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I’m not going to be overlooked for a second.
Did I mention my perfect sweep of hair?
I go and check it for the twenty-first time, squinting critically into the mirror. I can never just be satisfied.
The air is still too warm for comfort, even at six o’clock in the evening. (Anyone sensible never arrives at an event on time; there is absolute truth in the golden rule of a “fashionably late” arrival.) But it is only a ten-minute walk before I’m at the school, where I find the parking lot full of cars and trucks, and the building itself vibrating with activity inside.
The entrance is through the front of the school now, where a small desk is set up with a very chipper-looking woman. She gives me a nametag (upon which I write “Lance” and place it reluctantly on my silvery gray vest) and, while trying to hide her sparkly-eyed curiosity in me, wishes me a good time.
Oh, she has no idea.
I follow the signs down the hallway and to the cafeteria. When I step through the doors, I find the room dimly lit and moody. My eyes are confronted with a large amount of streamers, bushels of balloons in our school colors, and the noise of my graduating class. The long, benched lunch tables have been replaced by big round ones that appear to sit eight to ten apiece, adorned with plain white tablecloths. Candlelight shimmers and dances from each table’s handcrafted centerpiece, around which plates, glasses, and cloth napkins have been set. Several tables are occupied already by the usual cliques of friends, who’ve staked their claims on seats. Between the tables, people mingle noisily with each other. I also spot a long table by the wall where an assortment of curious things have been set up for people to peruse: blown-up photos, factoids about our year, accomplishments over the past decade—a whole bunch of conversation starters and items of interest.
I was sure before coming in that I’d have a chance to maybe connect with a few old friends I didn’t see at the mixer. I thought I could use a little army around me to help avoid awkward chats, of which I was certain there would be a few. After all, I wasn’t a total outcast; I had a few solid connections in the theater department, a friend or two in choir, and even a cheerleader who thought I was “so stinkin’ adorable”.
But I don’t get that chance to rally my army.
Because straight ahead through the crowd, I spot him at once.
Chad stands between two of the tables in a crowd of all his usual jock buddies (or should I say “former” jocks, as none of them actually went on to play sports professionally). Despite expecting them to be guffawing about something dumb, or slapping each other’s asses and snorting at a crude joke, I am surprised to find them chatting lightly with each other while sipping from glasses that hang from their hands.
They look halfway civilized. Who knew?
Chad cleans up rather nicely, even I can admit. He’s dressed modestly in just a plain, royal blue dress shirt, thin black tie, and black slacks, yet his body makes the simple clothes appear solid and shapely. I wonder if he even knows how good he makes such an effortless outfit look. He is mercifully lacking his cowboy hat, instead showing off his short, messy hair, which appears to have had a decent attempt at parting it.
Despite his minimal effort, he looks sharp.
Annoyingly sharp.
If I didn’t know him the way I do, and I didn’t have the history I have with him, and I were standing here with a group of my LA friends, we would all be thinking the same thing: Chad Landy is like the perfect canvas for a fashion designer’s work.
Tall.
Sturdy.
And beautiful.
I literally can’t take my eyes off of him.
He nods at a thing his buddy says, smiles with appreciation, then glances my way.
I take my eyes right off of him.
Then I make my feet move at once, spooked. I take myself straight to the long table along the wall where I wedge between a couple of ladies and pretend to be quite interested in the grouping of photos hanging on the wall. I think I’m staring at the yearbook staff, huddled in a small computer room around the journalism teacher. I know a few of them by name. Most of them, I don’t.
But let’s be honest: I’m not paying attention to any of it.
I’m thinking of the man in the crowd behind me who just caught me looking at him.
I already know it’s only a matter of time before he breaks away from his friends and seeks me out. He came looking for me at the clothing store earlier, claiming to have something he wanted to say to me. I can’t fathom what that something is. It’s probably just another halfhearted, badly-worded, lame-as-hell apology. Or the intellectually verbal equivalent of a fart.
