I have a monumental high school reunion coming up in
a few months. Every few days I receive an email reminding me to register or
suggesting I check out those graduates who have already RSVP’d that they’re planning
to attend. I’ve never gone to a single reunion, and I probably won’t go to this
one.
My graduating class consisted of 803 students. Don’t
ask me how I know this. I’m terrible when it comes to remembering numbers. I
don’t remember my own telephone number half the time. But for some reason, I’ve
always remembered the number of students in my graduating class. Maybe it’s
because of where I ranked, which is one of the few cool things that ever
happened to me in high school, but I’m not going to mention that number. No one
likes a braggart.
I’ve seen all of three former classmates in the
(cough! cough!) years since I graduated. I reconnected with them a few years
ago when we happened to run into each other by chance. I now occasionally get
together with two of them once a month or so for lunch.
I was pretty much a self-imposed outcast throughout junior
high and high school. I didn’t hang with the cool kids; I was the kid the cool
kids bullied. Actually, I didn’t really hang with any kids at all. When you
grow up in an extremely dysfunctional family, you tend to shy away from making
friends for fear of having to reciprocate invitations. Every time I’d cave and
bring a friend home, the results were pretty much disastrous. I’m talking on a
nuclear meltdown level here, decimating any budding friendship.
So if I didn’t have any real friends way back in the
day, why would I be compelled to spend several hundred dollars on an evening
with virtual strangers? I’d be the wallflower hanging in the background as
groups of old acquaintances formed to catch up with each other’s lives. I doubt
anyone would even remember my name. I have only a vague recollection of most of
the people who have said they plan to attend and no memory of the others.
Of course, I suppose I could attend the reunion,
wearing a huge button that said, “Ask me what I do for a living.” When
curiosity got the better of some of the attendees, I could smile sweetly and
say, “I kill people.” How’s that for an icebreaker?
On second thought, I’ll save my money. After all,
this is New Jersey. Someone might want to hire me. Then again, it might provide
a great plot for Anastasia’s next adventure…
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