In my hometown, there was no escaping Miss Valentine’s School of Social Dance. No one enrolled by choice; it was an indignity that accompanied puberty, like menstruation or body hair.
Miss Valentine was, in fact, married. The courtly Mr. Valentine was always on hand to demonstrate the fox trot or fix the leaky faucet in the bathroom. But “Miss Valentine” was what we called her.
On a typical Wednesday evening, she arranged us in rows on opposite sides of the room, boys on one side, girls on the other. At her signal, the boys began a reluctant march toward us. Miss Valentine flitted among them, birdlike, straightening shoulders and collars. Each boy was to select a partner and request the pleasure of a dance. Dread was palpable in the room. The girls outnumbered the boys, so some girls didn’t get chosen the first time around.
