Twenty Years

Twenty years ago, I graduated from high school.

It doesn't seem possible that it's been that long. Kids who graduated this summer weren't even born yet when I graduated.

That one girl who got pregnant in high school and was gone for a while to have the baby...? Her baby graduated a few years ago, most likely. She could be a grandmother now.

Doesn't seem possible. But it is. I'm going to my 20th high school reunion tomorrow night.

I'm trying not to have too many expectations and hopes for it. I was not part of the In Crowd, back then, though I was friends with some of them.

The thing is, I really enjoyed high school. I had my own group of friends, and we always had something happening. I have so many wonderful memories of that time: passing enough notes in various classes to fill an entire notebook (I still have that notebook, somewhere, in fact). Going to football games, and to Pizza Hut to celebrate after the game (almost always to celebrate, anyway -- we had the championship team). Going to the dances that the school held every other Saturday to hang out with friends (and make out with boyfriends). Wandering the halls during sixth period with my photography class partner and taking what I thought at the time were very artistic shots. Sneaking out of class to have balloons delivered to my boyfriend on his 18th birthday. That moment of awakening in Calculus class when Mrs. Gore led us to the notion and definition of the derivative, and the simple perfection of the math stunned me so hard that I couldn't talk for an hour afterwords, and I knew I was going to major in math in college. A similar moment in AP English, as Mr. Eaton disassembled "The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock" one word at a time, like pulling petals from a rose -- I had never realized that the English language could be so elegantly dense. My own first tentative steps as a writer, collaborating with friends on horrible stories that are probably better lost to the ages. Staying after school to scramble to finish the newspaper deadline. Terror and pride as I argued with the school principal -- entirely solo -- over the literary magazine's pitiful budget... and won (and subsequent hours spent slaving over the little magazine, trying to prove that it was justified). Dozens of sleepovers at my best friend's house, folded up at opposite ends of the couch with cokes and cheez doodles and books, trying to pretend I didn't have a crush on her brother. Pleading "female troubles" to get out of gym class so I could sit on the bleachers with my other best friend, passing a really horrible novel back and forth and giggling over the sex scenes (sometimes I wish I could get my hands on it again, just to see if it was really as shocking as I recall). The day school was canceled on account of a broken water main, and a bunch of us spontaneously packed up a cooler and went to the beach.

I could go on and on and on. I could fill a book with the vignettes and moments of those few years.

I don't know who's attending the reunion, or how many of them might remember me. I don't know how many of them will remember that I don't remember.

I admit to a little nervousness. It could go so well -- or so badly.

It can't change those memories, though.