Five Years

I should have known this would happen.

Even at my five-year high school reunion, I clearly had less luck than the others in my class. Granted, five years out of school, some were still finishing college or had entered grad school, which isn't exactly a clear indicator of how your life will go, it just felt like I had a lot of catching up to do. I still lived with the ghost of my dead mother and worked at the bookstore. It wasn't exactly the life that dreams were made of.

I didn't look too bad that night. I'd saved money from my paychecks for six months to look good: hair, manicure and a new outfit that looked slightly more fashionable than my khakis and bookstore polo. It was a classic black dress, far more elegant than I was really comfortable with, but it looked so good in the fitting room of the TJ Maxx that I couldn't resist. I spent a month walking around the apartment in high heels, strengthening my ankles so I didn't break one walking into the ballroom. It was going to be a night to remember. I was going to be someone different that night. It was going to change my life.

I only went in the hopes of seeing Tom. I'd had a crush on him since the first day of freshman homeroom, and I still held out some dumb hope that maybe he would be interested in me if I had the right clothes and the right attitude. I spent half a day preparing, having my hair and makeup and nails done until I looked like someone entirely different than my normal self. But I felt good. I felt pretty -- not Natalie Wood dancing around in West Side Story singing I Feel Pretty, but good nonetheless.

I arrived fashionably late, which is to say that I spent the first two hours at the hotel bar, drinking several glasses of courage that I could hardly afford. I walked in to hear the same music that they used to play at our high school dances, which triggered flashbacks of some of my least favorite memories. I was never the girl that anyone wanted to dance with. I tried to pretend I was too cool to care, but it killed me every time a guy I liked would come my way and then choose the girl next to me to dance with. This is how I ended up spending most of my dance evenings sitting out on the loading dock behind the cafeteria drinking cheap beer and smoking pot with the other nerds. But the reunion was going to be different. I'd had five years to plan it. I had done everything right, aside from being able to come in as a success. But I really couldn't have asked for much more.

The first person I saw was our class president, a self-absorbed girl who looked exactly the same as she did at 18: perky, fashionable and invariably surrounded by people who gave the impression that they loved her, but may very well have been as phony as she had been. She glanced my way without a glimmer of recognition, but I didn't care; she wasn't the one I wanted to see.

I scanned the dance floor, looking for the guy I wanted to see. There he was, on the far side of the room, leaning against the wall with his arm over a short blonde girl I did not recognize and a beer in his other hand. I stopped, not sure if I should approach. I stood there for a moment, debating my next move. That was when Chris McKenna approached. He was still beautiful, as though he were still leading the basketball team to the league championship. He actually knew my name.

"Hi Angela." His voice was deeper than I remember it to be. "Do you remember me?"

I was stunned. Why wouldn't I remember him? It seemed impossible that he would ask such a thing. When I found my voice, I told him I did remember, and made inane conversation about what he had been doing since graduation. It turned out that he had failed some classes at school as a result of too much partying, lost his scholarship and had been working at a warehouse since he was 19. His drinking had gotten out of control, and six months before the reunion he began attending AA meetings. He was feeling good now and was thinking about going back to school. All of this was fascinating, of course, but I wasn't really interested in his life. All I cared about was Tom.

I politely excused myself, grabbed a drink at the bar and downed it in two swallows. I tugged at the hem of my dress, took a deep breath and headed across the dance floor. Along the way I was stopped by a dozen people who could barely remember my name or where they knew me from -- Mrs. Cartwright's third period geometry? Sophomore health class? -- but were more than willing to tell me their stories. Still in school, first babies, entry-level jobs. I tried to work my way through the crowd and get to Tom. It felt like it took forever to pass through the sea of phony smiles and life stories. People were patting each other on the back like old friends, not the strangers that they really were.

I finally arrived at my destination. I paused for a moment while Tom finished his story.

"... And so I said that there was no way I was putting up with that shit, and I quit. Nobody's gonna bust my balls like that." His beer hand swung for emphasis. She chuckled politely, but I could tell that she was looking for an excuse to run. I smiled and offered it.

"Tom?" I said, my voice cracking. I cleared my throat, and she excused herself and ducked away to head for the bar. "Tom," I repeated with more confidence in my voice. I extended my hand to shake his, as though we were conducting a business deal. Awkward! What was I thinking? He turned and looked at me, his eyes glassy from drinking.

"Amanda?" He said it with a slur.

I was heartbroken. "No. My name is Angela. Angela Farber."

"Oh yeah, Angela. I remember you." He clearly remembered nothing.

I was crushed. I smiled weakly and turned away, disappointed and pained by the fact that he didn't recognize me, and he grabbed me by the arm. "No, baby. Come here. Stay." He tried to pull me closer, and I could smell the beer on his breath even at arm's length. I pulled away and he grabbed for my dress. The seam split and he was left with my dress in his hand, while I was left standing in front of my entire class in my bra and black stockings. I was humiliated. My face quickly passed from pink to red to purple. Most people laughed. One guy I didn't recognize wrapped his jacket around me. I tried to run from the room and twisted my ankle, but I kicked off my shoes and kept going. There I was outside the hotel, nothing but underwear and a borrowed jacket.

I heard through the grapevine that my appearance at the reunion was the most talked-about moment of the evening. That's the story of my life: every time I try to get laid, bad things happen. Whether I'm stripped nearly naked or end up pregnant, it all seems to have the same result: loneliness and shame.

I haven't been back home since that night. My sister called the next morning -- word travels fast in that town -- and gave me hell for the experience. I shouldn't have gone there. I shouldn't have been drinking. I should definitely not have tried to talk to Tom. And when was I planning to return that guy's jacket? She just added insult to the emotional injury I had already suffered, and I absolutely blew up. I would tell you that I said things I regret, but they were really things that had been brewing within me for a long time. They all came spewing out with incredible force and anger. We haven't spoken since.