Dance, Little Sister

"Where are you?"

"Uh, I'm in the truck. Where are you?"

"We're here at the school, and we can't find the Snow Princess."

"She should be there. What school are you at, anyway?"

"Sweet Home High School."

"Is that the one on Sweet Home Road?"

"Yeah."

"You're at the wrong school. The recital is at Sweet Home Middle School, on Maple."

"Dammit! Good-bye!"

* * * * * * * * *

Thus began Marissa's Dance Recital, a gathering of about a hundred girls ages four to 18, each performing for five minutes while forcing their fathers to fidget in their seats nervously for the other 2-1/2 hours they're not on stage.

I know what to do at a sporting event. When your kid's at bat or on the football field, you focus on your kid. When your kid is on the sideline or in the dugout, you watch the ball.

Tell me, where am I supposed to focus at a dance recital when my Little Princess is not on stage? Do I stare at the best dancer and risk being accused of leering unseemingly? Or do I stare at the worst dancer and risk being accused of insensitivity?

Heaven help me if I leaf through the program; that makes me look like I'm ready to leave.

Last year, I entertained myself by texting my sister during the performance:

"The male dance teacher is doing a solo. I think grandpa just swallowed his tongue."

"How can you call this thing a dance recital if there isn't a brass pole?"

"I think we call that one The Can't-Can't."

* * * * * * * * *

The curtain pulled back, the stage lights came up, and a squeal erupted from the audience. It was time for the Little Princess' dance crew, a collection of six little princesses all five years and under teetering out to their starting positions on the stage.

Shirley Temple started belting out "On the good ship, Lollipop...", and in unison, all the girls looked to the left side of the stage and tentatively started their routine. You could tell that they knew what to do, they just didn't know when they were supposed to do it. You could almost see the lightbulbs going off over the girls' perfectly coiffed heads as they realized "Oh, that's what I'm supposed to do."

"What are they looking at?" someone in our group asked.

"Their teacher. She's standing off to the side."

Four minutes later, the music wrapped up. The girls attempted to curtsy -- awkward as it is in their brand-new costumes -- and then scampered off the stage to the roars of the crowd.

* * * * * * * * *

"Excuse me, sir."

She can't be talking to me. Nobody calls me sir.

"Sir, excuse me."

I felt a tap on my shoulder, and I looked up to see a middle-aged woman with a clipboard and a headset shaking her head at me. Geez, woman, how much trouble could I get into this sober? "Yes?"

"You can't be back here."

"I just came back here to see my Little Princess. She was in the second number, and she won't be going back out there until the..."

"That's OK. You still can't be back here. According to state law, this is technically a women's changing room, so it's illegal for you to be back here."

I stared at her for a minute and started walking for the door. "I didn't see a sign. Was there a sign?"

"Thank you, sir." Slam!

* * * * * * * * *

Everybody gets flowers at a dance recital. The Little Princess got a bouquet, of course, and you won't get any dispute from me. So did her teacher, the 17-year-old who got paid minimum wage to try to teach six five-year-olds how to dance in unison, more or less, and then had to listen to the six mothers of the five-year-olds complain about how she went about it.

The owner of the dance joint? Even though we paid her a hundred bucks a month -- maybe more, I don't know, the Snow Princess hides the actual costs from me -- and even though she was struggling under the weight of enough flowers to pay for the florist's condo at Myrtle Beach for the Fourth of July holiday weekend, we had to give her flowers too.

"Here you go!" Marissa said excitedly as she shoved the flowers at the owner.

"Mmph. Thanks, Jordan."

"It's Marissa."

"Of course it is. Thanks, Marissa! See you in the fall!"

Grrrr.