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AULD LANG SYNE
I got a few quizzical looks when I
signed in. It’s possible some of the
women working at the registration desk remembered me but I doubted it. Back in high school I’d had lank brown hair,
bad skin and had carried an extra 30 pounds.
I’d spent my four miserable years at Woodrow Wilson
High School being invisible
and dreaming of better times to come.
Better times had come. I looked
good for my age.
I spotted Alicia
Cooper almost at once. Alicia Womack,
now. Everyone had expected her to marry
Tommy Womack ever since they’d been crowned king and queen at our senior
prom. I hadn’t gone to the prom. I wasn’t asked. I’d spent that night sobbing in my bedroom
while my poor mother tried desperately to distract me with vanilla milkshakes. I was inconsolable but I drank two of the
milkshakes anyway. I did things like
that in those days.
I never really
thought I’d come to a reunion but as the years slipped by, the notion of making
an appearance at my 50th began to seem attractive. I’d long ago lost touch with everybody, but
the reunion committee had set up a group on Facebook, so I was able to get all
the information I needed. I sent in my
reservation, made my travel plans, and bought a new dress.
The banquet room at
the Sheraton was decorated with huge black and white photographs blown up from
our senior yearbook. There wasn’t a
picture of me. I’d skipped school the
day pictures were taken.
