Class Reunion.

“And, Ma’am, there is still this one.” Monica my lovely Personal Assistant - didn’t we used to call them secretaries? – hands me the envelope again.

I sigh and try to turn away from it but Monica, ever efficient, persistent, and the enemy of loose ends, continues to offer it to me. “It calls for an RSVP.” She points out patiently for the fourth or is it fifth time.

Stifling a groan, I take the envelope. I know what’s inside; an overly calligraphed invitation to attend my twenty-fifth high school reunion.

“Where will I be on that day, Monica.” I ask, hoping that I’ll have a date with the Santiago symphony or maybe a sold-out performance in Sydney. I do love the incomparable acoustics of the opera house. Not made for everyone, but my contralto seems to soar to exquisite heights within that building. My heart sings just seeing the shells. Or maybe I can finagle a benefit in London. Surely there is a royal in need of cultural back-up.

“You end a two-night appearance in Berlin the day before and are scheduled to start rehearsals for Carmen at La Scala the day after the reunion. The night itself is open.” Her voice is proper and not showing any emotion, but I read an undertone of disapproval.

“Would you go to your twenty-fifth high school reunion, Monica?

“Yes, ma’am I would. To see my friends and hear what they have been doing.” She answers without hesitation, nodding emphatically.

“So, you had friends in high school.” It’s merely an observation. No, it’s more than that. It’s envy. Here next to me is a person, lovely in appearance, efficient and capable in her job, not seeking the limelight, apparently taking the utmost pleasure in doing her job well. This person, who fades into the woodwork of my daily life, has friends she looks forward to chatting with.

"Do you keep up with your friends?

“Some, yes. We email, visit if I’m nearby.”

"Where is home for you?” How come I know so little about this person?

“Philadelphia.” She raises her eyebrows and smiles. “It’s where we met.”

“Yes, of course. It is as if you've always been with me. Just promise that you will not forsake me. Not until you have cloned yourself, at least.”

Monica, though amused, is not deterred from her mission. She nods meaningfully to the envelope in my hand.

I stare out the window of my office, one of the rooms in my penthouse apartment on Park Avenue. Many thoughts run under the radar. The fact that it is raining, that I need to be at Carnegie no later than seven, that I still need to get a birthday gift for my niece, the poor girl is turning thirty. But the ones that jet well above my radar are the stirred-up memories from high school.

The sneers - So you think you can sing, he. - who wants to listen to that shit, Madonna you ain’t. – putting on airs, why don’t you – oh, la di da, you know eyetalian – yo kid, four eyes don’t need to apply.

“Did you not have friends in high school, ma’am?

“What?” Monica pulls me from the old voices in my head. “No, no. I didn’t.”

“Why not?” There is such astonishment, disbelief, and incomprehension in those two words.

“Well.” I sigh and bite my lip. “I had my head in music. But at the same time, I knew nothing of popular music, thought Madonna was a religious icon.” I shrug at Monica’s soft huff. “I have studied voice and opera and all that goes with it, the theatrics of acting, the libretti and their languages since I was twelve. No, even before that. I barely had time for regular classes, let alone friends, sports, movies, dances. I lived, breathed, and dreamed opera since I first heard it.”

I smile at the memory of that evening.

My mother took me to see La Traviata when I was nine. I decided that night that’s what I wanted to do. I wanted to sing my heart out on stage. I wanted to do to others what that lady had done to me. I wanted to transport people.”

“And you have.” Monica says. I think, I'd like to think that I hear reverence in her voice.

“Thank you, dear. But vis a vis Madonna?” I scrunch up my face. “Let’s just say I didn’t fit in. There aren’t many teenagers who have heard of, stopped to listen to or appreciate opera. And …” I smile, be it ruefully, “I wore glasses.”

I turn my hands up and shrug my shoulders.

“So?” Monica nods toward the invitation again. “Are you going to let them see the new you?”

“Are you sure you can’t find a charity that needs an aria to raise a few extra euros, a prince or a duke who needs a twelfth to make a dinner party, a film premiere that would be elevated by my presence. You’re saying I have the bloody night free?”

“Yes, ma’am.” Sensing victory, she smiles, her shoulders relax.

“Okay." I hand the envelope back to her. "Now, what else do I need to know?”

Though Monica quickly turns to the tasks for today, my thoughts can’t let go of my memories of the locker room, the hallways, the endless, lonely lunch hours, the hazing, bullying, cold shoulders, and shunning.

Three months later I sit in the safety of a limousine with dark windows while I try to remind myself that I’m not seventeen anymore. That only yesterday I was celebrated as a star, that tomorrow I will play the diva again. That I can get a table in any restaurant at five minutes notice. That I can get anyone, regardless of rank or wealth to pick up their phone and listen to me. That I can and have demanded exorbitant fees for a twenty-minute performance, so I can turn the money over to a charity. I remind myself that I am Sandra London. And scold myself for having hung on to the shy, skinny shadow of a girl who hugged the walls and slipped through the halls of Erasmus Lyceum so many years ago.

“Ma’am?” Graham, my driver is holding the door open, letting the warm night air in. I take a deep breath, hold it for a moment and let it out slowly. When I step out of the limo, I tell myself that tonight I will erase the memories of that girl. Tonight I, Sandra London will put the old me, Sadie Loons, to rest.