What was your life like in high school? Were you a part of the in-crowd?

 

Or did you stand on the sidelines wondering what it would be like to be one of the social elite. Then, after many years, you attend your high school reunion and find that . . .

 

 

 Time Takes Its Revenge

 

     “Hey! You’re choking me. Get your arm off my neck. I can’t breathe.”    

     “Shut your face, dweeb. Give me your lunch money. Now!”

     “No way!” 

     “I said, now!”

      “What are you doing? Those are my glasses. Give them back to me. I can’t see a thing.”

     “Give me the money or I’ll step on them, you little twerp.”

     I wasn’t about to give in. Without my glasses, the world looked like one big fuzz ball. All of a sudden, I spun around two or three times and fell to the ground. I could hear the quarters I had grasped in my hand go plink, plink, plink, plink, as they hit the tile floor. Then the bell sounded ending the lunch hour. My now empty hand rested on my glasses. I grabbed them and pushed them back into place on my face. I looked around and saw nobody. Otto Krenshaw, the jerk who tormented me, had absconded with my lunch money.

     Forty-four years have passed since the incident in the Granite Oaks High School cafeteria. As a fourteen-year-old freshman, a self-identified bookworm, I didn’t possess the ability to fight the bullies who tormented me.

     Why think about this now, while lounging in my living room in the beige recliner, with my computer in my lap, at eight thirty on a Wednesday evening in the middle of March? Well, I received an invitation on my laptop to attend my fortieth high school reunion. Nice? I’m not so sure, given my history at the school.

     I did graduate second in my class. However, the honor didn’t mean I had been the second most popular student in the class. Jocks, like Otto, cheerleaders, and others who thought of themselves as important and popular rejected me. My girlfriend in my senior year came from Valley High, twelve miles from our town, where my reputation didn’t precede me.

     I muttered, “Why would I want to put myself through a hellish reunion with those asses who made a mockery of my high school life?”

     My wife, Michelle, sprawled out on the brown leather couch, immersed in the latest Dean Koontz novel, looked up. “What are you mumbling about?”

     “Oh, I got an invitation to my fortieth class reunion.”

     “So? You never go to those. What’s the problem?”

     “Maybe this time I should. You know, face the demons of my past.”

     “Come on, now. We have a nice life. You make good money as a sales executive. We have a son who’s a lawyer and daughter who’s a chiropractor. You’re on the city council. What do you have to prove to anyone?”

     “Nothing I guess, but . . . ”

     “But what?”

     “That I was as good then as I am now and they should’ve accepted me for being me.”

     “How do you propose to do that, my sweet?”

     “I haven’t a clue.”

     “Well, let’s sleep on it. You don’t need to make a decision tonight.”

     “Guess not. The email gave the date of the reunion dinner—June 8, 2016. It said more details would follow.”

     We closed up the house and made our way down the hall to the master bedroom. Once in bed, I rolled over and gave Michelle a not so passionate kiss.

     “Can’t you do better than that?” she groaned. “Are you still dwelling on the reunion?”

     “Yeah, I can’t get it out of my head. I never told you about the most demeaning thing that happened to me in high school. It was too embarrassing.”

     “Something worse than the lunch money crap you told me a guy named Otto put you through.”

     “Much worse.”

     “Okay, I’m listening. But make it quick. My energy level is falling fast.”

     “Well, almost two years later, during my junior year, at the annual homecoming dance in late October, I fell prey to the very worst trick one could imagine. I didn’t have a date and didn’t plan to go to the dance. I got a call less than a week before the Friday night extravaganza. Can you guess who called?”

     “You don’t mean, Otto?”

     “You’re quite sharp, aren’t you?”

     “Well, you did marry me for my brains, didn’t you? Although, I am very beautiful.”

     “Yes, you are. I’m fortunate you gave me a chance to prove myself to you.”

     “Come on. What’s the rest of the story? What’d Otto say?”

     “He said Ellen, one of the in-group, needed a date for the dance. The college guy she planned to go with had his mid-term rescheduled and he had to study for it. He told me he owed me for the way he treated me over the years. So he suggested to her I take her.”

     “And she jumped at the chance, I suppose.”

     “Not exactly. The word he said she used was . . . ‘whatever.’”

     “So, what did you say?” Michelle asked.

     “Not being the brightest bulb on the Christmas tree with regard to social things, I replied, ‘I’d love to go.’ And then it all went down hill from there.”

     “Okay, keep going. I’m wide awake now.”

     “When I got off the phone, I had to make some quick decisions. I needed to decide what I’d wear and how I’d get us to the dance, since I didn’t have my driver’s license yet.”

     “Wow! This is getting interesting.”

     “We lived in a small town. Had only one tux shop—Krenshaw Formal Wear. Otto, working as his dad’s salesperson, said all they had left was a striped, seersucker tuxedo with a polka dot bow tie and matching cummerbund. I had no choice, so I took it.”

     “You wore it to the dance?” she questioned in utter disbelief.

      “Yes. But an even greater obstacle stood before me—transportation to the affair at the Veteran’s Hall.”

     “Well, how did you get there?”

     “Uh, my mother drove us. Ellen had a weird grin on her face as we began the six-mile drive. But then, without warning, she broke out in uncontrollable laughter. I didn’t think she would ever stop. However, as we rolled up to the hall, she did.”

     “Okay, so what happened at the dance?”

     “The beginning of the evening was uneventful. We had a nice tossed salad and a good tasting steak and rice pilaf entree. Nobody spoke much to me. I ate and listened to the conversation. Ellen and I even danced a couple of fast dances. I sorta asked her for a slow dance, but she ignored me. And then . . .

     “The room became quiet as the class president, Ronald Ball, moved to the microphone on the stage. The band played a crescendo and then the music disappeared behind Ronald. In a strong melodic voice, he announced the selection of the Homecoming King. After the king, Mark Lewis, said a few words, Ronald announced the Homecoming Queen choice. To my surprise, he called Ellen Fortunado, my date, to the stage. Then, my world fell apart.”

     “What do you mean, fell apart?”

     “Ellen thanked the nominating committee for her selection. To my surprise, she asked me to stand. So, being naïve, I did. She pointed to me and introduced me as her date—the guy dressed in the clown suit, whose mother chauffeured us to the dance. Didn’t even mention my name. Hysterical laughter broke out. It became overwhelming. I bowed my head in shame, hoping I would disappear.

     “It could’ve been worse. But the quick-thinking bandleader got the band in motion and blasted out a fast tune. People started to move toward the dance floor and the excruciating moment drifted into the past for those gathered, but not for me.

     “A week later, I found out I’d been set up, not just with the date, but also to be humiliated in a way that still hurts today. And Otto had planned the whole thing.”

     “Then why do you want to go to the reunion?” Michelle murmured.

     “To finally stand up for myself. Maybe get revenge.”

     “But, how?”

     “I need to think about it a couple of days. Let’s get some sleep.”

     Three days passed. I received a follow-up email about the reunion. “Oh my, it’s going to be a ‘sock hop’ and we’re encouraged to come in costume,” I muttered. My eyes opened wide as I realized what I had to do. I began to develop a plan for my ultimate revenge. I sat at my desk in my home office, with a large grin on my face, when Michelle entered.

     “Why do you look so pleased?” she asked.

     I smiled. “We’re going to the reunion.”

     “How did you come to that conclusion?”

     “The reunion has a theme. It’s going to be a ‘sock hop’ . . . a costume affair. You’ll wear a poodle skirt, a white blouse, and a scarf around your neck. You’ll look great.”

     “And you? What are you going to wear?”

     “Not wear . . . be.”

     “Okay, be. What are you going to be?”

     “A nerd.”

     “That’s absurd!” she screamed.

     “Why?”

     “It sounds ridiculous. Why recreate the painful time you had in high school? You’re not a nerdy kid anymore. You don’t even wear glasses. You got contacts years ago. You’re a successful businessman. Pretty good-looking, too. Why not show the creeps they’re no better than you are?”

     “Trust me. I know what I’m doing.” But, to be honest, I had no idea why I decided to reinvent the nerd I used to be. Over the next couple of weeks, this plagued me.

     Then one night, it dawned on me. At a convenient point in the evening, I would disappear into the restroom, take off my nerd attire and return dressed as the handsome, savvy man of fifty-eight I am today. I would then strut and flaunt my greatness in front of those who had gotten enjoyment at my expense in high school. They would applaud what I’d become.

     This all seemed so right. I sent my RSVP to the reunion coordinator, a pretty high school cheerleader, as I recall. Then, I began to surf the net for “sock hop nerd” photos.

     My costume began to come together. Attired in black, horn-rimmed glasses with tape on the bridge over my nose; hair parted in the middle and slicked down; a black bowtie affixed to a white, striped shirt; and plaid pants rolled high to expose my white sox and black shoes, I would look like a geek to the nth degree. Just call me “super nerd.” I’d be every girl’s nightmare.

     I didn’t share my attire with Michelle until the night of the reunion. I dressed in the guest bedroom, strolled down the hall to the living room, and stood in front of Michelle, who sat on the couch. She was speechless. “Are you ready to go?” I asked.

     “I see you are,” she replied. “And you look amazing. So take my arm and escort me to our chariot. This is going to be quite an evening.”

     Michelle and I took the one and a half hour trip down Lakeshore Highway to the Lakeport Inn, the site of my “coming back party.” The Lakeport Inn, an exclusive country club in the plush community of Lakeport, sat at the base of a lush green hillside. We pulled our late-model, silver Subaru up to the valet parking area in front of the hotel. A polite attendant, dressed in a red plaid vest and matching red tie, sporting a picture of the inn, opened the door and directed us to the ballroom for the reunion event. We arrived right on time for my grand entrance.

     I didn’t know what to expect, as we made our way through the beautiful lobby, with its elegant carpeting and pricy artwork, down a long hallway toward the ballroom. We approached the reception table in front of the tall, gold ballroom doors. The sign posted beside the table read, “Welcome to the Granite Oaks High School, Class of 1976, 40^th Reunion.”

     The woman sitting behind the reception table was “well rounded,” to say the least. She wore cheerleading garb and Sarah Palin-like glasses. Her nametag read, “Marci Garber, Cheerleading Captain.”   

     “I’m Rob Tucker and this is my wife Michelle,” I stated with conviction. Super nerd checked in, dressed to the hilt. To my surprise, she gave me a wonderful welcome.

     “Rob, thank you for coming. You look great. You’re at Table Two. By the way, there is someone who is very anxious to reunite with you.”

     I looked puzzled. Who did she think she was kidding when she said I looked great?

     “Who wants to see me?” I asked.

     “Otto Krenshaw,” she replied.

     “Otto Krenshaw wants to see me?” Unbelievable, I thought.

     “He asked to sit at your table.”

     As we proceeded into the ballroom, I thought this must be another set-up, a scheme to embarrass the campus geek one more time—a plan forty years in the making. Michelle grabbed my arm as we walked toward our table. My eyes scanned the group gathered in the room—many of them out of shape, overweight, bespectacled, middle-aged men and women. They all looked like me, but I dressed in costume. They tried to look “sock hop cool.”

     When I arrived at the table, a man, about six feet tall, balding, and at least one hundred pounds overweight, wearing black horn-rimmed glasses and a blue letterman’s sweater, stood before me. This wasn’t the same buff jock who bullied me in high school. I began to make a sarcastic comment, but had second thoughts and held my tongue.

     Smiling, he exclaimed, “Rob, it’s me, Otto. It’s so great to see you.”

     Any thought of payback disappeared from my mind. Time had taken its revenge. I breathed a sigh of relief and said, “Hello, Otto. It’s so nice to see you, too, after all these years.”

 

 

Copyright © 2016 Alan Lowe. All rights reserved.