Class Reunion

As I shut the car door on my 2017 Lexus, I gaze at my high school. Twenty years. I can’t believe it has been twenty years since I graduated, and here I am. I stand there by my car, my right hand still on my car door and just take it in for a moment. How much have I changed? You always think ‘I’ll probably be mostly the same person in the next ten years.’ But as you look back in your life, in ten-year increments, how different we truly are. From 38 to 28 and then from 28 to 18, I’m a completely different person. In the last decade I started my own business, made ’40 under 40,’ and was married and divorced. Ten years before that, I graduated from the University of Texas (Hook’em Horns) summa cum laude, lost my dad suddenly to a heart attack and learned the true meaning of loss, and got my MBA. I’m proud of the person I’ve become. On that note, I start to walk towards the gymnasium only to realize as I step forward on my second step that my dress was shut in the door as I’m pulled backwards. I giggle to myself and think that maybe that nerdy girl from Student Counsel who couldn’t catch a break hasn’t changed that much. A quick look around to see if anyone noticed, opening of the door to release me and assess my skirt damage, and off I go.

       I always told myself that I wouldn’t come to these things. They are always such an awkward experience for me. Everyone bragging about themselves, showing off their families and kids, and here I am—solo and childless. I skipped my ten-year reunion for this exact reason. I head in the open double doors to hear some 90s grunge music playing in the background and take a glance around. Everyone is already paired or grouped up and I’m having trouble recognizing anyone I would know. I take a few steps to my right where there is a long six-foot table normally used for lunch covered with a blue fabric with scattered name tags and a couple handfuls of permanent markers. I grab a blank tag and carefully write out my name large and legible: ASHTON. I always hated my handwriting. 

       “Ashton?” a female voice asks, just audible enough over some one-hit wonder. I turn around to see who it is. 

       “Carrie?” I say after a brief pause, squinting to see if the name on her tag matches my preconceived notions.

       “Yes! Oh my God! How are you?” she asks while prancing towards me.

       “I’m good, I’m good. How about you?” Carrie was one of my better friends in high school. She was the Secretary of Student Counsel, while I was the Vice President, so we spent a lot of time together planning things and had most of the same classes together since we were both on the honors track: Pre-AP Chemistry, AP English, Calculus. I was done with my first semester of college before even graduating high school. God, I was such an over achiever.

       “Doing great. I missed you at the ten-year reunion,” she enthusiastically rubs my forearm.

       “Yeah, I was going through a lot. But I’m here now.” I start thinking about my father who passed away a few months before that. Wait, am I getting emotional? “So what are you up to nowadays?” I ask trying to change the subject.

       “Oh, working at Wiesel, Smith and Lockhart,” she said with a grin.

       “The civil litigation law firm? Impressive,” I say with a playful jab on her shoulder.

       “Yep. Made partner a few years back. It’s been good. I basically run their bankruptcy division. Boring numbers stuff, I know, but I like it. How about you?” I knew she wasn’t lying about liking it. When she was in Calculus, she loved the hard problems. She would always take every test she got back and set up a tutorial to go over exactly where she went wrong with the teacher. Most of the time, the tutorial would be over in five minutes. Then, she would try to bargain to get some of her points back. Even in high school, she was destined to be a litigator.

       “Well, I started my own business a couple years ago. I own a PR firm out in New York,” I say, while checking my name tag to ensure it hasn’t started peeling off my jacket already and giving if a friendly pat to make sure it sticks.

       “Wow, look at you, smarty pants. Any fancy clients out there?” she asks while raising her right eyebrow in a suggestive manner.

       “Only the fanciest,” I reply with a succession of quick eyebrow raises and pretending to drink a small teacup with a fully extended pinky finger. We both laugh, Carrie with her signature high-pitched hyena giggle. Me, trying to cover my mouth with a flat palm. 

       “So, are you here with anyone? Family?” Carrie inquires.

       “Nah, rolling solo. I was married a while back but got divorced last year. No kids.”

       Carrie pauses for a half-second, seeming to regret the question, but then quickly replies, “Busy woman like you? Who has the time, am I right?” 

       “What about you?” I volley the question back.

       “Married. Two kids; nine and five, boy and girl. Hit the genetic gender lottery, so stopped after that,” she responds in a sterile manner, as to not show too much braggadocio.

       “Oh, are they here?” I inquire.

     “God, no. Husband and I have opposite schedules. He’s an ER nurse, and I wasn’t brining my two kiddos to this. I mean, I love them to death, but even Momma needs a break now and again. Mother-in-Law is watching them,” she says, and then takes a sip from her plastic half cup with what I assume is some cheap red table wine.

       “I don’t doubt that,” as I nod in agreement. “Hey, I’m going to grab a drink. Where’d you get that?”

       “Absolutely, how rude of me to bombard you as soon as you walk in. Here, it’s over here; I’ll show you,” she says while motioning over towards the folded-up bleachers on the back wall.

       As we walk over to the table with the alcohol I notice him in a huddle of about four people. Michael Derry. Ugh, what a jackass. He was the running back of our high school and beat me out for President of Student Counsel our senior year, bumping me to Vice President. He always skated by on his wavy, thick hairline with a slight widow’s peak, blue eyes, and perfectly straight teeth thanks to his dad being an orthodontist. He was just so privileged and had it so easy. I heard his dad spent $2,000 at Kinkos printing the hundreds of signs that were plastered on every wall when he was running against me. ‘Vote for Derry or the results will be SCARY!’ Kitschy stuff like that. Plus, he would always steamroll me in every meeting when I came up with a good idea, slightly tweak it, and pretend it was his idea – getting all the credit for my hard work. And when it came time to, say, decorate the gym for our school dance, paint signs for the pep rallies—guess who showed up an hour late or had a game and couldn’t help at all? Michael Freaking Derry.

       “Is that Michael Derry?” I ask, knowing the answer.

       “Where?” She says looking around and then locking in. “Huh, it sure is. Damn, has he even aged? Every other guy is half-bald,” she says while pausing for another sip of wine. “You think half-bald is an oxymoron?”

       “I don’t know, but he sure was a moron in high school,” I quip back. Carrie nearly spits her wine back into her cup and starts giggling. 

       “Yeah, he was such a douche. Didn’t he throw gum in your hair once?” Carrie asks.

       “Twice. In Pre-AP English. At least I think so. He always denied it, but it was only him and Jessica Tawny behind me, and she would never throw gum in my hair,” I say, while squinting my eyes in a scowl towards him.

       “Wouldn’t it be funny if you went over there and put gum in his hair?” Carrie jokes.

       “Yeah,” I say back with a chuckle. Then I thought about it. “Actually, that’s a good idea.”

       “You’re kidding, right? That’s a dumb idea.”

       “No, think about it. I say, ‘Hey, do you have any gum?’ Then chew it for a few seconds and plop it right in his hair.” I look at Carrie for her to talk me out of it.

       “Oh, screw it. Go for it,” Carrie encourages me.

       I wait for my time to get him isolated, for him to get a refill or the group to disperse. He shakes hands with one of the other guys, takes the last swig of his Lite Beer and starts to walk towards me. Should I even do this? It’s so juvenile, but so was he. He made my high school life so frustrating. But should I sink to his prepubescent level? He probably won’t even recognize me. Alright, he’s getting close. I brush my hair in front of my nametag. Carrie takes a step back to give me the floor.

       “Hi . . . Michael, right?” I say while brushing my hair to make sure it stays in front of my nametag. “Michael Derry?”

       “Yeah, that’s me,” he responds while looking at my eyes, then down to try to see if he can see my nametag, then back to my eyes. “And you are?”

       “Melissa.” Is that a generic enough white girl name? “Melissa . . . Porter.”

       “Hmm,” he says while putting his hand on his chin while tapping his index finger on his mouth. “No.” Busted. “No, you are . . . hold on . . . Ashton. Ashton . . . .”

       “Ashberry. Yep, you got me,” I say while starting to feel flush. Abort mission. Abort mission.

       “Ah ha! Miss Vice Presidenté,” he says with a Hispanic flare at the end.

       “Yep,” I sheepishly respond. “That’s me.”

       “How have you been!? You look great!” he enthusiastically responds, with far more gusto that I expected.

       “I’ve been good, been good.” Why do I always say that twice? “How about you?”

       “Oh, you know, living the dream,” he says with a huge smile, showing off his dad’s hard work. “So, what are you up to? Running a small part of the world yet?” he asks with a smirk.

       “Something like that. I have a PR firm.” Knowing his propensity for skating by there is probably nothing he is doing that is an impressive as I am. And he set this question on a tee for me to just hit right back. “What about you? Not still working at that sporting goods store, are you?”

       He laughs, “Ha ha, God no. I’m Vice President of Business Marketing for the Dallas Cowboys.” Welp, I was wrong. That is way cooler. “But it’s not near as impressive as starting something from scratch like your own PR firm. That’s super impressive. But that doesn’t come as much a surprise. You always impressed in high school.” 

Now he’s just being nice to me. “Well, it’s no Dallas Cowboys,” I say while quickly gulping down some white wine. New mission: die from embarrassment and drown in wine.

       “No, I’m serious. I was always being pulled in every direction back then. Game here, class there, two-a-day practices, student counsel . . .”

       “Wait, you were on student counsel?” I quip. “Funny, I don’t remember you coming to all those meetings.

       “Ha ha, good burn. It’s true, I was a crappy President. Truth be told, my dad made me run. Said it would be good on the college application. But I’m glad I had you as my VP. You definitely saved my tail a few times,” he says, extending his hand on my shoulder and gives me a quick wink.

       “Few? More like a hundred,” I retort, trying to score as many points against my arch rival as possible.

       “Ouch,” he says while grasping his chest. “No, I agree. Hundred sounds about right.” He pauses and looks around. “I’m going to grab another beer, want to come with? Seems you’re running low on that wine.” He holds out his arm in a ninety degree angle and motions his head as to escort me. “Ready?”

       I pause to consider what is happening. Why is he being so nice? Is he chewing gum? I loop my arm through his arm and allow me to be escorted to the drink table. As I walk there, I look at Carrie who, understandably, has a look of utter confusion on her face. I slightly shrug my shoulder and mouth the words ‘I don’t know’ back at her. She just starts to giggle and walk off, her high-pitched hyena trailing a different direction.

       “So, married?” he asks.

       “Umm, divorced,” I respond.

       “Same. I should have known not to marry my high school sweetheart. That reminds me. Keep an eye out for Jessica Tawny.”

       “You married Jessica Tawny?” I ask in disbelief. 

       “I know. HUGE mistake,” he says while running his hand across his line-of-sight to emphasize ‘huge.’

       “So, you’re keeping an eye out for her so she doesn’t, what? Throw a drink on you?” I jokingly respond.

       “No, so she doesn’t throw a drink on you,” he responds.

       “Me?! Why would she throw a drink on me?” I ask, perplexed.

       “She was so jealous of you. Don’t you remember her throwing gum in your hair?”

       “Oh, don’t lie. That was you!” I accuse.

       “No, I swear! When we were dating, and I won the election, I told her that at least my VP was kind of hot. She never got over it. That’s why she threw gum in your hair. So, we fought about it, and she blamed me for sticking up for you. Blah blah blah. You know, real mature fights,” He said while motioning for the bartender to grab him another beer.

       “Are you serious?” I ask, peering into his eyes as if there is some truth radar in there.

       “What? That you’re hot? Yeah, you’re kind of hot,” he said with a slight nudge of his elbow.

       “No, that you weren’t the one that threw gum in my hair.” I make a motion to the bartender, pointing to the wine I want to be refilled while dropping a few dollars in the tip jar.

       “Scouts honor,” he says, holding some make-shift salute up.

       “Hmm. Maybe I judge you a little prematurely, Michael Derry.” I give him a smirk. Something about this interaction seemed so easy. He just took charge to take my arm, not caring if I was there with anyone. He has so much confidence.

       “Maybe. I wish I could say the same.”

       “What do you mean?” I ask.

       “Well, even in high school, I knew you were something special. You were super smart, funny, and as previously mentioned . . .”

       “. . . kind of hot?” I interrupt him.

       “Yeah,” he confirms. “But look at you now. Successful, still funny, still kind of hot, but there is one thing that is different.”

       “What’s that? I dress funny?” I deflect.

       “God, no. You dress nice. I was going to say your confidence. Ashton Ashberry would have never approached me in high school and wanted a conversation with me. And some of that was probably on me being a half-assed President with a jealous girlfriend. But adult Ashton Ashberry – it wouldn’t surprise me if you put gum in my hair this time, you have so much confidence.”

       Am I that easy to read?

       “Well,” I pause to think. “That’s very nice of you to say.”

       “Hey, I know this is crazy, and we just reconnected, but why don’t we get out of this high school gym and truly and fully catch up. I promise – no gum!”

       “What if I have bad breath?” I smirk.

       “Tic Tac?” he says.

       I hold out my hand for a handshake. “Deal.” He grabs my hand and kisses the back of it. 

       “Ready to bounce?” he asks while taking one more swig of his beer as he tosses it in the trash.

       “Lead the way, El Presidenté.”