Lane Tech's royal shindig

Ellen Fox

October 13, 1998: NewCity Chicago

Babushkas paying last respects to a beloved dictator - trudging along beneath the icy glares of their own soldier-sons - couldn't take this kind of cold.

But the Lane Tech cheerleaders are on the field at halftime, moving along to the tinny reverb of "Ghetto Booty," their bare legs wet and pricked by tiny raindrops. Three-fifths of the football crowd empties the bleachers before the third quarter. They're heading home to rinse off face paint and glitter, green hair dye and silly string, before stepping into tonight's carefully thought-out choice of underpants.

It's clear the Lane Tech Indians are going to mince Shurz High anyway. "Faggot!" someone hollers down from the safety of the stands.

All that's left are the diehards, peppy underclassmen who probably won't be going to the dance. A girl in boxer shorts, not shivering, not under the influence of drugs or alcohol either, leads her own cheer: "We are Lane Tech, mighty mighty Lane Tech" as the Indians score another touchdown in the first few minutes of the second half.

Nate's still here, too. You know Nate: He breezed into the bleachers looking suave in a black straw hat, sparkly ear-studs and shiny shoes, doling out waves and hugs like a visiting royal to all the friends he'd left behind at graduation.

This is, after all, homecoming.

Three hours later, the DJ calls out, "Lane Tech, what's ya numba?"

The crowd pulses its thousands of hands to the ceiling and roars a cacophony of graduation dates: "Oh-two! Oh-two!" chant the freshmen. "Oh-one! Oh-one!" come the sophomores, trying to drown the ninth-graders out.

Everyone's made it cleanly through the metal detectors, and they've spent the first hour rushing purposefully toward friends across the frightening abyss of the gymnasium. Some circles of interest form around guys down on the floor: they breakdance for a few moments before popping up in nervous laughter and dissolving back into their cliques.

But by 8:30, enough clumps of girls in strappy tops and boys with puny mustaches have taken the floor, making it safe to start dancing in the anonymity of a great big crowd. They sweat to hip-hop and meringue, even to a few loony tunes like "Hot Hot Hot" and "YMCA."

An hour later the floor clears a clean circle for Eric Rivera and Erikah Combs, your homecoming king and queen - born-again Christians from Logan Square who've been together for two-and-a-half years. A cheer goes up as "Say It" plays and the royals cling to each other out of love or self-consciousness.

What a contrast it is when, in the last half-hour, the hard house beats come on, and dry-fucking becomes a spectator sport. The tamer couples simply grind in each other's arms, eyes focused in the middle distance, butts bucking into pelvises, hands free in the air. But the real show is down on the floor, where girls drop onto their backs and, shielded by circles of furtive friends, boys climb on top, simulating their sexual techniques with the ferocity of jackhammers.

A smell drifts up through the air and ripples the green and gold flags stretched over the crowd, the very same sort of flags that flap over car dealerships.