I got the spaghetti bolognaise because it's cheap and you can't go wrong with meat sauce. I was paying for the dinner, and the ticket, even though Danielle bailed on me. She had asked me to prom months ago, and in the interim she started dating my friend, Sloan. I was a little jealous, but none of us knew then that she was mildly retarded. Our friend Sam was also solo and became my unofficial date. We sat across from depressive Nic and his big-boobed girl, Casey. Casey annoyed me. Walking the streets of downtown Walnut Creek, I felt so prom obvious, but despite being semi-dateless, I was stoked to be a sophomore hanging out with some older, cool juniors. On the street, we had one of those magical high school moments: realizing that we were all wearing different Converses. The girls were quick with the disposable cameras, capturing our rainbow of shoes poking out from under another rainbow of slacks.

The gym was decorated in a New Orleans masquerade style, and they were playing rap. I had envisioned a discothèque-type deal. I wanted to dress Saturday Night Fever, but scrolling through Ebay, I had to settle for a tan dream tux with velvet brown lining-some tailoring and a snakeskin polyester shirt completed the outfit. We were the best dressed, and best dancers on the floor. The girls refused to dance, and the DJ ignored my requests for Devo. We started getting bored; the more bored we got, the crazier the dancing became. I imitated Sloan's flailing arms and jerky joke moves. We started throwing our bodies around with complete disregard. That's when Principal Lickiss noticed us.

"You guys better tone it down or you're out," he threatened.

A year passed-prom time again, this time my prom. By this point, I had ditched my braces and acquired a girlfriend: Laura. When the parents were dropping everyone off, a mom gave my friend Jeff a two-page letter pleading to drive safely with his precious cargo. On the way to campus, Jeff hit 94 mph in his mom's red BMW.

The dance was pretty typical. Another flood of shit rap, but we danced until we got hot and bored. The parents had worked hours and hours to decorate the gym with an "under the sea" theme--each table had a fish bowl with a few goldfish endlessly circling. Jeff's date, Camilla, sat at our table and dropped M&Ms into the water, turning it a murky brown. I wanted to kick her in her goddamn teeth, but instead I fished the fish out with cups and brought them to other bowls.

Jeff peeled out of the parking lot. This brought an administrator running. After getting Jeff to promise to drive safe, he let us go. Coming up San Miguel, Jeff took the turn too fast and overcorrected, and then I don't even know what happened. I do know that we ended up facing the opposite direction on the wrong side of the road and the BMW's right side had slammed against a retaining wall. Camilla said her shoulder felt fucked up. Laura looked beautiful shivering next to the wreck in my over-sized jacket.

"Fuck! Fuck! Fuck!" Jeff vented through clenched teeth when he tried driving and the car barely moved, metal rubbing metal and rubber.

"Fuckin' piece of shit I can't believe it, shit shit shit shit," Jeff angrily mumbled as he took out his phone and called his mom. "Fuck cunt shit fuck," then she picked up: "Mama? I'm scared, Mama. I dunno. I was driving and then there was this black car..."