The perfect HOCO…


(Photo Provided by Carla Moreno)

This is me with my parents last HOCO, but you can already tell my high expectations were brewing in my head.

Daniela Arias, Editor-in-Chief

My motives behind every dance have been WRONG.


I will openly admit that at each dance, I’ve been keeping a watchful, somewhat hopeful eye out for any particularly beautiful guys that may be waltzing my way with their hand out, ready to charmingly ask me, “Shall I have this dance?”


But to no one’s surprise, this never happens.


So, in recognition of my disgustingly high expectations, I will be giving you a sneak peek into what I consider the perfect homecoming.


The prep

I am not frazzled, nor am I rushing. I take the time to perfectly curl my hair, perfectly do my makeup, perfectly slip my dress on, and spritz the perfect, yet not overpowering amount of my signature scent.


The pre-party

As I arrive to the pre-party, the sun is hitting me in ALL the right directions. I’ve become a golden goddess of some sorts. I conversate, grub, and have the grandest of times with all my best gal pals. And, of course, we snap some of the most flipping fantabulous pictures your eyes have ever seen.


Finally, the party bus arrives, and the song “Gimme! Gimme! Gimme!” by Abba blasts as we excitedly strut our way in. We spend the next 25 minutes on our way to the venue dancing like freaks to a tastefully catered playlist of Abba songs. Some rap is sprinkled in their too.


Ok, ok, everything’s fine and dandy so far, but what about the actual dance?

Freshmen year me is all-smiles alongside an anonymous boy who broke up with me the day after formal. (Photo Provided by Carla Moreno)

As, we sashay our way through the Servite gates, we are greeted by Kylie Minogue’s “Can’t Get You out of My Head,” practically breaking necks as we make our way to the dance floor.


We have no time to awkwardly stand around, and we get to dancing right away. Our dance moves are effortless yet so skilled that people would think we were professionals.


Suddenly, a “She’s All That”-esque flash mob ensues, and Servite and Rosary students begin a perfectly in sync dance number. Everyone else watches in awe of the dance that seems too perfect to not be choreographed.


After many more hours of dancing, and yes, I mean dancing—barbaric moshing is not acceptable at MY perfect HOCO—they finally play the first slow dance song of the night. This song is of course “Strange Magic” by Electric Light Orchestra from my all time favorite prom scene in “The Virgin Suicides.”


As I sway to the beat alone, I open my eyes as I feel someone watching me from a distance. I look around, and we lock eyes. As our eyes meet, the song changes from “Strange Magic” to “Nights” by Frank Ocean—specifically the ethereal part that goes, “All my night, been ready for you all my night. Been waitin’ on you all my night.”


The world seems to stop and yet only revolve around us two. We make our way to each other and assume the slow dance position—my hands on his shoulders, his hands respectfully sitting on my waist.


Not speaking, we stare lovingly into each other’s eyes wondering how we’ve never seen each other before. He’s 6’3 with a slender build, sun-kissed skin, emerald green eyes, slightly curly, dark brown hair, a classic Roman nose, and gleaming white teeth. He has a James Dean swag to him, and the essence of a Taylor Swift song follows him everywhere.


I ask him his name, and he handsomely replies, “Fitzgerald.” Astonished, I think, “Wait, Fitz-, I’ve dreamt of you…”


And of course, this is just a dream. Classic plot twist.


But seriously, I blame romance novels and movies for my insanely high expectations of a HIGH. SCHOOL. DANCE.