“I’M SCREWED.”
I’m whispering to Dylan in sixth-period government. Ethan’s a few rows up, his back to us. We’re supposed to be discussing the pros and cons of the presidential veto, but when Mrs. Warshaw told us to pair up, I promptly told Dylan what happened in the meeting with Williams. It’s unlike me to disregard teachers’ instructions. “Group discussion,” however, is different. I’ve never been interested in unstructured dialogues with classmates, especially when it’s obvious our teacher only wants time to check her email.
“You’re not screwed,” Dylan says, and I know it’s not idle reassurance. Dylan’s reliably straight with me, whether she’s telling me my hair bun is crooked or reassuring me I don’t need to practice my vice presidential campaign speech for the tenth time.
In the hours since Ethan and I met with Williams, I started to realize just how much planning the reunion would entail, how many pieces remained undone or out of order. It’s like someone started building one of those enormous one-thousand-piece puzzles, the type my mom loves, with scenes of Italy or wildlife, except they’ve put even the easy corner pieces in the wrong places. What’s more, we’re ferociously behind. It’s already March and the event is in May. Two months out and we have no confirmed venue, no catering, no nothing. From the wedding planning calendar I googled in the Chronicle—not exactly comparable, I know, but I’m working with what I’ve got—we need way more components in place by now. This very scenario is why I plan everything on my whiteboard, where I’m going to have to incorporate a reunion checklist. With enough preparation, I avoid being haphazard or hurried. Instead, I’ll need to rush the reunion, praying the whole while that my frenetic pace doesn’t produce problems.
And I’m going to have to do the entire thing with Ethan.
“Overlooking the very real issue of who I’ll have to work with on this,” I say to Dylan, glaring at the back of Ethan’s head. “I’m really behind, and I know nothing about party-planning. Especially not when the party’s celebrating returning to high school. I mean, I barely go to high school stuff and I’m actually a high school student.”
Dylan chews her lip, considering.
“Well, when you put it that way . . .” she says, the first unconvinced waver in her voice. I hang my head in my hands. “I’ll help, of course,” she adds quickly.
“You don’t have to help,” I protest automatically. The reunion’s my job. Well, mine and Ethan’s. I’m not in the habit of passing off responsibilities to my peers, especially not my friends.
“Ethan’s going to try to make you look bad,” Dylan points out. “Don’t turn down my offer.”
She’s not wrong there. Ethan will try to outdo me or compromise my efforts in every way imaginable. When he’s not reviewing for exams or finding ways to annoy me, he’s somewhat popular with social groups on campus known for occasionally throwing parties. Or so I’ve heard. It’ll give him an edge in planning the glorified party that is the reunion. Despite the discomfort of taking my friend’s help, Dylan would be useful in this regard. She has a whole group of yearbook friends who host regular pregames and ragers.
“Fine,” I say. “You’re right.” I try to focus on my discussion worksheet. The presidential veto is the power to . . . The drone of classmates’ halfhearted conversations crowd in on my efforts. I promptly give up, turning back to Dylan. “I just don’t get it.”
Dylan’s lips purse in puzzlement. “The assignment?”
“No. Obviously. High school reunions,” I say. “Like, why do we ritualistically reunite every decade with this group of people connected to us only by geography and four arbitrary years? It’s not like we chose who we go to high school with. Why do we care? Why can’t we just graduate and move on with our lives? We don’t place this emphasis on the people in our first office or our first neighborhood.” I know I’m kind of ranting, but I’ve had the thoughts building in my head since the conversation with Williams. “Why don’t we have reunions with them?”
“I don’t know. I think high school is special,” Dylan says contemplatively. “It’s where we’ll have experiences we’ll remember for the rest of our lives. The kind of epic stuff you only do when you’re young.”
I’m not convinced. “Like what?”
“Sneaking out to a concert, staying out partying until five a.m.” I can hear the memories lacing every word. I remember the stories, relayed to me in long strings of texts the next morning. Stuff she did with the yearbook clique or Olivia and the drama kids. “Hooking up with someone even when you know it’s a horrible idea.”
Frowning, I reach into my own high school memories. They’re less epic in the way Dylan describes, more sneaking off campus past midnight on production nights, staying up all hours studying in my room, and competing with Ethan every waking moment. I’m about to reply when Mrs. Warshaw calls our attention to the front of the class. Returning to my desk in the first row, I permit my mind to wander from the discussion of the presidential veto.
The truth is, there are very few things I’ll regret leaving behind in high school. There’s having Dylan in my classes. We’ve been in school together and best friends since second grade, and having a friend like her in middle school, where a nerdy girl who wore collared shirts would have ended up reading on her own every lunch otherwise, was invaluable. It’s not like our friendship will end when we go to college, though. Then there’s the newspaper, into which I’ve poured thousands of proud and meaningful hours. But I’ll have a bigger, better newspaper in college. Maybe I’m meant to regret not having done the things Dylan said. The epic nights everyone else chases. I just . . . don’t.
If I did, maybe I’d understand high school reunions.