The Forgotten Crush

I have arrived a little late for my thirtieth high school class reunion, more due to trepidation at comparing lives with former classmates than anything else.  And I’m alone, as my wife of twenty-five years has no desire to spend the evening smiling at total strangers.  From the parking lot outside the banquet hall,  I can hear the music of my youth, some thirty years ago.  Man that brings back memories.  I haven’t been to any of the reunions before this one, usually because of some work related conflict.  Or at least that’s what I told myself at the time.  But this time one of my old high school friends tracked me down and personally invited me.

Looking out into the hall, I see that everyone has a colored sign taped to their backs.  I groan inwardly as I suspect they are playing the guess-the-celebrity-name-on-your-back ice-breaker game.  I turn to the reception desk, and an energetic lady with too much makeup on asks me my name.  She looks through a file box and pulls out a yellow sign, attaches tape to the top, and hands it to me.  It says:

I played trumpet in the concert band.
I played in the jazz band.
I lettered in track and baseball.
My best subjects were math, science, and wood shop.
I worked summers at the Northlake Country Club.

Who am I?

She turns me around and tapes the sign to my back.  Then she hands me a thin copy of the picture section of my old high school yearbook, and with a gentle push sends me out into the room.

I realize immediately that I’m at a disadvantage.  While most of my classmates were in school together from kindergarten, I transferred to the school in the middle of my junior year.  Sure I had friends, but even back then I knew maybe two dozen by name.  Still I knew that at least one friend was here; the one that had invited me.

Something has happened to all of us in the last thirty years.  For some the time has been kind, for a few time has been brutal, but most just look careworn.  And they’re all total strangers.  At least that’s how it seems.

For the next half hour I circulate, but have little luck guessing names.  No one has guessed mine, and I begin to suspect that no one will.  I haven’t found my friend either.  I have been in several small groups when names were figured out, but in every case so far I didn’t recognize the names revealed.  I soldier on from group to group, and eventually I meet up with a slim blond woman who is circulating to another group.

She puts her hand on my shoulder to turn me, and I dutifully comply.  She reads my sign and says “Well, that’s not much help.  Here, try mine.”  Hers reads:

I played flute in the concert band.
I was a member of the debate team.
I had a part in the senior play.
My best subjects were english, math, and art.
I was a camp counselor during the summer.

Who am I?

I said “Well, at least we were in band together.”

She stared at my face intently.  “I remember you, I think.  But not from band.”

While she ponders, I say “I remember going to the senior play, but can’t for the life of me remember what it was.”

She says “It was ‘The Wizard of Oz’, and I played the Wicked Witch of the West.”  With a low growl in her voice she intones “I want those slippers, and your little dog too.”

That voice does it, and all of a sudden I know.  And the shock of it hits me like a hammer blow.  She can see it on my face.  I open the yearbook, thumb through to a picture, and hold it up next to her face.  I say, “You’re Susan… Susan Walters, aren’t you?”  I can feel that my face has gone red, but there’s nothing I can do about it.

She smiles.  “You got me, all right.    Although I’m Susan Armstrong now.  Married for twenty three years with two kids in college.”  I start to tell her my name, but she says “Wait, don’t tell me yet.  I want to figure this out myself.  Damn you look familiar.”

She thumbs through her yearbook, but comes up empty.  She looks up at me and says “OK, I need a hint.”

I consider for a moment, then say “Think of your bus…”

“My bus?  You mean you…”  She stops abruptly and stares at me.  Then she reopens her yearbook and thumbs to my picture.  I notice that it’s been circled.  She looks thunderstruck.  “You’ve got to be kidding me.  You’re Billy Morgan?”

“In the flesh.  Married twenty five years, three kids, all through college.”

She is speechless for a moment, then to my utter amazement she squeals and hugs me for a long moment.

She takes a step back and looks me up and down.  “Now I see the old Billy in you.”  Half to herself she says “Boy did I have a cru…”, but she stops herself before finishing the sentence aloud.  You can’t pull words like that back and I heard them all, even the unsaid ones.  Now it’s her turn to blush.  “Oh, I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have said that.  I’ve heard that that’s the number one thing you shouldn’t say at reunions.”

I smile sheepishly at her.  “I was awfully shy with girls in high school.  You never knew how fast my heart was beating those few times you sat next to me on the bus.”

She says “Oh, good heavens.  You mean to tell me we both had crushes on each other, and neither of us ever said a thing?”

I let her question hang in the air for a moment, then say “It sure looks that way.  And it only took thirty years to find out.”