Beneath the Moonlight

There’s nothing more intimidating than a horde of sweaty 6’3 men crowding around a single Grade 8 who could be classified, medically, as a midget, and, even though the last horror movie I watched made me cry, this gruesome spectacle did not deter me, a thousand high school athletes, from attending the last two Brentwood Regatta dances.  A confused Cristina T, Hope ’15 ruminated, “I cannot tell if I’m afraid or euphoric,” but continued to wag her finger in perfect time with the Deep House rendition of Call Me Maybe.  Getting down with their funky fresh selves and waltzing like a waitress paying for her tuition (by putting pepper on Caesar and Garden Delight salads at an elite, well-known restaurant), the infectious tunes spread through the campus quicker than last week’s bout of common colds. The heavy bass bumped wherever one ventured during Friday and Saturday night, even across the highway, within the McDonalds, families huddled around their nuggets and fries, petrified, as the relentless shaking did not cease, contemplating their existence, was there ever a God?  No way could more exuberant, exhausted dancers conglomerate in one plaza at once over the noise of the blaring Take Me To Church (not your typical hymn, although it seems evident that these youngsters need some deity in their lives) as students could only hear the beating of their hummingbird hearts and the rupturing of their eardrums.  “They sure spun some sick BEATs,” said Jordan S, Whittall ‘15.  In all honesty, the musical stylings of Evan S, Whittall ’15, Lane HL, Ellis ’15, and fellow students provoked a grand atmosphere for the night of harmless fun. Kimmi G, Article & Photo