Identity Crisis

Sitting at a table with her mother and father at the side of an area designated as the dance floor Claire felt extremely self conscious. She had realized as soon as she arrived that she was wearing the wrong dress for the charity dance. She looked with dismay at the dresses the other girls were wearing, mainly mini shift dresses the latest fashion in 1965.

Claire was wearing a dress that had a fitted bodice and full skirt spreading out from her waistline, four years out of date.

Claire squirmed with embarrassment. If only we had not moved away from Haslemere she thought. She knew where she was there.

The other teenagers who had obviously known each other for years were grouped on the other side of the dance floor. Flirting, laughing at in jokes.

Claire longed to be one of their friends.

The music started and eight couples began dancing a slow waltz.

Mitchell who was standing opposite Claire’s table was quite ugly, with his long pointed nose, his tiny eyes set close together his lank lifeless hair combed nonchalantly to one side, but he was an optimist and extremely confident about his intelligence and charm. He saw a new girl looking fresh in her flowered dress siting demurely with her parents. He had been turned down by the other girls but there was a chance here. He did not realize that Claire was a mass of seething resentment and insecurities. He walked purposefully towards Claire’s table. Her heart sank. He was at least four years older.

“Will you dance with me?” he asked her.

Her Mother beamed with delight.

“Go on Claire. You must dance with him.”

Having no other choice Claire let Mitchell lead her right to the middle of the dance floor.

He held her left hand and placed his other hand possessively on her waist.

Claire wished this was not happening. She was acutely embarrassed that her dress was out of date and was surely the but of jokes by the in crowd watching her waiting for some faster music.

“Why are you shaking so much? Mitchell asked her.

If she was 10 years older she would most probably be able to recognize that she was experiencing sexual tension but she really had no idea why she was trembling.

“Because I’m cold,” she snapped back at him.

He led her around the dance floor as if he owned her. A situation she did not appreciate.

She wanted to look cool and confident. The in group were getting a very bad impression of her and the boy she really fancied might never be able to get the picture of her waltzing wearing a floral unfashionable dress with a furious look on her face.

Finally the dance ended. Claire moved swiftly back to her parents table before Mitchell could carry on chatting her up.

Mitchell felt deflated as she left him standing there, but ever the optimist he assured himself he would win her over one day.

“You looked so grown up dancing with Mitchell,” her mother cooed.

“isn’t this better than hanging around with that group of Mods outside the college in Kingston.”

Claire just sat and sulked. Why did her mother think she should be able to manipulate her life and choose her friends. Why couldn’t she meet with her friends from school outside the College in Kingston. It's where you heard what was happening, who was going to be playing in the Rhythm and Blues Club next week. Where everyone was going to meet up in the evening.

All through the next week her mother nagged her to go to the local youth club.

“Just go once and see what its like”, Claire’s mother barked.

“Glenda said her son Alistair will walk you there.”

Oh great, Claire thought, another boy I’ve got nothing in common with. She had no choice but to obey her mother if only to stop her nagging.

That Wednesday evening Alistair knocked at their door. He stood there in the rain holding his bike. He was six foot tall, and had a vacant expression on his face and a line of perspiration over his top lip.

“Go on then Claire,” her mother said urgently.

So off they went a tall goofy, hyper nervous boy holding his bike as he walked and a sulky, morose 14 year old girl down the hill towards the community centre. Alistair did not say a word to her and Claire could not be bothered to make conversation.

When they arrived at the Youth club Alistair vanished and did not make contact with her until it was time to go home.

Claire shyly allowed the youth leader to introduce her to the other kids and enjoyed listening to the records they were dancing to.

Of course, Mitchell was there and a very shy boy with large luminous brown eyes and a podgy body who asked them all to a party at his house that Saturday, when his parents would be away.

As he was not a popular boy only a few people accepted his invitation.

One of the girls gave her a lift to the more affluent side of town and his very stylish large house.

Claire was overawed by the large living room that took up half of the ground floor, with a bar that ran the whole length of the room. “Gerald, I didn’t know your parents were so rich!” Rosalind told him.

He just blushed.

“What would you all like to drink?”

Claire asked for half a pint of cider. Unknown to her Mitchell persuaded Gerald to add gin and whisky to her glass.

She sat watching the others dancing to twist music and then she felt very strange.

She got up grabbed the nearest boy and did a tango across the room. She then sat down on a huge armchair in the hallway and turned to stone. She could not move. She looked up. Mitchell and Gerald stood looking down at her lying helpless drunk for the first time in her life. She could not work out if she just wanted to be still or she really could not move.

Mitchell leered at her. "You know we could do anything that we like with her now?”

Claire registered what he said but she still could not move.

Mitchell put out a hand. 

“Don’t. This is my house. Its not right!” Gerald pleaded.

So much for Mummy wanting me to go out with nice boys from the youth group.

"I’d better get her home then."

He hauled her up to her feet. Dragged her out of the house and into his car. She sat and glared at him all the way home.

“Well goodbye Claire,” he murmured as he propped her up against her front door and ran back to his car. Luckily Claire’s parents were in bed already and did not see her stagger up the stairs.

That’s the last time I’m ever going to get drunk, she thought as she realized how vulnerable she had been, when she woke up with a hangover the next day. She did not tell her parents what had happened. No teenager did.