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Brown coat. Like the hotel uniform.
“I was only kiddin’ with you. I’m Becky with the hotel events team. That was so mean of me. Gosh, I really am a mean one, aren’t I?”
I only smiled. Mean one wasn’t exactly what I’d call her. She was quite the b…
“Becky,” I said. “We’re obviously here for the reunion.”
She helped me find my tag, which said Amanda on it, and I hated it right away. Amanda was the high school me. The shy, insecure, fingered-to-Jeremiah-was-a-Bullfrog me. Nowadays I’m Mandy and I get fingered to better music, like Maroon 5.
God, I’m still a loser.
But honestly, if you haven’t had your pussy diddled to the sound of Adam Levine singing about payphones, you’re missing out.
Ben found his Benjamin tag and pinned it to his jacket while Jill wasted her time looking for a nametag that obviously wouldn’t be there.
“What are you looking for?” I asked. “You weren’t in our class, remember?”
“Shit, yeah, you’re right.”
When Becky turned her head for a second, Jill swiped one of the other nametags off the table and walked away. She pulled a pen from her purse, flipped over the tag, and scribbled her name on it.
“You’re so ghetto,” Ben said.
At about that time, I realized the song My Prerogative by Bobby Brown was booming from behind the closed wooden doors of Event Room 3. Was that even from my high school years? I think that was years before I was in high school, right? I mean I went neon bowling to Achy Breaky Heart like the rest of ‘em, but I don’t remember Bobby Brown being on any of my mix tapes.
The doors burst open.
“Mandy?” a cute blonde girl yelled.
Her blue dress hugged her body tightly, leaving one shoulder naked, and climbed higher up her right leg than her left. Her hair was in a bun and a few strands hung down perfectly. She was adorable and looked somewhat familiar.
She moved quickly toward me and as she did, the heel snapped off her right shoe, and she tumbled to the ground, landing nearly right on her face. I didn’t even have the chance to yell, “Look out.” Not that that would have stopped her.
The poor thing sat up and tucked a strand of her hair behind her ear. Her bun was looser now, and as soon as I saw the embarrassed look on her face, I knew exactly who she was.
“Porter?” I asked.
It was her. Holy shit.
“Porter!” I yelled as I came to her aid, helped her climb to her feet, and hugged her as tight as I possibly could.
She’d been my best friend back in the tenth grade but had moved away to Chicago because her parents split up or something like that. She’d been my other half, and the moment she fell on her face, I knew it was her. I’ve always been a glutton for punishment, always finding myself in fucked up situations, but whenever I was with Porter, it all seemed to gravitate toward her. The unfortunate clung to her, but in hilarious ways. Nothing seriously bad ever happened to her, but if you set three cheeseburgers in front of her and only one had moldy cheese, she’d pick the nasty one every…single…time.
“Mandy,” she said into my shoulder. “God, I hoped you’d be here. You’re the only reason I came to this thing. I don’t even like most of these assholes, but when we lost contact I couldn’t figure out how to get a hold of you. You’re not on social media or anything! Then I saw the post about this reunion online and rushed to buy a ticket. My God, you look great.”
Of course I was on social media. Not quite sure what that was all about. I did avoid most of my hometown friends and maybe she hadn’t looked me up by “Mandy.”
“I look great? You look fabulous. Look at you, Sexy Mama.”
She slid off both of her shoes and clutched them in her hand. I was pretty sure this wasn’t her first broken heel.
“Guess these are trash,” she said. “Sucks but…it is what it is. The party doesn’t stop when you’re barefoot.”
Yep, same ol’ Porter. Never a dull moment.
I turned to my two other friends.
“Guys, do you remember Porter?”
