The Other Girl at the Eighth-Grade Dance

The kids and I are still in Texas — and as I said in my last post, if only Bubs were here, I’d be in heaven. I like to think we’ve done a really good job splitting time between my family and Bub's family. It’s especially easy since his little sister is giving us a place to stay (in our old house, of course).

On more mornings than not, I’ll wake up to my mother-in-law appearing like a cheerful ghost in my room with a bright, “There’s my little munchkin!” before scooping Ashley out of her bassinet. I should be upset at the violation of personal space, but considering she’s mastered giving Ashley a bottle and lets me sleep until nine… how could I possibly complain?

By the time I’m up and moving, she and my father-in-law have already taken the kids to Target, and they’ll come back looking as if they robbed Santa’s workshop.

Since my kids are on fall break from school in Arizona — while all the cousins here are still in class — we’ve had plenty of time at the in-laws’ house. My son TJ has become quite the family historian, obsessively paging through the mountain of photo albums my mother-in-law has compiled over the years. I have to give her credit — when my family got our first digital camera, our photos scattered across random hard drives and thumb drives that still need organizing. My mother-in-law, though, was adamant that every picture be developed, even the digital ones, so she could keep her extensive albums up to date.

TJ has learned everything — from great-great-grandparents who came to New Mexico in the 1930s because the dry climate was “good for tuberculosis,” to the first pictures of the family that owned the ranch where Bubs and I spent so much time, to Nana and Papa’s wedding (where my mother-in-law was an absolute stunner), and everything in between.

Today he made it to the albums from around 2005, when a certain over-enthusiastic blonde girl started popping up in photos.

I was sitting across the living room nursing Ashley when he said, “Nana, who’s this girl with Dad? She’s so pretty!”

I jumped the gun — because who else could he be talking about — and said, “That’s me, buddy!”

He frowned. “No, Mom, this isn’t you. Nana, who is this girl?”

My mother-in-law practically skittered across the room. “Oh my gosh, yes… what was her name? Your dad took her to the eighth-grade dance in Schertz! I drove them and everything… Bridget? Barbie? Baby? Gosh, I can’t remember!”

She told TJ to take the photo out of its sleeve since she usually wrote names and dates on the back. It read: Saturday, April 8, 2006. But no names.

TJ brought the picture over to me — and sure enough, there was Bubs in the same shirt, tie, and khaki pants combo he’d worn to take me to our eighth-grade dance… but that was definitely not me. And TJ was right — she was cute.

I looked at my mother-in-law. “Joyce, what is this? Bubs and I had already been together a year! Why have I never heard about this?”

“Oh honey,” she said, “she was a little girl whose dad was a dentist we did work for down in Schertz. We’d known them for years and thought it’d be a nice thing to do. What was her name? Started with a B. I'm friends with her on Facebook, she became a dentist herself I believe”

I asked TJ to bring me the whole album, and sure enough, a few pages earlier were the pictures of Bubs and me getting ready for our dance — him standing there too cool for photos, and me beaming like an idiot, utterly in love.

At least in my photo, he was holding my hand. Whoever the girl with the “B” name was didn’t get that. Still, my imagination ran wild.

Yes, it was nineteen years ago… but what did they talk about? Suddenly I was picturing them awkwardly slow dancing, her hands around his neck, his on her hips, circling the Schertz Middle School gym while he’s saying, “Yeah, I’ve been with this annoying girl for like a year — she doesn’t get me at all,” and she’s saying, “Oh, that’s too bad. Wanna go make out?”

Yes, I’m insane.

So once Ashley finished nursing, I handed her off to Nana and marched into Bub’s old room. Middle of the workday or not — we were getting to the bottom of this.

Now, there were a million ways I could have started that conversation:

“Hey! We’re at your parents’, and we just found the funniest thing in one of your mom’s albums!”

Or, if I wanted to be serious:

“Hi Bubs, we just found a picture of you on a date with another girl in eighth grade, and I’m concerned I’ve never heard about this before.”

Instead, I went with:

“Uh yeah, so her name started with a B, and I’ve never heard of her — why?”

Bubs: “Dani, what are you talking about?”
Me: “I don’t know, what am I talking about? Seems you’re the one who went on a date.”
Bubs: “I’m really busy right now, but we can talk. We can even do a date night when you get back — is that what you’re asking?”
Me: “Bubs, I just saw a picture of you getting ready to go to dance with another girl...in Schertz, probably a week after our 8th grade dance. This is the first I’ve ever seen of it.”
Bubs: “Oh my god, wow… Patricia D. Yeah, I went as a favor to my parents. She was nice. But I did tell you. That was the week you had a meet in San Antonio, and I told you when you got back Sunday.”
Me: “You did not tell me, because you’d be dead right now if you had.”
Bubs: “Dani, your parents dropped you off at my house that Sunday. We sat on the porch, and you didn’t seem to care. That’s why I never brought it up again.”
Me: “I was — and still am — the most possessive and jealous person you’ll ever meet. I swear to God, if you had told me, I would have strangled you and hunted her to the ends of the earth.”
Bubs: “Dramatic much? I swear on everything I love, I told you. You just didn’t care.”
Me: “You know I’m going to want to fight about this for days.”
Bubs: “Yeah, I know. But I’ve got work, and you’ve got less than a week before you come home. Enjoy your time. I love you.”
Me: “I used to think so...”
Bubs: “Dani.”
Me: “I love you too.”

When I got back to our neighborhood, I had a long debrief with my sisters.

The bad: I don’t know if I believe Bubs told me, and I’m obsessed with what happened on that date.
The good: I didn’t demand he stay on the phone and pick apart this 19-year-old incident like it happened yesterday.

My older sister said that even if Bubs didn’t tell me (which he probably did — the man can recall the color of my senior prom dress and what I ate for dinner last Tuesday), obsessing over it now doesn’t give him credit for being an amazing husband, father, and partner all these years.

My younger sister’s advice was simpler: “Book an appointment with your therapist.”

Tonight, Bubs and I just finished our nightly FaceTime check-in. I’m proud of myself for not bringing it up — even when he asked, “You good?” which is his code for please don’t start a fight.

I told him I’m still crazy, but I’m good, and I still love him.

He said I could ask any question I wanted, but I told him I didn’t want to fight. I could let it go.

For now. Ok...little joke. I really am going to try to let this one go.