SOME years ago I was asked to be the photographer at a matric farewell.
The theme was Venice, Italy.
I arrived well before the start of the grand event so to set up the borrowed tripod and take some practice shots.
I actually had no clue what I was doing, but because you’re a journalist and own a fairly decent camera, people assume you are an expert lensman with solid National Geographic-like skills…
Anyway, long before the first couples where due to arrive, one girl sort of skulked through a side door, past the fake gondola, and sat down at a table for 10.
That left space for only eight more people because she was a big girl.
The unpopular one
She was wrapped in pink chiffon. A lot of it!
With frills in strategic places to hide what McDonalds gave her.
I read her like a book, like she had a piece of cardboard stapled to her back with her life story on it.
She’s the most unpopular girl in matric and had been since Grade 6, because that’s about when kids start getting really nasty to the odd ones.
She’s unpopular because she’s so large and had as much luck in finding a date for the matric farewell as being successful in her attempt at hiding her body underneath five metres of pink chiffon.
That’s why she arrived early.
She didn’t want the others to see that she’s alone, but still felt it was such a very special occasion and wanted to be part of it.
I truly felt sorry for her as she sat there looking all awkward, a large pink island in a sea of empty chairs and tables.
Being ignored
Her dress must have cost a fortune and pink probably her favourite colour, but that was her second mistake – the first being to leave the safety of her home.
She should’ve gone for something plain and cheap.
Something solid black or the darkest of blues, and without batty bits sewn on to it.
A nondescript wholesale dress would have made her less obvious.
Instead the pink chiffon gave off a glow that if I didn’t see it with my own eyes, I wouldn’t have thought it possible that she could appear even larger.
I wondered why someone didn’t help her right, but how do parents tell their daughter she looks like the Taj Mahal at sunset?
As the smartly dressed couples started to arrive I watched how they walked past her to the other tables.
Seating reflected the outcome of a 13-year popularity contest, and there were groups within groups.
After everyone was seated, the Pink Lady of Venice was still alone at her table.
As I saw her sitting there, by herself, clutching her pink purse for comfort. I realised how cruel people actually are.
Does it hurt?
After the headmaster’s standard ‘you are now at the dawn of adulthood’ and ‘I know you will all make a success of your lives’ twaddle, and after half-baked potatoes and dry pork chops were arranged to look like leftovers, it was time to dance.
The headboy and headgirl opened the dance floor with a few carefully rehearsed Strictly Come Dancing moves, and soon afterwards the rest got up and joined them.
All except the only girl in pink.
She just sat there looking at her classmates celebrating the end of school and new beginnings.
Even when all the couples split up and the dance floor became a mass of zombies having epileptic fits, she stayed put.
I think she didn’t trust the pink chiffon to hold under what would’ve been extreme conditions, or that the pink heels might give way, causing her bulk to collapse and hurt someone.
Does she feel hurt inside, or is she used to it by now?
That was what I contemplated when I drove home.
And will she ever want to visit the real Venice, in Italy, or will she hate it because of a pink disaster in a tacky hall between the sugarcane?
I hoped she was strong enough…
