The Story of Us: Part II (aka "That's what couples do")

To quote a certain infamous interview, no, THAT did not happen.

But plenty of other things did.

Again, no. Come on, people, I was 14.

And in typical 14-year-old fashion, when it came time to find a date to tolo, I took the mature approach -- I begged a friend to ask the guy for me while I basically hid in the corner.

Apparently, the invitation caught Chris off guard, because he wasn't initially sure which of the two Jennifers in our journalism class was asking. Once he figured out it was the freshman who could write and not the junior who not only couldn't write but also was married, he said yes. HE SAID YES.

So he took me out, fed me chocolate cake, and I slammed a door in his face at the end of the night.

Wait ... no, that was Lois and Clark.

But I won't lie and say that the show didn't give me some preconcieved notions about how a date would be. After all, who wouldn't want to be romanced Metropolis style? But was this a date?

Well, not according to my mom, who drove me over to school that Saturday night before Valentine's Day, and apparently not according to Chris' dad, who met him at the door afterward. I'm still not exactly sure what they thought would happen if we were alone for more than two seconds, but I have a feeling I'll figure it out in 14 or 15 years, when Collin is the one talking about school dances.

Still, amid the uh, lavish surroundings of the Clover Park High School cafeteria, a high-school romance was born. When I arrived, Chris was already there, and I was so nervous that I couldn't even talk to him. Sure, I had danced with boys before, but this was different. He was my exclusive dance partner for the night. You know, my date. And I was wearing perfume and heels.

And there was my date, dressed up (as much as a 17-year-old boy dresses up for a school dance), in a short-sleeved, button-down patterned shirt, jeans and his ever-present black Nikes, standing near the student store, waiting for me.

Oh. my. god. That smile. I'm surprised I didn't melt.

In an attempt more to break the ice than to prove he had game, Chris asked me to dance. And not surprisingly, at first, we were so far apart that you could have parked a car between us. In my defense, Offspring's "Come Out and Play" is hardly the first song that comes to mind when thinking about getting down on the dance floor.

Still, it's the first song I ever danced to with my husband.

The next song was a slower R&B number, and with our drive-a-Honda-between-us tactic looking even more awkward, Alyssa, a savvy senior also on the newspaper staff, stepped in -- more specifically danced in -- to assist us. And suddenly, we found ourselves dancing close ... very close. So close, in fact, that I was still limping on Monday morning from the thirteen times he stepped on my feet.

Yes, I still remember how many times -- and so does Chris, given that I apparently held it over his head for years.

We danced most of the night -- only with each other -- and there was no denying the attraction between us. I found myself surprisingly comfortable around him -- talking and laughing as if I hadn't spent the ride over to the school contemplating jumping out of the car.

Had I found my Clark Kent?

I didn't have time to ponder this startling thought for long, though, because my friend Sarah came over, upset that she had lost her earring somewhere on the dance floor. Chris and I offered to help her look for it, and as we walked the perimeter of the cafeteria, I slipped my hand into his.

He looked at me, startled.

"We should hold hands," I said, "because that's what couples do."

Ahhh, something for him to hold over my head for the next fifty years.

To this day, I have no idea what possessed me to say that, but he clearly didn't mind, because our hands remained intertwined for the rest of the dance, all the way to the door, where we shared a hug before he walked away into the night.

I couldn't stop smiling -- but it didn't last long.

When Monday rolled around, I had no idea what the hell to do, save for a quick greeting as I took my seat in journalism. I liked him -- really liked him -- but I was scared to death. It's not like Lois had ever dealt with this -- she had Superman chasing after her. And making matters worse, when Chris casually suggested seeing a movie, I had to explain that hell was more likely to freeze over than my mom was to let me go.

To her, it was simple parental mathematics: 14-year-old girl +
17-year-old boy + dark theater = absolutely not.

To me, it was the breeding ground for utter mortification.

Had I blown it? And if I had, could I get away with blaming my mom for the rest of my life?

A few weeks after our enchanted evening -- and the ensuing awkwardness -- Chris came over to me in P.E. class and explained that he was planning to ask me to prom.

Prom? So I hadn't completely blown it?

But, he continued, he couldn't.

"I'm moving," he said.

To be continued ...