By Jim Holmes

It was 1957 and I was about to become a man. At least in the eyes of my fellow 7th-grade males. You see, I was among the select, fortunate few, soon to have his first real date.

Sue Fisher had been my dream girl since fourth grade. And now she had consented to allow me to escort her to our annual fall festival dance, where she might even be elected queen!

Sue was a cute little blond with a bubbly personality. But even more importantly to a tiny 12-year-old male was the fact that she was the only girl in my 7th-grade class who didn't stand a head taller than me. That was an important consideration, as it meant I could demonstrate my box step mastery on the dance floor without my head being buried in her bosom. (It was only later in life that I learned there were far worse things in this world.)

But among my 7th grade peers, there was one important caveat to this being "a real first date." It only qualified as such, if sue would let me kiss her goodnight! Oh the stress.

And so the big evening finally arrived. I was dressed in my Sunday suit, complete with a tie knotted into a Windsor by mama. Since it was a formal event, she provided me two hankies. One to show, One to blow.

My folks had even laid out the cash so I could present my "date" a corsage. I said a silent prayer of thanks when Sue's mother quickly took it from my trembling, sweating hands and did the honors herself of pinning it to the bodice of her daughter's party dress.

At the dance, all went well ... at first. We marveled at the gymnasium's beautiful crepe paper decorations, while bemoaning the fact that the smell of sweaty gym socks still somehow lingered. Between dances, Sue visited and giggled with girlfriends, while we manly men stood nearby talking manly things. But all the while, in the back of my mind was one burning question; would Sue make this a real date by allowing me to kiss her goodnight?

Yes, all was great, until the moment when our Fall Festival Queen was finally revealed. The 8th-grade class president stepped to the microphone and announced that 7th-grader, Sue Fisher had been elected our queen. Sue squealed in delight, but her joy was short lived. For no sooner had the applause died down, than the 8th-grader apologized, explaining he'd transposed the two names and that Sue was not the winner, but the runner-up to the real victor -- an 8th-grade girl. As you can imagine, Sue was crushed. And all of us 7th-graders knew in our hearts that she had been robbed of her victory by certain, nefarious -- if unidentified -- 8th grade cads.

To Sue's credit, she made it through the crowning ceremony, but with reddened eyes. And as soon as it was over, she raced to the gym's payphone and called for her daddy to come pick her up.

So there I was, alone. My anxiously awaited first goodnight kiss would have to wait. Ironically, I have no recollection of who the young lady was who so honored me. I suspect the experience was equally forgettable to her.

No, I don't remember that first kiss, but forever burned into my memory is that first kiss missed.

Jim Holmes lives in Live Oak.