In March of 1984, I was a senior in high school.

I was immensely popular. So popular, in fact, I could treat people like garbage and instead of feeling insulted they'd think it was their own fault somehow. I'm pretty sure I thought it was their fault, too. At least on some level.

I had my pick of boys, but I never dated them for longer than three weeks. That was a hard and fast rule of mine. Use 'em and dump 'em. Just run them through the ringer first.

Yeah. I was one of those girls.

I was a shoo-in for Prom Queen, a cheerleader, vice-president of the student council, Key Club president and a straight-A student. Not all of my A's were earned through studying.

Don't get me wrong. I never fooled around with a teacher or anything. I never fooled around with anyone, actually. Another hard and fast rule of mine. But during my high school career, I learned that with the right smile and a few carefully placed words, I could have anything I wanted. Even from a teacher. Sometimes, it took flirting. Sometimes, a reminder that I was the only daughter of a respected Justice on the Illinois Supreme Court. Whatever it took. I learned that my place at the top of the food chain was a God-given right.

Mr. Vernon was one of the few who felt otherwise. He was our school's vice-principal, a job so unimportant he had to teach a few classes in order to stay relevant. I was one of the unlucky souls in his Senior Government class, and he didn't give a rat's ass who my father was. I actually had to study for his tests.

But then one day, I didn't. It was the first warm weekend of spring, and outdoor parties and bonfires were springing up everywhere. I didn't have time to study for the three tests I had Monday morning, so decided to skip school to give myself a little more time. Studying wouldn't take all day, of course, so an afternoon shopping trip seemed in order.

The first two teachers didn't care that I had to make up their test. Vernon did. He called my house to verify my story and my mother had a fit, eventually finding out I'd not only skipped school but racked up hundreds of dollars on our credit card. Vernon thought it amusing that the daughter of a judge had to skip school to avoid a Government test, and I took the hint to just shut up and take whatever punishment he felt like dealing me. I might have been conceited, but I wasn't stupid. I knew when to give in.

He chose Saturday detention. I was mortified. But I went, feeling like a pariah, the Princess who should have been above something so mundane. My detention mates were a Burnout Criminal, a Basket Case, a Brain, a Nobody, and a Jock. We had nothing in common.

At least that's what we thought at 7:00 a.m.

Imagine if you'd been that Nobody, or Jock, or Brain. Imagine what it would feel like to enter a room full of strangers, and emerge from it nine hours later feeling like they'd flayed you alive. That's what it felt like. I went in so full of myself, intact and resistant to change. There was no need for change. I wasn't just a Popular Girl, I was The Popular Girl. I was perfect.

But I left that detention emotionally drained. Raw and cut open, but craving more with an intensity that burned because I'd finally, for the first time in my life, seen myself clearly.

I wanted desperately to hold on to how I felt that day. We all did.

But once back in the real world, when detention had ended and we were forced to live with our old, pre-set stereotypes, it was a difficult feeling to re-create. At least it was for me.

As an adult, I compared so much of my life to that one day, looked back at that detention as such an important event in my life, that I sometimes forgot it had indeed been only one day. Nine hours, to be exact. The six of us were never again all in the same room together.

Maybe that's why I fell so easily.

I was never meant to be the strong one.

Saturday, July 17, 2004

Shermer High School

Shermer, Illinois 60062

Claire stared at the front of her old high school. It made her feel a little sick.

She could have just driven past, had in fact tried to convince herself she'd be late if she wasted any more time, but she turned into the parking lot anyway. It felt instinctual, an old habit, even though the last time she'd been anywhere near the school was over twenty years ago.

She couldn't believe it took her two decades to dredge up the courage.

It was empty for the summer, no other cars even sharing the parking lot with her, so she supposed its lack of life was what made it appear foreboding and dark. The sprawling stairs yawned away from her, straight into a series of recessed doors that were shaded by a giant concrete overhang. She squinted at it and tried to not be disgusted, but it looked like a giant mouth, lying in wait, perpetually ready to suck in and chew up a person's soul.

God she was being dramatic.

But still. It irritated her that the last few months of her senior year was all she remembered with any clarity. It seemed unfair, cruel even. Especially since her high school career prior to that had been spent in a state of almost surreal popularity. The school probably hadn't seemed so dark to her then. The shadows, more than likely, hadn't come until the end.

Her phone buzzed from inside the rental car, startling her into the present. Leaning through the open window to grab it, she glanced at the screen and frowned at her ex-husband's name. She'd called him less than an hour ago, and he'd grumbled then that she was calling too often, that she should let Evan enjoy time with his dad without her butting in.

If he was calling her, something was wrong. "Hello? Nick?"

"Hey, Princess."

She flinched at the nickname. The only reason he used it was because he knew it bothered her and he was too lazy to be mean in any other way. It wasn't his nickname to call her. She shrugged it off and focused on the more immediate concern. "What do you need? Is Evan okay?"

"Yeah. What should I buy him for food?"

Claire glowered at the sky for a few seconds before answering. Her ex-husband was, for lack of any nicer term, a slacker. He was a pro at avoiding anything he considered work, be it a career, marriage, or parenting. Everything was fair game. "I gave you a grocery list when I dropped off Evan," Claire reminded him after gulping back the bitchy responses. "What happened to it?"

"I dunno," he mumbled from suddenly far away. A clattering sound ensued, then his voice was clear again. "What about cereal? Does he eat cereal? I can get him some of these cocoa puffy things. Then I'd have to buy milk…"

She pinched the bridge of her nose with her free hand and breathed out, trying to calm herself. "Nick, are you just shopping for him for the first time now?"

"Yeah. So yes on the cereal?"

"He's been there a full week already. What have you been feeding him?"

"He's fine, we went out to eat a lot. Stop being such a nag and tell me what to get for him."

She bit back five retorts, the first for calling her a nag, the next four all progressively nastier just because. "Fine. I'll text you another grocery list."

She had a yearning to hear Evan's voice, to hear his little boy laugh as he insisted he "wuved" her. He was four and she'd never been separated from him before. Not even for a weekend or overnight, since Nick left them when Evan was still an infant. He claimed they were "hurting his spirit", so he moved to Oregon with his new girlfriend and never once travelled back to visit his son. It was though he'd forgotten about him.

So she'd been a little surprised when she finally pressured him into going through with the "hassle" of divorcing and he asked for nothing more than a yearly two-week summer visit with Evan. She was hesitant, but in the end she agreed, admitting to herself it would be nice to have a few weeks every year where she could work as late as was needed without feeling guilty about leaving Evan in daycare. Her poor boy spent way too many hours in someone else's house. The divorce finalized in September, when July seemed like a lifetime away, and now she had no choice but to trust that Nick was capable of parenting. He probably wasn't irresponsible enough to lose Evan, after all.

Probably.

"Is Evan with you? Can I talk to him?"

"Naw, he's at home. Joan is watching him."

Claire bristled. She'd spent a fair amount of time and patience trying to convince Nick to spend the two weeks solely with Evan, that including the woman Nick left them for was confusing to a four year old, but he'd laughed at her. "Your whore is watching my son?"

"Language, Princess," he chided with an amused chuckle. Like she'd told him a joke.

She hung up on him.

Her teeth ground as she jabbed a grocery shopping list into a text message, grunting in annoyance as she punched 'send', then pocketed the phone. The high school looked darker now, like it was mocking her, or even worse, daring her.

She shouldn't have come.

Reluctantly she turned and stared at the football field next to the school. The small, unassuming maintenance shed still stood at the far side of the field, its grey concrete walls and yellow metal door flooding her memories with an intensity that made her blush. She could only look at it for a few seconds, like it was a person she was embarrassed to look in the eye. With nothing left to look at but the parking lot, she gave up and got into the car.

It wouldn't do to be late for the reunion, after all.