In the wild subdivisions of Northern Virginia, during the dark, dark days before Netflix, sixth-grade girls at a slumber party had their movies limited to whatever tape Erol’s had in stock and how permissive the party girl’s mom was, usually measured by whether she would let you watch “Dirty Dancing.” When she wouldn’t (like MY mom, who was SO MEAN), the evening’s entertainment was usually “The Breakfast Club,” a story about teenagers who change the world.