It was my first year as Principal of Meadowbrook High. Last year I had been Acting so made no attempt to alter the “script”. Last year, at the first Staff meeting on return from Easter Break,  the topic was “THE PROM”.

I turned deliberations over to the Vice Principal and reported to my Office to be sick. Prom, the very word, was up there with Holocaust and Armageddon as events I did not want to contemplate.

Oh, I will never forget my High School Prom.

It began the year I was a junior and my best friend, Di, was a senior. At Easter break she became All Prom All The Time.

What she would wear, how she would do her hair, even the color of her nail polish. No military campaign had ever been planned with more thoroughness than Di planned her advent at THE PROM. She had been going with Mac for nearly a year, the question of escort need not be asked.

Vicariously, I lived her Prom, thinking how wonderful it would be, resolving that as a senior, from day one, I would find a boyfriend so there would be no question as to whom was taking me to the Prom. For the entire month of September, I hunted the corridors to find a boy who could take me to the Prom. As my grades began to slip I buckled down, telling myself I was being too anxious, I had plenty of time.

Until Easter Break when I still had not a single date, nor a single boy who had tried to talk to me beyond; “What’s the answer to question two?”

I realized then I wasn’t going to the Prom.

By June, the mention of the word would bring tears to my eyes. I had a circle of “reject” friends who were also not going and though one suggested we do something on Prom Night, Teresa dismissed that idea as pathetic. “We’re all on the train going to Spinster City, let’s not fool ourselves. Let’s concentrate on being successful in college so we can have a very comfortable Old Age.”

This is not what a seventeen year old want to hear.

On Prom night I stayed home and watched the old flick, “Marty“, principally that scene where the female lead sits in the living room with her parents watching a comedy on television and crying.

College wasn’t much better, and if there was a “Prom” I don’t know about it. With my lowered expectations, I met and married Ed.

As my expectations were becoming even lower, we divorced. I blame my disastrous relationships on the fact that Di had a boyfriend and went to the Prom, I had no one and stayed home.

Last year, Acting as Principal, I didn’t alter the script, this year, as Principal, I directed.

I called a full assembly of the Senior Class and told them this school had been selected for a special experiment. A computer dating service wanted to check its viability and that all the students would be electronically matched and attend the prom with their “dates”.

The “couples” groaned, though I saw hope on the faces of those, who like me, hadn’t a date.

I explained how for the first two hours the computer matched pair had to stay as a couple, then, a brief questionnaire would be filled out. After, the parties were free to separate if they chose.

For our participation, the Dating Service would pay for the Prom. Well, this got a cheer.

Fortunately, our school had a dearth of computers. The mating would be by hand. I then turned the assembly over the the official from the Dating Service who being one of those professional phoneys, the kids liked her, and began filling out the forms.

We had eighteen more girls than boys so decided that nine boys would take two girls instead of one.

Somehow, it got through to teen-aged minds that they’d go to the Prom free, and after two hours be free to do as they pleased. Every student got a number which was written down in a master book in case they accidentally on purpose lost the number.

The Dating Service would provide corsages and limousine service.

As I could envision Handsome Jock saying, “No Way!” when he found he was matched with Fat Girl, I made it very clear not until Prom night would the results be announced and that any one who objected would be barred from the Prom.

I began a tirade about how the Dating Service was paying for everything and that it was a very small price to pay for two human beings to try to communicate with each other for two hours before filling out the questionnaire. I should have run for the Senate. I was really convincing.

The anticipation of the Prom was off the scale. Every student was excited, every student was part of this experiment. Of course, it was not an “honest” experiment.

Nothing would be worse, for example,  than two ugly girls matched with one ugly boy. Hence, before the matching began I counted off the eighteen Class Queens, matched them with the nine least favored boys, so that at one point in their miserable lives they would experience what is called a social life.

Getting rid of the Queens who would, after two hours abandon their ‘computer date’ for their hunky football heroes, I pretty much let “science” take its course.

All I wanted to know is that Fat girls and Ugly girls, and Unpopular girls, would go to the Prom. Would have that night out; not out in a pity trip, but as part of an ‘experiment’.  That these girls would be at the Prom, not home, watching Marty and crying.

A few parents came up to school, not particularly happy about the experiment. Some had “religious” objections to the Prom, others didn’t want their child with someone they “didn’t know’. I explained that Limousines would pick up the students, carry them to the venue, which was a perfectly respectable hotel ball room, fully chaperoned. After two hours, they would fill out a questionnaire and be free to leave or remain with someone else. I invited the most distrusting parents to be chaperones.

A few parents, however, came up to school to thank me for ensuring that their child got to attend the Prom.

I can’t speak for everyone, all I know is that the entire Senior Class was at the Prom. And though there was the two hour splitting for many of the couples, at least every girl was there. If after their abandonment they cliqued together to enjoy the entertainment and refreshment, (and gossip about what others were wearing), at least they were there.

“This was a brilliant idea,” Eric the Math teacher said to me, softly adding, “I wish when I was in High School…” “You too?” I exclaimed, seeing him for the first time.

“You didn’t go to your Prom?” he gasped. “I’m there now,” I say, “Let’s dance.”