I’ll never forget my senior year of high school. I look back now and wonder whether any of it was real. And sure, I lived through every moment. But how did it actually happen? In what world would the fates nod their approval?
I sat in the classroom, anxiously trying not to get caught looking at the clock. Mr. Hellman had a way of verbally ripping one apart for such nuances. He currently had one of my fellow classmates explaining the significance of the red letter A in the Scarlet Letter. I was prepared to speak, I had it down to a science: keep my head down in my notebook writing notes; but when I wanted to speak just look up and make eye contact. Like a missile finding its target he would immediately call on me.
“Mr. Boyd, care to add anything?”
“Well, I think Armand makes a great point on the significance of the letter. But I’d like to add that the author chose red on purpose. He could have chosen blue or purple or pretty much any other color, but red denotes pain. The townspeople wanted to shame her and therefore chose not only to publicly humiliate her with the letter, but to do so with the most painful and shameful color possible.”
“Very good, Mr. Boyd. Is it your contention that a blue letter A would be any less shameful?”
I took a moment and paused. I had read the book but I relied on Cliffnotes and Sparknotes to make myself appear anything beyond your typical high school student, and I was certainly nothing more than your average student. What else had they said about the color? Ah what the hell - time to ad lib.
“The color blue would not stand out, in fact it would match the dark clothes of the time and only those closest would see the letter A. This would be much like the truth of the matter - only those closest to the protagonist knew of her actions, whereas the town leaders wanted it blasted to everyone. This would be similar to a private correspondence versus publicly publishing something in the town paper.”
“Very good, Mr. Boyd.”
And he continued on. I had survived the strike, and bought myself more time until the next strike. Back to my notebook. I did actually take notes, though it did no good. The only exams he gave were from our vocabulary textbook. Otherwise he wanted typed papers on everything. You’d think regurgitating back to him what we talked about in class would suffice, but no, he wanted original work often on texts that we had not read together. How did he actually know we read them? Truthfully, I would think that most hadn’t. Considering all of the work that goes into a ten page paper, I would think that it made more sense to read the book rather than to spend all of the effort in writing a paper without knowing the material.
BUZZ
Finally, the hum of the bell. Of course my school would be one that invested in what sounded like a swarm of bees rather than an actual bell. Whatever. Mr. Hellman spoke again,
“To those of you joining us on the weekend soirée, we will leave at eight in the morning from the school parking lot.”
Someone from the back of the class spoke up. They did at times speak in class so Mr. Hellman did pay them heed,
“What about the storm headed our way? Hurricane Martha?”
“I have spoken with the proper weather authorities and they assure me that it will be going out to sea, that our area will only see some rain and wind – nothing more than what we would expect of our weather.”
Normally I’d question whether the teacher actually spoke to someone, but not in this case. Mr. Hellman would contact anyone if it meant for a better learning experience. Surely reaching out to clarify the weather seemed like peanuts.
The day flew by and at the final bell I rushed home to change for work. I was one of only a handful of students who held a part time job. My parents didn’t force it on me. But they also didn’t pay for anything like spending money or my car. Did I need a car? No. I could get around by walking, but it would limit me to our suburban enclave. I don’t know how I’d get to my friends who lived all over the area, though within a twenty minute drive of my house. I’d like to say public transit, but it went nowhere. Relying on the county to fix our public transit woes would be like waiting on a Thanksgiving turkey to finish cooking. So I saved up, bought a used car, and now spent most of my hard earned money on its upkeep. I didn’t make much, but the owners also hired me illegally and under the table when I was younger, so I felt an obligation to stay.
I waited tables. At 17 years old, I couldn’t legally serve alcohol, but again, the owners saw the law as mere suggestion than mandate. I only did serve alcohol when a table ordered drinks. At the dingy restaurant I never understood why anyone wanted to eat at a table. If it were me, I’d sit at the bar watching a game with a cold beer. Of course I couldn’t legally do that, but a boy can dream!
Finishing my day at work I came out to my car and prepared to leave. But what was this white paper on my windshield. A ticket? I was in a lot, tags were up to date. What could it be?
I picked it up, and read:
Ray, what would you do if you found a genie’s lamp? Rub it and fear the genie, or demand wishes?
No doubt this came from Sherri and Maggie. Two of my best friends who would be joining me on the trip tomorrow.
I stood there. Do I stop by Sherri’s house? She lived close to me. Or could they possibly still be around? Do I walk around looking for them?
I scanned the lot, only a handful of cars and none of them occupied. More importantly, none of them belonged to Maggie, who also had a car. As an only child, her parents doted on her every financial need. She too lived in an isolated suburb, quite removed from everyone else. A car truly was a necessity, unless they planned to drive her everywhere.
I headed to Sherri’s, but as I drove I felt a sense of foreboding. Had I finished all of my sidework? Yes… Had I prepared for tomorrow’s trip? Yes…I had a bag backed to stay Saturday into Sunday. And we even had Monday off due to some inservice for the school staff. My friends and I were talking about staying at Maggie’s. It wasn’t clear whether her parents would be away, but they loved each of us so we could at least stay there without creating much fuss. My parents certainly wouldn’t care. Until they knew otherwise, they’d assume I was at a friend’s place. Then a new thought came to me: what if Sherri and Maggie hadn’t left the note?
I shrugged off the sense of foreboding. I guess it was just the caffeine from the soda I drank at the beginning of the shift. Hopefully I slept okay. I finally reached Sherri’s but all of the lights were out and Maggie’s car was nowhere to be seen. Huh. That’s weird. Why would they leave a note where they clearly wanted a reaction, but then not stick around?
I parked for a minute and collected my thoughts. Do I knock at Sherri’s to see if she’s home? It certainly doesn’t look it. It was 10pm, a little late to be knocking without knowing that she was indeed home. I risked waking up her father. I didn’t want that. I took the long way home. I wasn’t followed by anyone, friend or stranger. And parking at my house I saw no sign of Maggie or Sherri. That same question came back: if they hadn’t left the note, who did?