Rachel Stone Features Editor Sometimes, an explanation can never really describe a moment. No matter how much you focus your linguistic camera, the transience of a memory made will always be a little blurred. Or, the description will just sound stupid the next day. Whatever your interpretation, Latin’s homecoming was one of those moments.   As many (read: all) of you know, at about 8:30 that Saturday, there was a mass exodus from the dance floor. Chalk it up to the 8-minute cha cha slide, the succession of power ballads, or simply the sheer un-coolness of an event that promised to be a tad classier than years past. I get it.   For the ten minutes while the rate of students leaving could have been measured on an exponential graph, I would be lying if I didn’t say it felt a bit like a car crash. I couldn’t leave. I couldn’t walk away.  No dance had ever actually stopped…but if it did, I wanted to witness it. So I stayed.   And yet, like some Cinderella story spat backwards out of a time machine, the party transformed. No longer was it a sad, discarded pumpkin, but a true ball. I wasn’t quite sure how it happened, and I don’t think I understand it now either.   Somehow, though the people had left, the party remained…at least, for us 15 students who decided to get their 10 dollars worth. Something magical happened between the hours of 8:45 and 10:00, and though that something might now seem superfluously clichéd, it wasn’t. Someone (it might have been Samantha Cohen) decided that, if we were going to stay anyways, we might as well enjoy it. And that is just what happened. Seniors blended into Freshmen into Sophomores into strobe lights and glowsticks and synthesizers and dance. We danced Thriller, we danced with faculty and alumni and (I’m pretty sure) Mabel Slade Vickery herself. Someone had the wonderful idea to request the DJ to play salsa, and the floor was transformed in a frenzy of clapping and swirling and skirts billowing out to their full potential, unhindered by walls of sweating, standing students. We were the 300 soldiers at the Battle of Thermopylae. We knew all the lyrics to Party in the U.S.A, and we were not ashamed. We were united, we were sentimental, and we brandished air guitars.   So, if you are reading this, and you have absolutely no idea what I am talking about (and are thinking to yourself that maybe I have read a little bit too much Keats or listened to too many Seniors talk about their retreat), you were definitely not in the gym when the class system of high school as we know it was shattered into a million reverberations.   We were the last ones standing, and that was fine by us.