What My High School Reunion Taught Me About Showing Up

And then I did something I hadn’t planned on. I pulled the pop-top off the reason we hadn’t spoken in more than three decades.

“Do you remember that spring break you invited me to Palm Springs?” I asked.

I wasn’t trying to reopen the wound so much as check whether the moment had ever registered with her. High school is, after all, a place where we, a group of hormonal amateur adults, begin to take on the monumental task of shaping who we want to be for the rest of our lives. 

Stacey tilted her head. Her eyes looked puppyish. Empathetic, even. I braced for the apology, but instead Stacey leaned in and said, “Which spring break?”

In a movie, this is where we’d hear a needle drag across a record. Was she kidding?

“The one where you were supposed to pick me up so we could drive to Palm Springs.”

Her brow furrowed. Of course she didn’t remember. Her spring break had looked very different than mine.

I’d later learn that Stacey drove to Palm Springs, the same scowling classmate from the flimsy table out front riding shotgun, top down, music blaring. They’d spent the week at Stacey’s parents’ condo pool, drinking contraband wine coolers, smoking cloves and becoming exactly what high school rewarded: being tan and unaccountable.

I, on the other hand, wheeled my suitcase, the one I’d packed full of bikinis and first spring-break optimism, inside my house.

“I waited on my porch,” I reminded Stacey. “For an hour.”

It had been hard to convince my mom to say yes to spring break with a group of 16-year-olds. But she trusted me. I didn’t drink or smoke cloves. I was a good kid. We didn’t have cellphones back then, so all I could do was call Stacey’s house from our kitchen phone and leave a message after the beep. Did I get the time wrong? Are you OK? Where are you!

I went from humiliated to worried to furious. Every time I heard a car, I drew back the curtains, hoping to see a red convertible pull into our driveway.

Then I called my mom. Earlier, she’d told me to be safe and have fun before walking to our neighbor’s house. She came right home, and we spent the evening crying and bad-mouthing Stacey over slices of chocolate pie at Marie Callender’s.

When school resumed, I expected an explanation from Stacey. Instead, she ignored me.

After a few days, I cornered her in the locker room after track practice. I had one question: Why didn’t you show up?

“I don’t think you would have fit in or enjoyed it,” she said, slipping past me and out of my life.

Evidently Stacey had decided right then and there that we’d never ride around in her convertible again, or speak for the next 30 years.

I slipped easily into another group of high school friends. Good kids, like me. The kind who rode ice-blocks down golf-course hills and played Trivial Pursuit on Saturday nights, and talked about colleges, crushes and who we might be in 30 years.

At the reunion, Stacey sipped her drink and shook her head. “I honestly don’t recall.”

Memories, it turns out, are not a shared archive. I wondered whether Stacey was embarrassed by her actions or had legitimately blocked them out. My desire to dig for the answer was short-lived.

Before we arrived at the reunion, my brother and I had made a pact. When one of us gave the signal, we were out of there, no questions asked.

“Ready?” he said, catching my glance toward the door.

By 9 p.m., we were back at my mom’s house, drinking beers and playing Monopoly with our kids.

I recently learned the details of my 40th reunion. But I won’t be attending.

I don’t need the past to prove who I’ve become. The family and friends beside me every day show me that the truest measure of a life full of love is who comes when you need them, and who never leaves you alone on a porch.

AARP essays share a point of view in the author’s voice, drawn from expertise or experience, and do not necessarily reflect the views of AARP.​