Friday Night Dance

This story has an interesting backstory of how it came about. We had an in-class activity in which we had to write to music, and surprisingly, the best story starter to me was the most annoying song ever, "Friday." I am sorry for now getting it stuck in your head. I wanted this story to expand on the most challenging time in a girl's life: middle school. I think this story gives a very sentimental look towards the changing relationship between mother and daughter.

Friday Night Dance: Third Person Narrative

Blake tossed her hair in the mirror, pursing her heavily-made up lips. Pop music blasted from the radio on the vanity that she insisted she had to have. Her room looked like a disaster zone, an explosion: Bright and colorful clothes from her closet were everywhere, draped on chairs, bed, and floor. Blake had on a white miniskirt and a violet fitted tank, but with thick straps that didn't violate the dress code (she was only in eighth grade.) “It's Friday, Friday, gotta get down on Friday,” she lip-synched in the mirror, applying pale pink blush to her already-flushed cheeks.

Stella, Blake's mother, leaned in the doorway, looking at her child, so ready to walk out of the door for her first dance. She looked like she was trying on her clothes and makeup on for size, like a toddler in her mother's shoes. Blake was a walking cloud of perfume; Stella could smell the freesia from the doorway. She enjoyed watching her tween daughter before Blake saw her, watching Blake in her natural habitat; Blake's habits when she thought no one was looking reminded Stella of her little girl when she was younger and only cared about climbing trees. Now, Blake's propensity for bright colors only showed how young she was, until she attempted to smile with her mouth shut to hide her braces, or fluttered mascara'd lashes at boys. Then Stella was reminded just how much her daughter was growing up.

Stella thought back to earlier that evening. At dinner, Blake hadn't been able to sit still. She had been up and down, running from her room to the kitchen like a squirrel, showing her mother new outfits she was thinking about wearing.

“What do you think of this dress?” Blake had asked nervously. “Do you think it's too fancy?”

Stella sighed, giving up on getting her daughter to eat any of her spaghetti. “Let's look at your other options, honey. What are the other girls wearing?”

“I don't know. Ashlee and Stacy are wearing skirts and tank tops.”

“Well, sweetheart, what do you feel most beautiful in?”

Blake said angrily, “I don't know, Mom! Just tell me what looks best!”

“You'd look beautiful in any of these outfits,” Stella said patiently. “It only matters what you think. No one else's opinions matter, Blake.”

“Ha! Don't lie to me. You were Miss America, Mom. I think you cared what other people thought.” Blake slammed her door shut, shutting Stella out in the hallway.

Stella stayed rooted to the ground, remembering the satin pastel-colored dresses, endless tanning, teeth-bleaching, dance routines, catty girls, flippers to make your lips glide over your teeth easily in a smile, makeup so thick she couldn't remember what she looked like without it. She remembered the hair extensions, the exhaustion, and the thrill of victory when the tiara was placed on her head. Had she cared what people thought?

Yes, of course she had. Doesn't every girl at that age? But now, she realized, looking at her daughter playing beauty queen in the mirror, that caring what other people think is a phase. A phase that is incredibly difficult to overcome, so difficult that some never overcome it. She realized that Blake just had to be supported through this phase, something Stella's own mother never understood.

Back in the present, she made eye contact with Blake in the mirror. Blake looked back abashedly with her wide baby blue eyes, and Stella knew that her daughter wasn't mad anymore and felt bad about their fight.

Blake asked timidly, “How do I look? All ready to go?”

Stella longed to tell her that none of this pageantry mattered, that true beauty comes from the inside. But instead she walked to her daughter, and secured a loose flyaway hair. “There,” she said. “Now you're ready to go.”