Sleek black and white limos pulled up to the doors of the resplendent hotel, opening to reveal the myriad of vibrant colors, sparkles, and glitter that poured out in an excited blur of dresses and tuxedos. As they passed through the hissing automatic doors and ascended the carpeted staircase, they found themselves surrounded by a whirlwind of camera flashes and shutter snaps.

“Look over here! Look over here!” The war cry of dozens of volunteer “paparazzi” rang out as students and their dates chattered nervously and turned their faces away. As make-believe stars and starlets, waiting to enter “A Classic Hollywood Prom,” the gowned and tuxed guests were just a bit camera shy.

The carpet of the Marriott in downtown San Jose was not quite red, but a rainbow of dresses, jewels, five-inch heels, ’dos, pinned-on flowers, corsages and sparkling smiles brought the glamour factor to the space. Girls rushed at each other, squealing “Oh my God, I love your dress,” while their dates exchanged half-nods and kept their hands in their suit pockets.

First, the spectacle consisted of this sardine-packed mass of formalized students, milling about in the corridor outside the ballroom and seeking out friends in the crowd. Some queued to take formal pictures against a backdrop. The conflict over where to place hands (shoulder? waist?) played out amusingly.

Some clutched their casino cash cards and quickly exchanged them for bright chips at a dealer’s table: “Hit…hit…blackjack!” Chips turned into raffle tickets, which turned into hopes, which turned into prizes for a few. The classic Sinatra tune of “luck be a lady tonight” would have been fitting.

At a certain point, the mass began gravitating inside the ballroom towards the pulsating remixes and slowly growing snowball of dancers on the floor. Fried beignets, Coldstone-style ice cream, and root beer float stations stood at the perimeters, ready to assist in creating a dance-all-night sugar rush.

Dance, dance, dance was the name of the game for most. However, students were scattered around tables both in the ballroom and the corridor, chatting with their dates and friends and people-watching. Shimmering stilettos came off over the course of the night, as did stifling suit jackets. “We’re having our own kind of fun,” said a small group of students holding books.

Slow sway-inducing songs interrupted the upbeat techno-pop mixes, and the last song–“Don’t Stop Believing” by Journey, chosen by the senior class–was also remixed to a faster beat.

Bright lights turned on in the darkened room at midnight gave rise to groans and squinting faces, make-up slightly mussed. The exodus of students to post-prom activities began, part with more proms to look forward to and a part knowing they would never repeat the experience.