Did We Know Each Other?

When I saw his name badge on the high school reunion registration table, fear stabbed my gut the same way it did in ninth grade when he asked me out fifty years ago. Fifty years!

I reached for my name tag, but my sweaty hands touched Mark’s as well.

How can he still compel these feelings? Is this a chance to convey to him what really happened back then, to make amends without an agenda?

***

Destiny ordained being together in high school classes because my last name is Miller, and his is Mills. To my fourteen-year-old eyes, Mark was a dreamboat: handsome, smart, and funny. As a triple threat, he was completely out of my league. But maybe I should add a fourth characteristic, which made him irresistible: humility. He was humble, completely unaware of his Superman- with-Clark-Kent-glasses-on charms.

In 1973, our family had moved to this rural town. I had weathered 8th grade at a new school, but now high school was all new again. As a shy girl, moving and changing schools tortured me, notwithstanding that my parents and brother were all bubbly and outgoing. To them, I was an enigma, out of step, a problem to fix.

In Spanish class, Mr. Boyle had us sit in alphabetic order. So, of course, Mark sat right behind me. He would crack silly jokes about the teacher.

“La cabaza de Señor Boyle es demasiado grande por su sombrero,” he said.

I would laugh and get a nasty look from the teacher. But it was worth it because Mark was paying attention to me.

Moving frequently afforded me the chance to reinvent in a new environment. Somehow, when the Sadie Hawkins Dance came around, I found the nerve to ask Mark to be my date. We were buddies and I could be myself around him. Mark agreed to meet me at the dance, and it thrilled me to attend a social event.

Disaster struck when I learned from an acquaintance that one of my friends, Sheila, used to go with Mark back in Junior High. This third party informed me that going with him to the dance was a no-no. I seemed to break a rule I didn’t know existed.

Since I had few friends, I had a big decision: make a friend mad at me or renege on my date invitation. I ignored the indirect communication and lame rule, and I hoped Sheila would forgive me.

Mark and I met at the party and had a great time. We slow danced to Chicago’s Just You ’n’ Me, and it was impossible not to think of him every time the same played forever more.

After the slow dance, Mark asked me to walk outside with him. I became a mute robot because I didn’t know where we were going. My body shook, and I couldn’t think of a thing to say. I’d never kissed a boy, and it scared me.

Why was I petrified?

The next day, rumors swirled I was a cold fish. As time passed, we evolved to buddy status again, although I wanted more. But I lacked the confidence, courage, and know-how. Thankfully, my friendship with Sheila remained unaffected, probably because she learned what a disaster the date had been.

Fast forward to the summer rafting trip. My best friend backed out, but I went anyway. Mark attended this trip, too, and I hoped we could escalate out of the friendship stage and overcome my fears. A fateful moment arrived.

“We have a spot open on our raft. Would you like to join us?” Mark asked as he ran his fingers through his mussed up hair.

Be cool. Be cool. I suppressed a full-face grin. His raft had all guys, and my heart soared at the invitation, ignoring the butterflies swirling in my stomach.

“Sure. Sounds fun,” I said. I can do this. It’s just like joking around in class, only better.

“Good. I need to help my friend. See you later.” I watched him as they pulled the heavy metal canoes out of the river.

“Heave-ho, Joe-Joe,” Mark said to his pal named Joe, who laughed, then pushed harder. Everyone liked Mark. His friendly, easy-going manner attracted friends like ants to a picnic.

Later that day, I had an unwelcome surprise. Turns out, even if my brain could envision an elevation of Mark from friend-hood to something more, my body would betray me.

Although I had been carrying around a brown paper bag with feminine hygiene supplies for more than a year at my mother’s behest, my body decided to “become a woman” on this fateful trip.

Our forty-something male leader spotted me sitting on a picnic table staring into space as I calculated how I’d manage my new existence.

“You’re missing your best friend, aren’t you?” he asked.

I nodded. I didn’t have the nerve to ask about the availability of public restrooms on this 8-hour excursion in the boondocks. Between risking humiliation and letting Mark down again, I chose the latter, and I found the gumption to approach him.

“Sorry, but I need to stick to the girls’ raft. Sorry,” I said, staring up at him as I felt a drip of sweat cascade from my armpit down my side.

His ever-present smile with dimples transformed into a tight-lipped frown.

“Okay,” he said, and then shrugged his shoulders and walked off.

Eventually, we returned to buddies sort of, after the trip, but our friendship was never the same. Then Dad announced we were moving again.

***

The high school auditorium had the same smells it did years ago, a combination of sweaty socks and varnished floors. Banners, balloons, and streamers in our school colors of cardinal and gold decorated the room. Alumni gathered around tables of their favorite activities and included sports, band, cheerleading, drama, and others. As a swimmer, I gravitated toward the sports table.

My heart quickened its pace when I saw Mark, who was talking to another man. Propelled like a magnet, my body walked toward them as my brain spun with ideas about what to say.

How do I look? Will they recognize older me?

“Hi Susan,” the man said. His name tag said Bill Larson. My mind bounced from one corner of my long-term memory to another. Although I couldn’t remember him precisely, my shoulders relaxed, and I trusted my intuition. Meanwhile, I felt Mark’s eyes boring into me. I turned to give him a quick smile, but needed to respond to Bill.

“Forgive me for looking at your name tag. How nice to see you, Bill. Remind me how we know each other,” I said.

“Mrs. Dodd’s English class. You were her favorite student. She was a tough cookie,” Bill said.

“Ah yes. I loved that class. I doubt I was her favorite, though.”

I’m free to look at Mark now. What will I say?

Mark spoke first. “Susan Miller … hmm. The name is familiar. Did we know each other?”

What?! He doesn’t remember me? My decades of regret were for nothing?

My butterflies flew out of my stomach, replaced by a leaden weight.

Had I left so little an impression all those years ago?

Free from the lingering fear of his resentment, I found my footing. “Yes, Mr. Boyles’ Spanish class. Swim team. The Sadie Hawkins dance. The freshman year rafting trip.”

Mark’s eyes darted from side to side, and I half expected smoke to come out his ears. Meanwhile, Bill found someone else to talk to and meandered away.

“Sorry, I’m not recollecting. Can you help me refresh my memory? I’d love to renew our acquaintance. If you’re free, how ‘bout we get some punch and talk of the old days,” he said.

The wide grin returned, and the dimples emerged. Mark’s face, still tan but fuller, had a distinguished handsomeness now. His full head of brown hair had thinned some. He wore a nice-looking sports jacket and tie, which I admired since I’d spent $200 on my dress.

The crowd grew dense and laughter echoed throughout the room mixed with women screaming as they recognized an old friend.

Before I replied, I wondered if I should let the story end here. He has no recollection of the remorse I carried for decades. If I politely declined his invitation, I can end on a satisfactory note. I glanced at his ring finger. Empty.

My hesitation prompted him to speak again. “I’m being presumptuous. No doubt you came with someone, your husband, perhaps?”

“No, I’m widowed. I’d love to have a drink.”

“Ahh … sorry for that.”

Mark nodded his head and his arm gently touched the small of my back as he led me to the bar. We found a quiet table in the back and regaled each other with tales of the past and caught up to the present. His career in a helping profession, his volunteer work with animals assured me he was still a good guy. Our camaraderie returned, along with the laughter.

It was like old times, but did he remember me? Did it matter?

We talked awhile, then filled our plates with food. The lead ball in my stomach had disappeared, but a few butterflies returned and fluttered around. I ate two bites of dinner and a mouthful of cake.

Mark asked, “How long has your husband been gone?” His blue eyes looked right into mine, and he gently touched my arm.

“Seven years after a brief illness. How about you? Are you married?” I asked.

“Well, I was. After a long marriage, she found someone new. That was five years ago. I’m just now able to be open to a new relationship.” His lips turned up almost imperceptibly.

I looked down at took another sip of my drink.

The disc jokey played all 70s hits, and the dance floor filled with seniors doing the same dance moves they had ages ago.

Then “our” song came on — Chicago’s Just You ’n” Me. My heart pounded with hope.

Mark’s eyebrows jutted up. “Shall we?”

Being held in his arms felt natural. I wanted to press a replay button so the moment would never end. We swayed to the beat and held each other closely.

Mark dipped his head to whisper in my ear. “Of course I remember you.”

My head craned back, and I looked up at him. “You do?”

“Yes. I just didn’t want to be shot down again.”

“About that. I can explain it all. Truly.”

“I’ve had a crush on you forever,” Mark said. “And then you moved away.”

I placed my head on his chest again.

“And this song. It’s our song,” he said.

“I know.”