Back To High School

I rifled through the pile of mail on the kitchen counter and looked up at my boyfriend, who was staring into the fridge, looking for something to make for dinner.

“You got an invitation to your 50th High School Reunion.”

He managed to look back and grunt an incoherent reply. I wasn’t sure if that meant he was interested in going… or not.

Steve had been raised in a small town in Missouri, until his father decided to move the family of five and a shoe business to Southern California. He’d had enough of Missouri winters. Steve was just entering high school. He once told me they’d put him in remedial classes since the grading system back home differed from the one at his new school. They assumed the E’s he’d gotten (for Excellence) must mean he’s a dodo since they were lower than a D and just above an F. His mom marched into the school office and demanded he be moved to mainstream classrooms!

But, other than hearing a story here and there, like being forced to join the marching band so he could “make new friends,” he never talked much about it.

“I went to my 20th and 40th reunions. It’s really something you should experience at least once in your life.” I waited for his reply.

“I’ll go if you come with me. I’ll introduce you as my trophy girlfriend.”

The invitation said dress was California casual so we both wore jeans and Steve bought a light yellow shirt with pineapples on it at Costco. We drove the two hours from our home in LA to his mom’s house, about a half hour from the reunion venue. He borrowed her iron to press his new shirt and we were off!

There was a giant Welcome Class of 1974 sign that we passed under and onto a large grassy area set up with several tables and chairs.

The party was in full swing since it had started at 5p and it was now closer to 6p. The plan was to get there right before the barbecue buffet was served. We looked around to see if we could spot any open seats. In the process, we took in the aging men and women around us. I’m a little bit younger than Steve, but not by much, and a lot of these people looked old. Maybe they were thinking the same about us.

We walked from table to table looking for two empty seats.

“Are these seats available?” “No, they’re taken.”

We moved to the next table…

“Can we sit here?” “No, our friends are sitting here.”

We made a giant loop around the entire lawn and couldn’t find two lousy seats. No one recognized my guy or even seemed to want to talk to us. This was not going well.

We went to get some food at the buffet, which was surprisingly tasty and ended up sitting on a raised dirt bed around a tree. We tried to make light of the situation. Steve even re-created the scene. “Excuse me, may we sit here with you?” “No! Go sit on that tree stump, loser!”

He also managed to spill barbecue sauce down the front of his new pineapple shirt. Guess that’s to be expected when you’re sitting on a pile of dirt and not at a proper table. So, he trudged off to the bathroom and came back with a big water stain where the barbecue sauce had landed.

After we finished eating, we walked around a little more and a woman with long blond hair approached us.

“Did you used to work in a shoe store?”

Finally! This woman said her mom always took them to his family’s store for shoes. Then another woman came over and remembered him and they spoke for a bit until the first woman grabbed the other woman’s arm.

“Sorry, I need to borrow her so we can go find our friends.” And off they went, hand in hand, practically skipping away.

I was feeling a tremendous sense of relief. It would’ve been awful if I’d pressured him to attend this thing and he didn’t see a single person he knew. But now, Steve was starting to get into it. He recognized the name on a guy’s tag and went over to say hello. The interaction lasted all of 30 seconds.

But, undaunted, he said, “I think I might see Cindy Smith. I’m going to go see if it’s her.”

I had no idea who that was but the more people he talked to, the better! I told him I’d meet him back at the dessert area, where they were getting ready to set out apple cobbler with whipped cream. I would’ve preferred ice cream but hey, it’s Southern California in early June, so melt-age is definitely a factor. I looked over towards Steve, who was now talking to a very pretty slim blonde, with long legs. There seemed to be a lot of laughing and arm touching going on.

I got tired of waiting for him so I went to the bathroom to waste some time. Just as I entered the ladies room, a man in a huge electric wheelchair was moving backwards out of the handicapped stall. His wife followed. A few of us had to quickly slam our bodies against the wall so he could make a 180 degree turn in a tiny space.

Calm as could be, the wife said, “Come on buddy, turn this baby around so we can get out of these ladies’ way.”

My phone buzzed, “Where are you?” I texted back, “Bathroom. Meet me by the cobbler.”

Turns out Cindy Smith works for the forest service in Washington State and takes tour groups up mountains. Wow, this woman was a few years shy of 70 and obviously in great shape. So maybe that one made the “trophy girlfriend” feel a little bit jealous. I didn’t have too much time to feel bad because, just then someone came over and congratulated me on winning the golf tournament that had taken place the day before. I said thank you but that definitely wasn’t me. I’m a pickle baller not a golfer.

We ate our cobbler standing up, threw the little empty styrofoam cups in the garbage. Then, I looked at Steve. “You ready to go?” We’d only been there a little over an hour.

“Yep, this was fun. I’m glad we came.”

We left without saying goodbye to anyone because, really, what was the point? As we got into the car I was secretly grateful we’d only driven a few hours to get here. My 50th is coming up and it would be a five hour plane ride. Is it worth it? Do I need to experience the rejection and awkwardness. Do I really want to go back to high school? Maybe I’m done with reunions. I think Steve probably is too.