Bell Biv DeVoe
Mini skirts were in at the time. Even for us girls, barely 12. We shimmied short hems up chilly driveways and blue spruce trees. Hands around hips, grabbing. Do Me Baby blared through rugged PA speakers and all of us unglued ourselves from walls and bleacher seats onto slippery dance floors. Boys elbowed their way through other boys to get to the prettier girls who would say yes and no in a blink. Mountain kids assumed this was the music of the big city. We wanted to be there, as part of those free bodies roaming night’s streets without parental supervision. We danced until sweat poured from our prepubescent pits. We danced in groups. We danced alone.