I’d wished for a young version of Steve McQueen as my very first dance partner, but I’m not anybody’s dream partner either. Dominating my face are two-toned brown-and-white glasses with fins like a 1959 Cadillac. I’ve dropped them so often they are cracked, crooked and prone to sliding down my nose. My loose cotton shift with attached white eyelet vest was picked from racks of castoffs at a second-hand store. My naturally ebony locks are frizzy and orange from the last perm Mommy, my stepmom, forced me to get from her friend Florence. She does hair at a discount in her kitchen as her drooling son, who was dropped on his head as a baby, rocks on a wobbly chair, grunts unintelligibly, and slices his skin with any sharp object inadvertently left within his grasp.
I accept Chet’s offer. He takes my arm and escorts me to a spot on the now crowded dance floor.
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