Squirm

I could be drinking punch, I think to myself. And I almost want to. It wouldn’t be as sweet as it had been, because now I suspect they would invite us to drink alcohol. A way to ease the tensions and loosen tongues. But I have a flask of whiskey now that serves me better. I’ve put the parking break on — something I normally refuse out of principle, to irritate my boyfriend — but it seemed appropriate up in our own school’s version of look-out point. I like irritating him, although he was the one who forced me out of the house because he said he liked to see me squirm a little.

I spent more of my high school years here, if memory is anything to go on. I can remember a string of boys, a few girls, who I came here with. Rarely to go all the way, but once or twice I’ll admit I did. It’s odd to be here alone, radio blasting radio pop hits. But the view — the thicket of tree trunks and bushes — feels more inviting than the aging faces of my former classmates.

Because who do I want to see? My old friends? The ones I remember fondly don’t stay in touch, and I doubt I’d be delicate enough not to ask why. The others I don’t want to answer the same question. The class president? I remember her as in a bubble. She was suspended in time for me as a paragon of punctuality and ambition. Always something to accomplish. If anything I’ve become less ambitious as time went on. I’m not sure if it’d be worse to see her more or less driven now, ten years down the line.

No, there’s no one I wish to see. Not even the teachers. The ones who remain I almost pity, as if they’re stuck in a time loop. Same class, new students. I’m impressed with their conviction, at least.

But I couldn’t stay home tonight. Leo had been pestering me to try and go — he went to his, after all, and was pleasantly relieved by the experience. And we’re at that terrifying point where we want to impress each other again and show we listen.

So here I am, the liar, parked down the dirt road in the woods, pretending I’m not still at my high school reunion, even if only in my head.

Perhaps the whiskey is getting to me.

My phone rings. I think I know it’s someone checking up on me, so I answer it quickly.

“Hello?”

“Angie! Good luck tonight!” It’s my mother, which I had not expected.

“It’s already started mom,” I lie easily, letting out a breath. I’ve always found it easy to lie to her.

“Am I interrupting? Oh, I must be, I hear the music. They are playing it loud, aren’t they?”

“Oh yeah,” I say, leaning into the speaker. “I’m actually near the stage. I can hardly hear you. But I can go outside?”

“No, no, enjoy! I just wanted to wish you a fun evening. You were always a popular girl, you know.”

“Hm,” I say. I don’t think I was, but a mother’s perspective is always skewed. “Okay, well my drink is empty, so I’m going to hang up and get more punch.”

“Don’t have too much. I love you, sweetie.”

“Uh-huh.” I quickly hang up. I toss the phone onto the passenger’s seat and adjust my own seat back. With another thought, I turn up the radio to a slightly painful degree. Standing by the speaker indeed.

It’s another ten minutes of my circular thoughts until the phone rings. I snatch it up and answer.

“Hello?” I say, trying to sound distracted.

“Angie!”

“…May?” Also unexpected. I’m thrown for a real loop now.

“Have you not changed your number in ten years?”

“Did you keep my number for ten years?” I return. “Wait. You went to the reunion?”

“I did. I read my cards and they said I should. OH! You don’t know that I read cards now!”

I don’t, but that isn’t a surprising fact to learn. May was always flighty. A fun friend, but unreliable. It’s odd to hear her voice. But not bad.

“What are you calling me for after all these years?”

“Well, I got the invite for the reunion, and thought, well, I wouldn’t go. But then, it occurred to me, I should let the cards tell me. And they clearly pointed in the direction of my coming, so I thought, well, why would they do that? The only person I’d want to see would be you, and I wasn’t sure you’d come. So I thought you’d be here, but you’re not!”

“I just stepped out for a smoke,” I say.

“You don’t smoke, you have asthma. You vowed to never smoke, because you have asthma.”

“I changed.”

“Did you?”

I pause for a very long time. I haven’t changed, and it’s very disconcerting to be called out so well.

“I stepped out to drink something better than lightly doused punch.”

“That I would believe,” May says, laughing. “But I still think you’re lying. You should come! You can still come.”

“I’ll think about it.” I say, and quickly hang up. He still hasn’t called, and I’m beginning to wonder why. I thought he’d check up on me sooner.

And I’m beginning to think I should’ve gone like I said I was going to. After another twenty minutes of pop hits blasting I turn down the music and pull off the break. Fine. I’ll go. But I won’t like it.

*****

As I’m driving down the highway, approaching the school, my phone rings. I check it on my car’s readout this time and smile. So he does care. I click the button to connect the call through the car speakers.

“Yes? What? I’m enjoying my evening.”

“You didn’t go,” Leo states, sounding a little miffed.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about. I’m shuffling feet with all us oldies.”

“It’s a ten year high school reunion; none of you are old. And you didn’t go, because you’re you, and I should have known.”

“Okay, okay, but in my defense, I am going now, so checkmate to your cynicism.”

“It’s not my cynicism I’m worried about,” he says. He sounds nervous.

“If you’re worried about it, break up with me,” I say, our age old game. He laughs.

“You can’t get rid of me so easily.” It’s true, and I smile as I turn into the old parking lot.

“Well, I can get rid of you this easily,” I say, as I hang up on him. I pick up my phone, pocket my half-filled flask, and exit the car. The building looks smaller and bigger than before, somehow. I’m doubting myself, but I’ve come this far and I’m not one for cowardice. So I head inside.

*****

It looks like prom, but somehow worse. I don’t know what the theme was meant to be, but the crepe paper is drooping sadly and the thin cardboard stars on the walls are hanging on for dear life. Like we are. Oh god, I made a mistake.

“There you are!” I hear and soon I’m drawn into a hug by a very short, very affectionate woman. It’s May, and I let out an exasperated, but ultimately contented, sigh.

“I had to empty my flask,” I say, and she laughs. I look around for a drink and realize there’s a fully stocked bar table in the corner. No punch.

Huh.

“Come on,” May says, grabbing my hand and pulling me further into the room. It’s more crowded than I expected. As I approach the center of the room I begin to notice people turning to look at me and whispering. Oh no. What is it? Am I drunker than I thought? Was I the high school joke and never realized? Am I trailing toilet paper?

When we reach the center of the floor, the song quiets and the lights adjust — dim all around the room except the one centered on me and May. And then May abandons me, grinning like a Cheshire cat. I’m alone at my reunion, like I knew I’d be.

He appears quietly from the crowd, squeezing between shoulders like the meek boy he is, unable to tell people to get out of the way. I adore and hate that quality in him. It’s everything I’m not. But he’s smiling the whole time, and he clearly dressed up for the occasion. He tried harder than I did, which is also par for the course.

“Angie,” Leo says, looking me dead in the eye. “You remind me every day of all my weaknesses, just to show me how strong I can be. So I chose today, on a day when you were thinking of your own shortcomings, to remind you how powerful you are.” And I only realize as he gets down on his knee what is happening.

He couldn’t possibly.

“This isn’t funny, Leo.”

“You complete me. You complete my life. And,” he says, pausing. He takes out a small box. “I want you to be my wife.” He says it quickly, like he might expire before he gets it out, but he opens the box and the ring inside has a modest sparkle to it that is really quite appealing. The crowd is silent around me and I’m shocked.

“How long have you planned this?” I ask.

“I asked the school six months ago if I could,” he says. It explains a lot.

“You didn’t have to wait six months,” I criticize, because it’s what I do. He smiles anyway, waiting. Everyone is waiting, and I’m nauseated. It’s all so saccharine and embarrassing.

“If I say yes will you stand up?” He nods, laughing at me. “Fine. Yes, I’ll marry you.”

The crowd expectedly cheers, and there’s suddenly champagne, but I don’t really care. I’m waiting for a moment with my fiancé, which comes twenty five minutes later, privately, by the speakers.

“You know you didn’t have to do it this way,” I yell over the music. “I would’ve said yes months ago.”

“I know,” he says. “I just like the rare chance I get to make you squirm.”