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so was I. When the band played “Colour My World,” she followed my lead, and we glided through the clumps of couples who thought hugging one another and swaying constituted slow dancing.
    “The last time I got to dance like this was my cousin’s wedding,” said Shannon. “Not many boys know how to
dance
dance.”
    I dipped her backward, and the green ruffles of her dress fluttered like leaves in a spring breeze.
    “But you are forgetting, I am not a boy,” I said, now Maurice Chevalier. I pulled her back up. “I am a man.”
    During the band’s break, we gathered around a table where a few teachers and parents were dispensing punch and cookies.
    “Hope you move just as good on the ice rink as you do on the dance floor,” said Mr. Teschler, handing me a Styrofoam cup of punch.
    “Well, I
can
do a nice little rumba while I’m back-checking,” I said to the hockey coach.
    He laughed, thank God, even as I screamed to myself:
“Rumba while I’m back-checking?” Not only is he going to think you’re stoned, he’s going to think you’re a homo!
    After the band played “Cherish” and the lights came on, Shannon said, surprise in her voice, “That was
really
fun.”
    “It was,” I said, just as surprised. I felt a mellowness that was either residue from the pot (the fun-and-wonder rush had long since burned off) or from all the dancing.
    In the backseat, I put my arm around Shannon, and before Blake had driven out of the parking lot, we were making out.
    I put my hand inside her coat and my hands made little swishing sounds as they made their way up and down those slippery ruffles. Shannon had pressed herself into me, and the weight of her breasts against my chest and her tongue in my mouth made me breathless, yet I thought this kind of suffocation might not be such a bad way to go.
    “Hey, are you lovebirds coming in?” asked Kristi, leaning over the front seat to slap my knee.
    Shannon turned her face away from mine. “Where are we?”
    “The Coliseum,” said Blake. “We’re gonna get some pizza.”
    Shannon looked at me. “Are you hungry?”
    “Yeah,” I said, kissing her.
    We steamed up the windows good, but kissing was all Shannon was willing to do, batting my hands away anytime they wandered south or north.
    When we finally dragged ourselves out of the car, Shannon stumbled and I grabbed her arm so she wouldn’t fall.
    “Oh my gosh,” she said, “I feel like I’m drunk or something!”
    Holding her face in my hands, I kissed her, pleased that she had found me intoxicating.
             
    The dim, candlelit restaurant was packed with Ole Bull kids, and Crosby, Stills, Nash and Young’s “Love the One You’re With” was playing on the jukebox.
    “Over here, you guys!” shouted Kristi, waving from a crowded table, and as we sat down on two chairs at the end, she gestured toward the half-eaten pizzas in the middle of the table.
    “While you guys were out in the car losing your virginity, we took the liberty of ordering.”
    “We were not losing our virginity!” sputtered Shannon, to the amusement of everyone at the table, and with a sudden urge to practice chivalry, I decided to defend her honor.
    “Yeah,” I said, helping myself to a piece of pepperoni. “We were just looking for yours. We heard you gave it to the busboy out in the back alley years ago.”
    There were a few whoops of laughter, but they were quickly swallowed in deference to Kristi. A cloud of silence floated over the table.
    “Hey,” I said, shrugging at the girl whose eyes were throwing daggers, swords, and scythes at me. “It was just a joke.”
    “Well,
duh,
” said Kristi finally. “I’d never give my virginity to a busboy. Maybe a cook, but never a busboy.” Flashing her dimples, she laughed, and as the whole table laughed with her, I had the distinct impression that I had just sidestepped a land mine.
             
    A confetti of daisy petals fell as I walked Shannon to her door.
    “My