A sunset sky. The reddish tint discolors a few bodies intertwined on the dance floor. One bright overhead light moves over each couple, some dancing while others lock lips. The soft music plays while everyone sways in time to Crazy for You, by Madonna.

Late into the evening, these teens are getting tired from all the movement, the celebration for their first time. A junior high school dance. Who’d have thought it was going to happen? None of us did. At least not those of us in Mrs. Henke’s English class.

San Ramon, California. Far enough away from the private school property. Heaven forbid someone would hold an actual junior high dance at the school. But in 1985, that’s the way things were. Do as I say, not as I do. A common phrase to those of us growing up here in the San Ramon, Dublin, Pleasanton area. Too familiar for us Generation X kids. Call us the Latch-Key kids. Or shiftless and lazy, later in our late teens and early twenties. But the MTV generation was born, and we were a part of it.

Not one of us can forget our first dance, kiss, or the shivers from the touch of someone special. Those are the cherished memories some of us would like to forget. For others, we want to recall and relive those moments. We don’t want to go back. Well, not all of us want to go back. Some of us loved it because it was entertaining, fun and exciting!

Kathy and I didn’t know how much that one song could change us. One song. It would change our lives forever.

“Stay away from him, Kathy,” Shelly whispered. The bell rang, indicating the start of English. Mrs. Henke, standing in front of the blackboard, was writing something about our next assignment. Not that I was paying much attention. I was too interested in Shelly and Kathy’s conversation, mainly because it didn’t involve me.

Kathy mouthed back, why, Mrs. Henke tapping the board with a stubby piece of white chalk. Back in the 80s, we didn’t have computers. There weren’t smartboards, smartphones, or laptop computers. Computers? Desktop computers were brand new. And only those with money had the means to purchase them. Everyday run-of-mill middle-class people like my parents? We wouldn’t have one for a year or two. Today? Kids like me were stuck checking our information through books and encyclopedias at the public or school library.

Mrs. Henke tapped the board again. “Excuse me, Ms. Coleman. Class is starting. And you know the ‘no talking’ rule.” She rarely raised her voice. She didn’t need to. Her demeanor alone froze most kids. It was the look. Not her smile. That was so warm and inviting, almost like getting a hug from her mouth. It was sweet. The reverse of that warm smile? A stare. Not cold. Not heartless. Just plain scary. Especially for those of us entering our teenage years.

“Yes, Mrs. Henke. I know.” She mouthed back to Kathy later before turning to see Mrs. Henke’s scary look. I know. That phrase, I think, is one that transformed our generation into a bunch of smartasses. There was something about the tone, the tone? Yeah. The tone. We knew it. Every parent and teacher knew it. And for some unknown reason, we didn’t think a tone accompanied it. But it most definitely was there!

Texting wasn’t a thing for us. Instead, we passed notes. The hope was not getting caught. The teacher at the board was too inattentive to pay attention to the kids directly behind her, hopefully. What we didn’t know? Most of our teachers had kids of their own. They knew the tricks. And they thought they had perfected them. We did it better. At least, that’s what we thought.

Mrs. Henke was writing something else on the board, and I wasn’t paying attention. Instead, I was more interested in watching notes passed from one side of the room to another. I knew that someone was bound to get caught with one. Mrs. Henke threatened to read the note aloud, the worst thing a junior high kid could suffer; embarrassment in class. But the whispers between Shelly and Kathy? That really caught my attention.

“He’s not nice,” Shelly hissed. Thankfully for Shelly, Mrs. Henke couldn’t hear her. But me and Kathy absolutely did.

“What does that mean?” Mrs. Henke turned around, both girls looking at the board and her.

“Ms. McDougal? Can you tell me which word is the adjective in this sentence?”

Kathy squinted at the board. I wasn’t sure, but I was willing to bet she needed glasses. If I had to guess. But she wouldn’t tell anyone that, not being a cheerleader. Shelly was a cheerleader, too. Probably why they were talking about Brian. Brian was one of those guys that played sports but wasn’t great at any one thing. He could do a lot. Hit a baseball. Shoot a basket. Kick a soccer ball. But he wasn’t an all-around jock, not like Derek, Steve, or Tim. Those guys could out-shoot, out-hit, and out-kick him. But they needed him on their teams. Good enough to play, but not the first string. I think. I don’t know sports well, so don’t quote me.

“Yes, Mrs. Henke.” She squinted at the board. “It’s responsible,” she answered.

“That’s correct. So, what’s the noun that is being described as responsible?”

“Not Brian,” Shelly whispered.

“What, Ms. Coleman? Did you have an answer?”

“No, Mrs. Henke. I didn’t.”

“If you two don’t stop gabbing with each other, I will separate you two for the rest of the year. Is that clear?”

Both girls answered at the same time. “Yes, Mrs. Henke.”

“Mr. Class, what is the noun in this sentence that responsible is describing?”

“Brian,” I said.

For some reason, Shelly laughed, Kathy glaring at her friend. Brian? He was oblivious to all of it.