Summer school

Mis Quince Años Abigail reads the front of the card, the paper and font of the type that would surely mean wedding invitation in my world, but no one's getting married, though the celebration will rival any bride's reception. Instead, Abigail's finally having her quinceañera, despite a seventeenth birthday that arrives in September, and I'm going.

I have known Abigail's family for five years, since well before she actually was fifteen; I know her father, her mother, and her older brother, and if I teach in that district long enough I'm sure I'll know more about her little brother than his name and the fact that he's tall for his age. In a job like mine, you end up knowing things, and people, whether you want to or not. Lucky for me that I want to.

Being a white girl, I arrive at five as the invitation indicates, not thinking anything of it until I pull in to see the wide open parking lot and an ice truck backing up to the entrance. Oh, I should have known. I sit in the car for a bit, signing her card and musing that students aren't the only ones who forget once school lets out for the summer. Come to a Mexican party on time? I shake my head and laugh at myself when I spot Abigail, very beautiful in her very fancy, very pink dress, supervising the ice delivery, so I walk on up to the door.

"You came!"
"I did! But wasn't I supposed to be here at five?"
"Yes, dinner's at five. What time is it?"
"5:15"
"Oh, well, the dinner's not here. But everybody else is! Come inside."

Everybody turns out to be her parents and damas and chambelanes, the quinceañera equivalent of the wedding party, but, not being white people, they don't make me feel out of place for arriving so long before both those who remember about Latino time and those who just live on it. I'm not sure how or why that's true, but it is. We compliment each other's outfits and take pictures in the nearly empty reception hall, and then they make a place for me at the family table and go on and finish getting ready, and it's just kinda fun to be there and watch.

All night long, those kids never forget me the way I'd expect teenagers to do, though it wouldn't matter if they did. Long after the party finally starts and there are plenty of people to talk to, they keep visiting, and so do the other students who come as guests, from George, the 17 year old freshman who only looks like a gang banger, to Oscar, who speaks more English words in a row than he has all year to ask me to come eat at his table.
"Oh, that's okay, Oscar. I'd have to move all my food," I say, gesturing to my half-eaten meal.
"But are you fine?"
"Yes, Oscar, I'm really fine."

As the night wears on, I just sit and talk and watch; that Mexican music is so fast that I could never dance to it. Finally, after the cake is cut and I finish my slice and my conversation, I decide to go and walk to the center of the room to say my goodbyes to Abigail and the others. We're on the dance floor, and I realize the beat has finally changed to something I can move to. So, I don't leave after all. I surprise even myself by dancing with them in a way they'd all been waiting though five years of my excuses for, just like a person, not a teacher. In the middle of the song, Abigail's just graduated brother, Tony, catches my eye and says, "I'll never forget this, Ms. P."

I grin. "That's nice, because it's not really happening."
"Oh, he says, with a knowing smile, "okay."
And the song ends, and I say my last goodbyes, and walk out. Somehow, it's kinda perfect.

I get to the lobby and fish in my purse for my keys, and there's George, who has run out to catch me.
"Ms. P! you danced!"
Ms. P leans her head back and laughs. "Oh, no. Not me."
"Yes, you did. We saw you! Oscar saw you and pointed, and said, 'Ms. P!' so we all saw you."
"Well, okay. I was dancing. I kinda don't want to leave now, George," I say, and I look at my watch, and then back into the hall.

"But you gotta."
"Yeah, I gotta," and there's a pause. "Well, see you in school."
"See you in school."

And for some reason we were all smiles.