40th reunion. 40. How did she get so old so fast? She was popular and had plans. A “most likely to…” type. Succeed. Be on TV. Own a beach house in La Jolla. She did none of that and didn’t want any of that, but the party at Penmar Golf Course — $100 for hors d’oeuvres with an open bar — has her feeling jittery, thinking about what might have been. Most likely to become a cliché is more like it. She kept the yearbook, Venice High 1985, and opens it periodically to reconcile it with what she sees in the mirror. She’s not entirely unhappy. Her hair is still blonde, no bangs glued straight with gel! Her blue eyes look tired now but mascara helps. And she’s bigger, like everyone else. But her tits look good, even better than back when she survived on diet coke and Marlboro lights. She will not take Ozempic, at least just yet, like her friends. No Botox either but she knows it’s just a matter of time. Everything is just a matter of time.
She looks at the scrawl on the back page — “My one regret: not asking you out…” — from the skinny kid with the big nose and curly mop, the one who became a writer. She probably would have said no but as the years go by, she’s developed an abstract crush on him. She’s followed his career, read a story here and there, a blog where he talks about his divorce. Divorce! When she read that, she got a tingle. She’s married and living a perfectly fine, decent, good life. But knowing he’s free out there is fun, harmless; she smiles mischievously when she sees his name on the rsvp list. She knows her husband would have no interest so she buys one ticket.
What will she wear? A teal linen dress, tan flats, simple; she remembers he was short so she doesn’t want to tower over him but she does wear a push up bra so a little cleavage shows, casually, like she didn’t mean it, her boobs are so big she can’t help it kind of thing. She puts the yearbook in the large leather bag she inherited from her recently dead mother. She is hoping that maybe, after a cocktail, she could get him to sign it again, let him know that she’s followed his career, hint that it’s not too late though for what she doesn’t know. She feels reckless. Giddy.
He looks different, bald now, a graying overgrown goatee; they all have changed, but she recognizes him from his author photos so she walks up, tipsy, and says, “Hey Nathan!” and he says, “Hi!” as he squints at the name tag pinned to her chest with a picture from high school on it. She says, “Mallory. We went to high school together!” and he says, “I think all of us here did!” And they laugh, she can feel her face reddening from the tequila, she’s half a margarita in. He says he doesn’t remember her and she pauses. It’s too late to run away so she pulls out the yearbook, flips to the back, points at the exact words he wrote. “You wanted to ask me out but never did!” and he says, “Huh, that sounds about right.” And she says, “Why not? Why didn’t you Nathan?” thinking that using his name will create some intimacy and he says, “I don’t know,” but he is charming enough now to say, “I was an asshole for not trying” in a tone that is more polite than flirtatious.
A chubby woman, older than them, walks up. She’s not wearing any makeup. Her hair is pulled back but a few straight strands have fallen forward. Mallory thinks she’s one of the servers and is about to ask for another drink when Nathan says, “This is my girlfriend, Lucia.” Mallory is too stunned to respond. “We live in Brooklyn.” Nathan puts his arm around Lucia’s broad waist, kisses her round cheek, making a wet smooching sound. Mallory shakes Lucia’s small strong hand and says, “Nice to meet you!” Someone tells Nathan to put on the playlist he made for the reunion, so he looks down at his phone while Mallory and Lucia smile at each other. Mallory can see that Lucia doesn’t whiten her teeth, they are stained from the coffee Mallory imagines they drink together in the morning or red wine they drink at night, frumpy Lucia and her adoring boyfriend Nathan, the writer.
Mallory puts the yearbook back in her mother’s bag. She wonders if she should get another margarita, decides yes but on the way to the bar she suddenly feels exhausted, weak, like she’s been punched, as if she could sleep for a year straight, so she reaches into the bag for her keys, walks to the red Prius she also inherited from her mother, gets in, presses the button to turn the car on and puts it reverse; she backs up, switches to drive, then steps on the gas to go forward.
Rebecca Tiger teaches sociology at Middlebury college and in jails in Vermont and lives part-time in New York City. She writes on the long train ride to and from work. Her stories have appeared in Bending Genres, BULL, Pithead Chapel, Roi Faineant, Tiny Molecules, trampset and elsewhere.
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