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He snorts.
“As if. All hormones, no discipline? We’d end up dead living like that.”
I merely grin, somewhat sardonically.
“Life will be the death of me. And you too!”
“Hardy har har,” is all Rick says sarcastically in response. Finally, we pull up to our old high school, and look out the window at the nondescript building. Once such a monolith, it seems almost dinky now. The concrete block is a drab tan, and scraggly shrubs decorate the front lawn, which is more brown than green. The only modification is a large banner that reads ‘Welcome Back’ in bold, cursive lettering. I wouldn’t call it tacky, but the decorating committee isn’t about to win any awards. I bet they trot this sign out for every reunion, come to think of it.
The driver lets us out at the front of the building before pulling away from the curb and my brother and I pause for a moment, staring up silently at the tan building. The façade is cracking in several spots and the bricks could use a pressure wash. Inside, the muffled beats of some cheesy band can be heard, and my shoulders sag.
“Regretting this already?” my brother asks ruefully.
I shake my head.
“Never. Let’s do this.”
With that, we walk inside. Our backs are straight and affable smiles decorate our faces, but I’m getting the feeling that this evening will likely be disappointing. Do we really want to hang out with suburban moms and dads who have gained thirty pounds? People who have never left our little hometown, and who still think New York is the big, dangerous city?
Unfortunately, when we enter the gym, our worst fears are realized. If I had thought the outside banner was tacky, I was ill prepared for the horror show that’s taken over the old basketball court. Balloons in varying colors and sizes serve as centerpieces for free-standing tables, which are covered in rainbow-colored paper tablecloths. Piñatas dangle from the ceiling in random places, and there’s a stack of folding chairs by the door.
“Where did they get this stuff?” my brother breathes. “The local five and dime?”
I merely sigh.
“Don’t judge,” is my low voice. “Someone volunteered to do this, so we need to be grateful.”
“But piñatas?” my brother asks. “What are those for?”
I merely shrug, as we’re cut off.
“Hola big guys!” greets one overweight man. “It’s Mexican fiesta time!”
My brother and I share puzzled glances.
“But we’re in Wyoming, not California or New Mexico. Wouldn’t it make more sense in those states?”
The tubby man won’t be dissuaded.
“No, because these piñatas were on sale, and every high school reunion needs a theme. So Mexican Fiesta it is! I’m Larry Crandon. Remember me?” he grins broadly. “I played the tuba in the Sheridan Band.”
I nod slowly. I remember a pasty, pudgy boy with a golden instrument wrapped around his torso. Yep, this could be him.
“Hey Larry,” I say, shaking his hand jovially. “It’s good to see you again. I’m Ryder, and this is my bro Rick.”
My brother smiles, but it doesn’t reach his eyes.
“Hey hey hey, big guy!” Larry greets. “So you guys are part of Ayema, aren’t you? I swear, all the ladies in Sheridan are going ga-ga over your leggings. I love them too,” he confides in a low voice. “Especially the ones where the bottoms are sheer.”
I smile tightly.
“That was a small manufacturing defect but it’s since been corrected.”
“No worries!” Larry chortles again while slapping his stomach. “My wife’s got five pairs and I love ‘em!”
My brother and I smile politely. That was a PR fiasco, to put it mildly, and we had to recall millions of defective leggings. But it’s good to hear that at least someone out there likes them.
Unfortunately, the night just goes from bad to worse. At some point, I begin to wonder what Rick and I ever had in common with our high school classmates. On the one hand, I understand that we’ve been gone a long time. But on the other, it’s hard to believe that people have so little ambition sometimes. Are insurance sales really that attractive? To each their own, I suppose.
For the next hour or so, Rick and I make the rounds, greeting former classmates here and there. Most of our football buddies are as predicted: they’re married, sporting beer guts and thinning hair. They talk about their jobs and how they still like to get hammered at the Rodeo Ranch on Thursday nights while riding the mechanical bull. Weird. That’s what we used to do ten years ago. Yet, they haven’t moved on.
Just as bad are some of the former “hot girls.” Time hasn’t been kind, to say the least. Smooth skin is now wrinkled, and more than a few are sporting highlights so fake they must be out of a box. Cindy Walker, our former hook-up, giggles and blushes when she sees us. I guess she’s better than the rest, seeing that she’s still somewhat in shape, but then she leans in and reveals that she’s divorced and dating someone not from Sheridan, as if that’s a big taboo. Rick and I look at each other before smiling politely.
