It's the personal significance. See, this song had the potential to secure me a spot in the 1987 Jefferson Elementary School Talent Show. And we all know how sure 'potential' is.

Sarah, Tara, and I were a pretty tight little trio throughout most of grade school. We were in Jumprope Club and Campfire together; we shopped for spandex, tie-dye, and shellacked pretzel earrings together; we made candy runs on banana-seated bikes together; we discovered and ate Choco-Bliss snack cakes together; we went to McCollum Pool and splashed boys together. You know, about what you'd expect from a group of fourth-grade girls. Tight as we were, when one of us got the bright idea to showcase our talent, the other two went along with it. Naturally.

Of course, there was the problem of talent. What was ours? What did we possess as a group that would awe 'em, that would make their spiral perms go boing, their side-spikes quiver? We didn't yet play an instrument (the recorder doesn't count), so that was out. We didn't fool ourselves into thinking we had anything other than shower-singing voices – we certainly couldn't hold a candle to Kelly Reese, Jefferson's standout songster whose performance, years later, of "Wind Beneath My Wings" stunned Eisenhower Middle School students and their parents alike. So we couldn't sing, nor could we claim the ability to juggle, unicycle, perform gymnastics, or anything else that might set us apart from the other kids. Sarah and I might've brought our trademark jumprope routine to the stage, the one that had us jumping jointly over ropes twirled in eggbeater format (opposite of a doubledutch rotation, and with one rope swinging higher than the other), and on top of that, twirling our own individual ropes within. But we must've decided that one was tired. Oh, and it wouldn't have involved Tara.

Hours of brainstorming later, we had our act: We would dance. And not ballet or tap or anything as fancy as that. There was no name for what we were about to attempt, a form of dance we'd pair with an inspired lipsync. To Debbie Gibson. Sadly, this put Tara out of the running for good, intent as she was on going with Paula Abdul or Pebbles, or maybe Jody Watley. Sarah and I would have none of that, and although I probably pushed for Tiffany, we reached an eventual compromise with the woman responsible for those ridiculous black hats (a trend to which, as I like to boast, I never stooped). I can't remember how our rehearsals went, but I’ve gotta think – hope – that they were a step up from the actual tryout. Because man was that tryout a flop. Come to think of it, that may have been the first time in my life I'd experienced true mortification. Yes, I think so.

We make our way to the front of Ms. French's well-kept classroom, both of us red and wilting, and at the opening notes, we freeze.

Every time I’m telling secrets/ I remember how it used to be

I halfway-recover, falling into our practiced move (yes, there is only one), which consists of stepping from side to side – right-left, right-left – and pumping our fists in a vaguely circular motion.

And I realized how much I miss you/ And I realize how it feels to be free

Sarah falters a good deal more than I, unable to maintain the move for longer than a few seconds at a time. In Gibson-speak, she’s not ‘feeling the free.’ She also allows herself to be overtaken by fits of nervous laughter, which I'm afraid doesn’t dignify us in the eyes of our peers.

No, no, no, no, only in my dreams/ As real as it may seem/ It was only in my dreams

Oh, it seems real alright. It couldn’t possibly seem more real, in fact, and unlike Ms. Debbie’s quaint imaginings, this here, this thing we’re doing, is actual. It ain’t no dream; it’s dead-on real.

The worst part has got to be the song's interlude, when our crooner breaks from singing to let the music take over. Sarah completely shuts down here. As she shrinks into the background, oversized hoop earrings and all, I take the bullets all on my own, punching at the air dispiritedly in between bouts of paralysis triggered by the snickering taking place in the back of the room. Where the cool kids sit.

No, no, no, no, no

As if Debbie herself is protesting the mockery two gawky nine year olds are making of her dance-pop masterpiece.

Then, because any credibility I have with the illustrious ‘in’ crowd is surely snuffed beyond repair, I allow myself to stray. Pregnant with someone else’s bravado, I lower my arms, elbows veering left, fingers snapping, and complete a full twirl. What guts! A whole three seconds’ worth. Facing my peers once again, warm-faced and apologetic, I quickly lower my gaze, eyes fixing on my glittery pink jelly shoes, the worn laminate flooring for the duration of the number. Sarah hasn’t moved since verse one.

Ms. French, from her teacher’s desk to our right, hits the stop button on the boom box – a note prematurely. She looks relieved.

Later that day, the class vote us out of the running (had they not, we would've advanced to the second of three tryout rounds), for which I am unequivocally indebted to them. In weeks to come, I will enjoy logic-defying attention from Ryan Ross, the third most popular boy at Jefferson Elementary, at the school square dance, an event held annually at the local mall. Adding to the mystique, he’d seen the tryout.

It's funny, I don't even remember the lipsyncing part. I'm sure we managed for at least a little while, but all that comes to mind is that horrible, horrible dance routine. Still, to this day, that awkward display of “talent” is probably the boldest action I’ve performed. I mean come on, leading project meetings at work? Yawn. Reading my short story aloud to a roomful of talented writer-types? Stressful yet manageable. Training for a marathon? Physically and mentally strenuous, but a mostly private experience at least. Getting my fourth-grade groove on before an audience of half-formed adults for whom silent pity had yet to replace shameless and vocal distaste, an audience that included the most popular girl and boy in school (who were, as a matter of course, ‘going out’)? Incomprehensibly nervy.

Yet I did it. I really, truly did it. And it’s possible that this considerable act of courage, however unseemly the result, built a little character, and in some small way groomed me into a relatively cool-headed public speaker. Hell, these days I even get down from time to time – in front of people, and with not one but several moves in my cache. Full disclosure: I’m talking crowded dance clubs here, and there are generally alcoholic beverages involved, but it feels like progress all the same.

And rest assured, I’m not only dreaming.