How I Didn’t Go to the Prom

 29 July 2003

For some reason, I found myself recalling one of the formative episodes of my teenage years, something that happened about 35 years ago in the spring of 1968. This is a true story; names have been changed to protect the innocent.   I hope that the original of “Helen,” if she reads this, will understand that I bore her then, and of course bear her now, no ill-will on account of the events described here (or any other, for that matter).

Prom at Andover was not like proms in a public high school. Bear in mind that in those days, Andover was a boys’ school; coeducation has probably totally changed the way things work by now. Andover proms lasted all weekend. Boys who were not attending the prom were encouraged to leave for the weekend (go home, or to a fellow student’s home if their own was too far away). The top three classes all attended. On Friday evening there were dances by class, and Saturday evening there was a dance for the whole school, with music by a well-known group (I don’t remember what any of them were, except Rhinoceros, who played my senior year). In between there were other activities, but I don’t remember what they were.

Lower (=sophomore) year I attended the prom with a girl I had met at a dance earlier in the year. To say we hated each other by the end of the weekend would be an understatement. Senior year, most of my circle disdained the prom, although I recall that I invited, partly in jest, a girl I knew slightly, not expecting that she would accept--and she didn’t. She was a great beauty, but rather haughty and distant. If she had accepted, I don’t know what I would have done. But the year in between, Upper (=junior) year, I almost went with a girl I actually liked. But I didn’t, and this is how it happened.

Helen [this is not her name, or anything like it] was a senior at Abbot, the girls’ school down the road. (Coeducation meant that the two schools have now merged; at the time they were entirely independent.) She and I shared interests such as poetry and discussing the deep subjects of life. She became, during the winter of my Upper year, something like my girlfriend. The principal manifestation of this relationship was that we exchanged letters every day. A messenger carried letters the few blocks between the two schools, mostly between boyfriends and girlfriends, especially on the weekdays when there could be little contact between the two campuses. Helen and I exchanged letters full of poetry and mutual admiration, and when we could, as at the meetings of clubs to which we both belonged, we would engage in earnest conversation. This was the first time that I had been in a mutual special relationship with a girl whom I actually respected, who was pretty and interesting and not merely a loser who couldn’t manage anyone better than me. And she was a senior, too, which made me feel even more honored.

Although our relationship did not include physical affection, merely intellectual passion, I invited her to attend the prom with me that year and she accepted. I put down my money--the prom was not cheap--and prepared to enjoy the weekend. But with prom several weeks away, Helen wrote to me and asked me to meet her at the Abbot gate. When I did, she wanted to talk about prom. She told me that Paris [again not his name, obviously] had asked her to go to the prom with him, and she had really wanted to go with him for a long time, so would I release her from her promise to go with me? Now Paris was a Senior. I didn’t know him particularly; like most Seniors, he disdained to associate with underclassmen, even Uppers, especially if, like me, they had no particular distinction. But she was asking me, and I knew her well enough to know that she would abide by my decision. She was a young lady of great integrity.

I thought for a moment, and answered along these lines, “If I say yes, I will be very sad, because I really want to go to the prom with you. But I’m only one person. You will be happy, because you will be going with the one you want to go with, and he will be happy, because he will get to go with you. But if I say no, and you go with me, then he will be sad, because he will not get to go with you, and you will be sad, because you don’t get to go with him, and I will be sad, because you will be unhappy to be with me, and that will be no fun. Three people will be miserable instead of just one. So I will let you go with Paris.” She was relieved and grateful; I was disappointed but not particularly surprised. Why should a beautiful, intelligent girl, and a Senior to boot, want to go the the prom with the likes of me? Rejection was a thing with which I was already very well acquainted. I explained to the prom committee that my date had backed out, and I got my money back.

Now some might say that if Helen had been a real lady she would not have done this. Either she would have turned down Paris and gritted her teeth and gone to the prom with me, or she would have backed out on me with some other excuse and then turned around and accepted Paris. But then she would not have been the Helen I knew and loved. Ruthless honesty was something we both respected, or at least pretended to respect. Maybe if I were a real man, and not a Nice Guy, I would have said, “No, of course not; what on earth are you thinking?” But I saw the consequences of that course. A different kind of girl might have been impressed with that, but not Helen.

I still believe I did the right thing, but even now, thirty-five years later, I am still sad about it. It wasn’t the last time I have been reminded not to venture into realms too exalted for me. It wasn’t the last time I have been called upon to put other people’s happiness before my own. I have taken my place where Nice Guys belong: in last place.