Boys usually get only two cracks at attending their high school prom, and girls not much more. I, on the other hand, am one of the few people who have finally lost count. I started my prom run as a nervous Texas teenager in a hoop skirt before I was promoted to student teacher at the water table in a tiny high school in Missouri. Since then I’ve been the chaperone with the flashlight, the door checker, the dress code enforcer, the clean-up crew, the impromptu romance counselor, the freak dancing monitor, the restroom attendant, and ticket-taker.

My memories of each one are shaped by the themed photo backdrop created in the fantasy-driven imaginations of an eleventh grade committee:  the NYC skyline, a jungle tiki room, an English garden, the red carpet at the Oscars, a Paris boulevard, and even a ghastly pumpkin carriage made of light blue crepe paper, presumably waiting for a bootleg Cinderella.