OK, I’ll give this another try. Let’s talk about high school reunions. As you may recall, my previous column was about my broken elbow and usurped my topic of reunions: You can write about only what’s on your mind; I’m healing quite well, thank you.
Many of you are fresh off another five year round of reconnecting with or actively avoiding the old gang, and I hope you had a good time whichever choice you made. The number one reason for not going can be summed up in one sentence: I hated high school, so why return to the scene of all that slime? I can respect that. But I liked high school and I go to all the reunions. Certainly I had my scrapes and bumps and disappointments—nobody gets out of adolescence unscathed—but all in all it was a pretty good time.
My graduating class had 220 students—enough for a diversity of styles and strengths for everybody to find a place, but not so many that anyone was invisible: Everybody knew everybody. There were cliques galore (popular kids, smart kids, jocks, musical and talented kids of every stripe) and while I can’t say I belonged exclusively to any one, I was at least a fringe member of each of them. I was what you’d call a floater.
Just as you never know when you’re walking into a tragedy—say, flying off a set of stairs, landing on concrete and smashing your elbow—you also can’t predict when a blessing will be bestowed on you you’ll never forget.
One of my fondest memories is the day I became an honorary member of the smokers’ crowd. I was a senior and on my way to Physics, a class I was surprised to learn I loved. But first I had to pee. Real bad. As I passed the Industrial Arts wing (i.e., boys only in those days) I ducked into the one nod to female existence, the girls’ bathroom just off the main hall. As I began to push open the door I heard a loud “Incoming!” and walked into a haze akin to a combination of downtown Beijing and the Dust Bowl. I’d simultaneously entered and discovered the fabled smokers’ bathroom.
Standing guard was the de facto matron whose name was—I’m not lying— Wendy Weed. She was smoking a cigarette and, with Physics on my brain, I stared at what appeared to be a full inch of ash dangling, fascinated how it just stayed there. Wendy rasped, “Hi, Dot, want a cig?” “No,” I replied, “I want to pee.”
With the bravado of Don Corleone, Wendy banged on one of the stall doors and shouted, “Get out. Dot needs to pee.” Out scrambled half a dozen classmates skipping one class or another, allowing me to relieve myself. Wendy had power.
As I washed my hands, I thanked Wendy and told her she was a lifesaver, an odd compliment to a seventeen-year-old chain smoker, and she told me I was welcome anytime, adding, “I’m usually here.”
Then I was off to Physics, where I entered reeking of smoke and feeling happy to have a new friend. And I did. Wendy and I never socialized formally, but we greeted each other in the hall (when she was off duty) with deep regard.
My next class reunion is in two years, and I’ll be there. And I’ll look for Wendy, outside, with the smokers. And I’ll greet her with a big hug and thank her for making my life better. I hope she shows up.
– Dorothy
