacher’s lounge. But all the evidence was destroyed in the fire. I guess you heard that the whole junior class was trapped in the auditorium and got wiped out. All except for Delbert Markusson. He was out in the parking lot, sneaking a smoke. So Delbert’s now junior class president. He’s also vice-president and secretary. He says the junior prom may be canceled, or he may have it over at his house—if he can find a date.” “Wind it up,” Mrs. Westfall said. “Are you going to be back tomorrow?” Two taps. “How about Monday?” One loud tap. “I’m going to San Francisco this weekend. Shall I send you a postcard?” Tap. “I’ll see you on Monday.” She tapped, then hung up. “Are you in love with Eddie Carter?” I said into the dead phone. I gave the receiver a loud slap.

She knew. We’d been friends since the sixth grade. She was well aware of my three-week-long menstruation nightmares. I got an ulcer junior year from taking too much ibuprofen for the pain. I’d missed prom because my cramps were so bad I couldn’t even stand up. She’d driven me to the ER more times than I could count.

Anyway, I wanted to tell you this story, since it just rolled into my gourd while I was into that 1950 Lighthouse shot. I never told you about the Legend of the Gigantic Fart, did I?” “Put the beer in a paper bag. Let’s get it on the road.” “No, man, this story became a legend and is still told in the high schools around the county. You see, it was at the junior prom, a very big deal with hoop dresses and everybody drinking sloe gin and R.C. Cola outside in the cars. Now, this is strictly a class occasion if you live in a shitkicker town. Anyway, we’d been slopping down the beer all afternoon and eating pinto-bean salad and these greasy fried fish before we got to the dance. So it was the third number, and I took Betty Hoggenback out on the floor and was doing wonderful, tilting her back like Fred Astaire doing Ginger Rogers. Then I felt this wet fart start to grow inside me. It was like a brown rat trying to get outside. I tried to leak it off one shot at a time and keep dancing away from it, but I must have left a cloud behind that would take the varnish off the gym floor. Then one guy says, ‘Man, I don’t believe it!’ People were walking off the floor, holding their noses and saying, ‘Pew, who cut it?’ Then the saxophone player on the bandstand threw up into the piano. Later, guys were shaking my hand and buying me drinks, and a guy on the varsity came up and said that was the greatest fart he’d ever seen. It destroyed the whole prom. The saxophone player had urp all over his summer tux, and they must have had to burn the smell out of that piano with a blowtorch.” Buddy was laughing so hard at his own story that tears ran down his cheeks. He caught his breath, drank out of the beer glass, then started laughing again. The woman behind the bar was looking at him as though a lunatic had just walked into the normalcy of her life.

February 2: Marilyn attends a party at Romanoff’s to celebrate the release of The African Queen. Marilyn attends a UCLA “junior prom” and is photographed with tuxedoed young men presenting her with a corsage. Other shots show her looking at a campus map, studying in the library, examining a stuffed toy with “UCLA” printed on it, and sitting at a lunch room table with college students who are drinking cartons of milk.

But they weren’t just bodies, they were people. People who’d awoken this Saturday morning with hopes and dreams; dreams of getting promoted and moving upstate to the country; hopes of having children and watching them come into their own; dreams of one day taking that vacation to Hawaii as Karen and I were always saving for, but never quite saving enough; hope that the new boy in school would ask you to the junior prom; dreams of getting into the panties of that hot little brunette at the video store who always seemed to be bending over in front of you for no reason; hope that life would go on forever, so you could laugh and love, and make mistakes and overcome them; and dreams that at the end, there would be people who would miss you, and one who could not bear life without you, because to him or her you had been everything. — (Saturday's Children)

As a young sixteen-year-old girl, Camila “Cami” Alderson should’ve been worrying about finding the right dress for the junior prom and goofing off with friends. The possibility of being pregnant should’ve been the last thing on her mind but the scary thought was always there.

The Internet has allowed for a kind of closeness without intimacy, a way of claiming a friendship without really knowing much about a person at all. Do you still know someone because you like each other’s posts? It’s the Internet’s magic word: connect. Any social media megalodon cites connection as the single best outcome of the digital age. And yeah, I love that I can talk to anyone at any time. I like that I know where my elementary school best friend is working these days, that I can see what my cousin wore to her junior prom. But social media lets you take for granted the people you see every day. It permits a newfound laziness in friendships. I saw your pic on Instagram, liked it. Task complete.

Who are we taking?” Ed straightens, catching the cork in his palm. “Why can’t we all go together?” “Because it’s not junior prom,” Chris says. “We can’t just go solo?” “I mean, you could,” Chris says, “but this is gonna be a big deal with dancing and coupley stuff. Go solo and be the loner, go in a group and we’re the table of dudes—and Mills—sitting there awkwardly. We should get dates.” Reid rolls his dice and begins counting out his turn. “I call Millie.” “You call me?” “Whoa, whoa.” Derailed from his initial argument, Chris turns to Reid with a frown. “If we’re just going to pair up, why’d you pick her?” Reid shrugs and gives a vague nod in my direction. “She looks better in a ball gown.” Ed seems genuinely insulted. “You have obviously never seen me in one.” “I took you to the Deans’ Banquet last year,” Chris reminds Reid. “We had an awesome time.” His turn completed, Reid drops the dice onto the center of the board and picks up his drink. “We did. I’m just being fair and going with someone else this time.” Ed smacks Chris’s shoulder. “I’m more Reid’s type. Remember that cute bartender he liked? The one with the curly hair?” He makes a show of pointing to his head and the mass of auburn curls there. “Tell me we wouldn’t look great together.” “I can beat that.” Alex brings up a foot to rest on the table and rolls up the hem of his jeans, flexing his calf muscle. “Reid is a leg man. Just look at these stems. I could spin you all around that dance floor.” Reid watches each of them, bemused. “I mean, technically speaking, Millie is my type. Being female and whatnot.” “Is it weird to anyone that this roomful of straight men is fighting over Reid and not me?” I ask. Chris, Alex, and Ed seem to give this fair consideration before answering “No” in unison. I lift my glass of wine and take a deep swallow. “Okay, then.” Finally, Reid stands, carrying his empty glass into the kitchen. “Millie, you need anything?” “Other than tips on how to develop an alluring female presence?” I ask. “I’m good. Thanks.

She left her mother in the living room and headed for her childhood bedroom, with its canopy bed and pink ruffles. Most kids had posters in their rooms, but Mom hadn’t allowed tacks to be stuck into her expensive wallpaper, so Frankie had framed art on her walls. A row of old stuffed animals sat along the top of her bookshelf. A pink ballerina jewelry box on the bedside table held junior and high school trinkets, probably a stack of senior pictures and prom memorabilia. You knew what was expected of a girl who slept in a room like this.

We’re so dead. Definitely not going to junior prom without a chaperone now.

prom was less a prom and more a fancy dance. There were no limos or corsages or tuxedos. The guys who owned suits would be wearing them, but half the students would probably be in a blazer and khakis. And it wasn’t like prom where dates showed up together. The long-term couples did, sure, but most of the dates just met each other there. Armed with the knowledge of what to expect, I met Katie there. Sort of. I showed up, and she showed up, but it became pretty clear that we weren’t really there together. What happened between Katie’s immediate yes and her arrival to turn us so utterly platonic? Did Katie not understand I had asked her as a date? I specifically didn’t say as friends—she had to have known the difference. She was a worldly senior, after all. Then it hit me. Katie was a senior, and she couldn’t go to junior prom unless a junior asked her. And she wanted to go to junior prom with her best friend. It didn’t matter that Amalia thought Katie and I made a cute couple. Katie didn’t agree, and her opinion on the matter was way more influential. I gave my theory one final test. A slow song came on, and I approached Katie from across the room. Because that’s where she was hanging out—completely across the room. “Let’s dance,” I said, with the courage of a man who had nothing to lose. Not “Would you like to dance?” or “I was just thinking, maybe we should dance?” But a confident, assured, “Let’s dance.” That was the kind of thing that a boyfriend would say to a girlfriend if she was his date at the junior prom. So why couldn’t I say it to my date? Katie took my hand and we walked to the dance floor, and we danced. If you could call what we did dancing. We stood as far apart as we could while still technically touching and took small steps from side to side. My hands did their best

going to ask Katie.” Amalia practically burst through the phone. I was sure that part of Amalia’s excitement was having a friend that might be going to the party with her. But she also went on and on about how she had always thought that Katie and I would make such a cute couple and it was a wonderful idea and she was rooting for me and several other encouraging statements. Amalia also said that I’d better ask Katie soon, since it was going to be hard to keep that a secret. I called Katie right after I hung up. I didn’t have the guts to get rejected in person, but Amalia’s excitement had excited me. Katie and I talked about the latest assignment, a modern satire of a great work. I was planning on writing a version of “The Raven” about high school, an idea that Katie seemed to like. After all, she was writing a high-school version of Macbeth. We were in sync in many ways. And then, I just said it. “Do you want to go to the junior prom with me?” Katie said yes immediately. There was no time to blabber about how I thought it made sense for her to go because Amalia was going or to add in an as friends. Katie had said yes. I didn’t know what to expect from junior prom when I got there. The last school dance I’d been to was the first school dance I was able to go to. I was so excited for that one—Hunter had a few dances each year, and when the first dance came around, I put on my best ugly shirt (I wasn’t fashion forward enough to know that orange shirts are a bad idea for a redhead) and stood there awkwardly while everyone ignored me. From then on, school dances weren’t my thing. I had spent the previous three years at USY dances though, so I wasn’t intimidated by junior prom. I just wanted to know what I was in for. Jacob Corry’s girlfriend was a senior, so she became my Obi-Wan.