Spin the Bottle

The invitation came in the mail on a Monday. The weather was grey and dreary, like it always is in Seattle. I had what would you call the Monday blues and the invitation definitely didn't help.

You would think that since we're in the 21st century with computers, instant messaging apps, and Facebook that they would have saved some printing and postage on the invitation. To be honest, I would have preferred to decline through an e-invite or, even better, have the option to click "Not Interested" on a Facebook event. Instead I have to settle for a paper cut and the super cliché I-never-got-it approach if ever asked. 

Opening the envelope transported back me to the first time I received an invitation. Conveniently, it was also the last time I was formally invited anywhere, by anyone, until today.

Back in 2006, I hid the invitation under my mattress for over three weeks. No way was I going to Kathy Zimmerman’s co-ed birthday party. I had my reasons:

1. There would be either a clown or a moon bounce or worse, BOTH. Clowns are murders; moon bounces can deflate and suffocate me, so they are also murders.

2. There will be girls there and they will expect me to talk to them.

3. I will have to bring a gift and my mom doesn't have that kind of money just laying around. 

4. There will be a piñata with chocolate candy, and a full sheet double chocolate cake, AND a chocolate fondue fountain. It’s not that I’m allergic to chocolate, I just don’t like it.

5. I won’t be able to bring my one true friend - Hippy the Rhino.

Of course, Mrs. Zimmerman ends up calling my mom a few days before the partying asking if we received the invitation and “Kathy would just love to have Chris there!!” I lie to my mom, saying it never came. She thinks something is up, but doesn’t question it. Instead, she drives me to the Barnes & Nobles, hands me $20, and tells me to pick out a book for Kathy. I ask if I can pick one out for me. Answer: no.

The party was horrible. My classmates made fun of me because my present to Kathy was a book and not a cool toy or, God-forbid, a gift card. The cake was chocolate, as I predicted. There wasn’t a clown or a moon bounce but there was spin the bottle. 

I was twelve, but I knew the concept of spin the bottle. My way older brother once told me he kissed a girl for 13 minutes in a closet at a birthday party the year prior. 

When it was my turn, I prayed that the bottle wouldn’t land on a girl. But I didn’t know what would happen if it landed on a boy. Sure enough, the spin lands on Brian Lawson, a cute kid that I’ve gone to school with since kindergarten. Kathy, jumped up and exclaimed, “Spin again Christopher.” 

I don’t even remember her name, the girl in the closet with me. But I gave her $5 (The left over cash from Barnes & Nobles that my mom never asked for back.) if we could “just pretend”. She didn’t know what I meant. It meant that I was never coming out of the closet, literally and figuratively.

My phone vibrates in my pocket, bringing me back to today's invitation. I put the invitation down and check the incoming text message: Mexican for dinner?

Kate is my best friend and my roommate. She knows about my sexuality and doesn't have any problems with it. You'd think with her friendship and support, I'd be able to come out to my classmates, kids I grew up with, but it's not that simple for me.

I always felt that I never fit in. From the first day elementary school until high school graduation. In fact, I intentionally stumbled through AP Chemistry the last two months of senior year so I wouldn't be valedictorian. No way I was going to stand up in front of my classmates and deliver a heart-felt speech about following your destined path while not forgetting your roots. I wanted to forget my roots.

I never was concerned that they knew. No ever called me names or pushed me into a locker because I didn't kiss the girl in the closet. If anyone knew I was gay, they never told. School still felt all wrong though, like I was living in a third dimension, walking around in a body that wasn't mine simply because what I felt, what I believed in wasn't the norm.

Things didn't change until junior year at NC State. (Yup, I went to school all the way on the East Coast.) That's when I met Kate at a soccer game. She was a freshman but had the sophistication and maturity of someone much older than me. 

I ended up telling her almost immediately. It was in the student center one night, over Howling Cow ice cream. I really don't know what made me; after all, I didn't know much about her at the time, other than she was:

1. from Portland, Oregon 

2. majoring in engineering 

3. ambitious on trying out for the women's soccer team as a walk-on

4. just a really awesome person 

Kate would be disappointed in me for choosing to ignore this invitation. Knowing her, she would offer to go as my date, claim she's my girlfriend, and even volunteer that it was love at first sight over some melting ice cream cones. 

But I just can't bring myself to go to my high school reunion. I have no good memories, no remaining friends. I never went to any homecomings or proms, simply because they weren't my cup of tea. No one missed me then, so no one will miss me now. 

With that, I took the invitation and did what I should have done with Kathy Zimmerman’s invitation: threw it the trash. For soothing comfort, I opened up the fridge and took out the left over Mexican food from way too long ago and tossed that in the trash as well. I grabbed my phone sending a reply to Kate: how about pizza instead?

●●●

Six months and three days later, I was a few miles away from our apartment cheering on Kate as she was making her debut with the OL Reign of the National Women's Soccer League. Not only did she make the NC State soccer team as a freshman walk-on, she was a star. Winning games and conference tournaments, accolades and trophies. She received much interest from professional teams, even ones outside the United States, but she ultimately decided to return a little closer to home, as her parents, younger sister, and plethora of high school friends were all still there. (The drive from Seattle to Portland is only three hours.)

Sometime during the second half, I glanced at my phone, forgetting I had silenced it for the game. There was a text message from a 953 area code: Hey Chris it's Brian Lawson. Missed you at the reunion. Maybe we can catch up sometime?