Tuesday, April 10, 2007 | by nathan
This weekend my brother made dinner for us. When I got to his house he started teasing me: he had invited a "mystery guest" to dinner, and it was someone I knew, and that he knew, but that he didn’t know through me.
All these tantalizing clues, right?
So we start to eat dinner and chill out with a few beers, and the whole time I’m calling out guesses. He refused to tell me if any of the guesses were correct, though I figured it had to be someone I knew from high school, and someone I hadn’t seen in a long time since - not really a big surprise if this "mystery guest" had been to my house in the last month.
Finally we heard the sound of a car door slamming outside, and in walked a friend of mine from high school, Tatum. Turned out her cousin is one of my brother’s roommates, which I actually knew, but had forgotten. Though I must note, that in my calling out of random high school names, she did come up, and so I did guess correctly. I must note that in the ongoing ledger of victories I have won over my little brother.
It was good seeing her again. I had actually run into her about a year ago at a friend’s bridal shower, but we hadn’t had much of a chance to talk then. Oftentimes I get hand-wringingly nervous when I run into someone from high school, because my general philosophy is that if we didn’t have a lot to say to each other back then, we’re probably not friends now. But then there are the people with whom you just lose touch, who you’d love to see again. It was good to talk to Tatum.
As is inevitable in those conversations, the topic turned to people we knew in high school and what is happening to them today. Personally, I could’ve spent a few more minutes reminiscing about the day the cheerleading squad dropped their captain from the top of a tall pyramid, because it was incredibly funny, but I guess decorum dictates we not spend too long on that one.
Now. Something to note about the Class of 1998 at Westmoore High School: we weren’t known as one of those ‘achiever classes’ that leaves a lasting impression on the teachers or, say, a senior gift of any kind. Our class song was "Good Riddance" by Green Day. (You might know it as "Time of Your Life.") Our senior class president - an office for which I ran and lost - was an incredibly nice guy named Zach who, it is possible, was not born so much as he was magically pulled directly from the lyrics of a country music song. Despite the fact that I lost to him, I rather liked him and we got along well.
Another thing to understand about the Class of ‘98 is that when its members meet up now, there is the inevitable sucking-of-the-breath-through-clenched-teeth and going, "So, what’s up with Zach?" I won’t get into the whole business, but will note that he was on the evening news and that even now dances just inches from a lengthy prison sentence. The details are not sexy - it was a financial matter, let’s say - and no one was killed, raped, maimed or impaled. Still, Zach was rather embarassed by the whole thing, I suppose, and so Tatum, herself a senior class officer, has been left in charge of planning our ten-year reunion.
And so, the other night, amidst reminisces and bottles of beer, she asked if I would help.
And I said yes.
My brother’s jaw dropped to the floor. Apparently they had a bet; he was convinced - absolutely sure - that I would tell her to take her reunion and cram it. Thing is, I’m glad to help. I mostly walked around high school feeling like E.T. or Daria, yes, wondering what the hell was going on with all the stupid people and when the hell I’d get to escape to college, but also, in the mid-90s angst was so fashionable and one of my ways of being a contrarian - my natural state of being - was to just kind of go with the flow and be as happy as possible.
Don’t get me wrong. The only way I’d go back to high school now is if I got to be taller, sexier, and completely equipped with every bit of knowledge and spiritual wisdom I have now and three AK-47s. But it wasn’t all bad, and I found that I wasn’t even all that surprised by my agreeability to helping plan the reunion.
Or, it was the beer.
