Schooled In Lies (2 page)

I was sitting in the cafeteria of Springmont High School at the committee meeting for the class of ‘86’s eleven-year high school reunion at the table used by the popular kids all those years ago. A table I would have gnawed my own arm off to be invited to sit at a decade ago. Not anymore. I didn’t want to be there and was having a hard time hiding it. I’d been roped into serving on the committee by Gigi Gregory, a former classmate and soon to be ex-friend, who was in desperate need of finding someone to take her place on the committee when her husband had surgery and she needed to take care of him, or so she claimed.

I should have smelled a rat when I’d asked Gigi what kind of surgery her husband was having. She looked distraught enough but never really got around to answering me. So I imagined it was something serious like open heart surgery or brain surgery. It wasn’t until a week later, after I’d already agreed to take her place on the damned committee, that I’d seen Gigi and her husband, Mitch, out to dinner at the Red Dragon. I watched as Gigi delicately placed a rubber doughnut shaped cushion down on the seat for her husband, Mitch, to sit on and saw the grimace of pain as he gingerly lowered his bottom onto the chair. Being my grandmother’s granddaughter, and nosy to boot, I went over to say hello. It was then that I discovered that Gigi’s husband was recovering not from open heart or brain surgery but hemorrhoid removal. Basically, I’d been roped into serving on the committee because of an itchy, inflamed ass. How fitting. That’s exactly how I could describe my high school years, a pain in my ass.

The meeting had been going on for more than an hour and so far the only thing we’d been able to agree on was that we hated each other’s ideas. After watching my idea of an eighties themed reunion complete with a Prince and the Revolution cover band go down in flames, I’d settled into a funk and cast silent death stares all around the table.

“How about a circus theme? That way we could bring our kids,” exclaimed Audrey Grant, formerly Fry, the perky ex-cheerleading Queen Bee of the class of ‘86.

Back in high school Audrey’s pouffy blonde mall hair and banging bod were only rivaled by her extreme flexibility. She could cross her legs behind her head, which, if you believed the rumors back in high school, she did with regularity. Audrey was now a married, stay-at-home mom to five kids under the age of six. Her blonde hair was now styled in a sleek chin-length bob and her once slim figure was filling out a white size sixteen blouse quite nicely while her once flexible legs were slightly chunky and encased in black stirrup pants. Audrey’s slim figure wasn’t the only thing MIA from our high school days. Her saccharine perkiness had been replaced by a perpetual worried expression that had etched fine lines into her forehead and tightly pinched lips that made her look like a laxative would do her a world of good. However, eleven years and sixty odd pounds had done nothing to lessen Audrey’s sense of self-importance and she only spoke to other committee members who shared in her level of former fabulousness, which obviously did not include me.

“The last thing I want to be bothered with at my high school reunion is a bunch of damned ankle biters,” replied Dennis Kirby. “All I want to do is party. Am I right, guys?” Dennis looked around the table for affirmation and laughed loudly when Audrey rolled her eyes and turned up her nose.

In high school, Dennis had been popular, in part, due to his resemblance to Sean Penn, a resemblance he
never
got tired of hearing about. He’d also been the star pitcher of our baseball team as well as a wrestling standout. However, with his glory days a distant memory, the muscular body of his teen years had turned to fat and Dennis now looked like Sean Penn would look if he’d eaten Cleveland. He was also still wearing his thick black hair in the same modified mullet from high school and was sporting a cheesy looking goatee that made him look like a pirate reject. He’d been voted class clown of our graduating class, even though most of his humor had been at the expense of dweebs like me.

I still remembered vividly one day during my sophomore year when Dennis had told me his friend Teddy had a crush on me and asked if I wanted to meet him. I, being supremely naive and thinking he was referring to Ted Johnston, the gorgeous star basketball player of our high school who looked like he’d been chiseled out of a chunk of semi-dark chocolate, said, yes, of course I wanted to meet Ted. Dennis pulled out a stuffed teddy bear and threw it at me nailing me right in the forehead. It wasn’t for nothing that he was the pitcher of our baseball team. Everyone laughed hysterically and I spent the rest of that year being referred to as Teddy’s girlfriend or being asked where my man Teddy was. Dennis had recently moved back to Willow and apparently still thought he was a walking laugh factory. Only the threat of me shoving my size eight running shoe up his ass kept him from asking me about Teddy when I’d arrived for the meeting.

“Spoken like a man who doesn’t have any kids. Some of us have families now, man,” replied Gerald Tate, former class president of the class of ‘86, and I suspected, the real reason Gigi Gregory didn’t want to serve on the reunion committee.

Gerald was her ex-high school sweetheart, a relationship that had started freshman year in high school and lasted up until freshman year at college where upon he promptly dumped her for a hard partying waitress at the campus IHOP who was a decade his senior. Gigi’s still a tad bitter. Gerald was still a good-looking guy, tall, and with the exception of a beer gut, still in decent shape with hardly a blemish in his smooth brown skin, though his hairline looked like it was starting it’s midlife erosion a full ten years ahead of schedule. And I didn’t remember his eyes being quite so beady back in high school. Gerald was a financial consultant. I had no idea exactly what that meant beyond him having to wear a suit to work but I assumed he was more successful at it than being married. His third wife, and the mother of the last of his four children, had recently kicked Gerald to the curb. His first wife had been the infamous IHOP waitress.

“Hey, look, I like kids as much as the next person. I just don’t want them at the reunion. No offense, but I didn’t go to high school with you guys’ kids. Hell, one day they’ll have their own high school reunion. All I’m saying is let us have ours,” shot back Dennis. Everyone else in the room including Gerald murmured in agreement.

Audrey conceded defeat and gave a small tight smile. Dennis slapped her on the back in what was probably supposed to be a friendly pat. But Audrey’s face turned bright red and she looked like she swallowed her tongue.

“Shouldn’t we have a tribute?” asked a small voice that almost got drowned out by Dennis’s big mouth. We all turned to stare at Cherisse Craig.

Back in high school Cherisse had been even lower on the nerd totem pole than I was, if that was possible. Small for her age, made by her parents to wear clothes that made nuns look conservative, and extremely shy to boot, Cherisse caught all kinds of hell in school. Dennis Kirby, and the other kids of the round table, may have had a bit of fun at my expense now and then, but they turned torturing poor Cherisse into an art form. The worst time being when they instructed everyone in homeroom to mouth their words instead of speaking out loud until Cherisse ran screaming from the classroom because she thought she’d gone deaf.

If it weren’t for Cherisse’s closeness with her twin sister, Serena, who was the complete opposite of her persecuted twin and took no shit from anybody, Cherisse’s life would have been an utter misery. Serena left home right before graduation. I wondered whatever became of her. Knowing how horrible everyone at the table had made Cherisse’s high school years, I was stunned to see that she was a part of the reunion committee and even more surprised to see how much nicer she looked these days in her fashionable clothes and funky blonde dreadlocks. She was probably just as shocked to see me there as well.

“What did you say, Cherry?” asked Dennis Kirby, snickering. Cherry had been his crude nickname for Cherisse. His joke being that she’d probably never lose hers. Cherisse looked down at her lap before answering. Eleven years, new clothes, and a bold new hairdo obviously hadn’t eradicated her shyness.

“Well, I think we should do a tribute to Julian,” she replied, looking down at her lap again. “And my name’s Cherisse, fat ass,” she added, tossing a venomous look at Dennis. She’d grown some balls after all. Good for her. Dennis just snickered but I noticed he turned bright red, indicating that Cherisse’s barb had hit home.

Cherisse’s suggestion was met by cold silence by my fellow committee members. Having a tribute for Julian Spicer, the former head of the reunion committee killed in a freak accident while working on the roof of his house last summer, seemed like an excellent idea to me. Besides, Julian hadn’t just been a member of the round table gang along with Dennis, Audrey, and Gerald; he’d been their king. Fine as hell, athletic, and smart, Julian had been homecoming and prom king and was voted most likely to succeed. He’d been Audrey’s high school sweetheart. Plus, he was Dennis’s first cousin and probably the main reason the loudmouthed asshole was even in the round table clique. He’d also been in charge of the ten-year reunion. After his tragic death, the reunion was cancelled.

Not only would no one comment on the tribute idea, but their eyes were all shooting daggers at Cherisse, who in turn looked like she was about to cry. Why wouldn’t they want a tribute to Julian? I opened my mouth to ask what the hell was wrong with everyone when the new head of the committee finally spoke up.

“I think on that note we should wrap things up, guys. We’ll meet here same time next week, okay.” Ivy Flack cast a cool but not unkind look in Cherisse’s direction.

Ivy Flack wasn’t a member of the class of ‘86. She’d been a high school guidance counselor back in the day and was currently the principal of Springmont High. Ivy Flack was the reason I’d decided to major in English at college. She’d been my guidance counselor and had been able to get the unmotivated and unenthusiastic teenager that I once was excited about going to college. Though she was now at least in her mid-forties, she didn’t look much different then when we were in school and still wore her dark hair long and layered.

Always dressed to perfection in the most up-to-date styles, Ms. Flack was the woman many of my female peers tried to emulate back in high school. She also had political aspirations and was running for mayor of Willow in the fall. She’d initially volunteered to help the reunion committee temporarily when she saw how few people we had. But since none of us wanted to be in charge, Ms. Flack became the head of the committee, by default, though I suspect in exchange for helping us, she was going to expect us all to volunteer for her campaign. Judging by the success of the meeting we’d just had, I’d say we needed all the help we could get.

“We need to keep it simple, guys. I doubt the reunion budget will allow for much more than a catered dinner and a DJ. I’m afraid if we get too fancy we’ll have to charge a high price for tickets and we won’t get a big turnout. We’ll talk more about it next week. Be thinking about some affordable venues that we can rent,” continued Ms. Flack.

We all murmured our half-hearted agreements and got up to leave. Cherisse quickly jumped up, grabbed her purse, and rushed off without a word. Gerald, Audrey, and Dennis watched her go and I saw a look pass among them that took me straight back to high school and sent a chill down my spine. It was a look I’d been on the receiving end of on more than one occasion. It was a condescending smirk accompanied by a raised eyebrow and a slight shake of the head. It was a look that screamed
loser
.

This was
not
going to be fun.

Chapter Two

WORK THE NEXT DAY wasn’t much better, though for a different reason. I thought spending time with my former classmates was a nightmare. Little did I know I was about to become a student again myself.

“There’s just no way around this, Kendra,” said Dorothy Burgess my boss at Clark Literacy Center. “I told you that you needed to take care of this last year and you never did. If your teaching certificate isn’t renewed by the time classes start in September, you won’t be able to teach and I’ll have to hire someone to take your place.”

We were sitting in her office with the door closed. Dorothy was seated behind her big pine desk strewn with folders, barely organized piles of paper, empty Styrofoam cups, an ancient PC with a kitty screen saver, and pictures of grandchildren that looked like miniature clones of her with their strawberry blonde helmet hair and round chubby faces. Dorothy was a robust size fourteen who managed to stuff herself into size twelve clothing with frightening results. I knew I should have been concentrating on what she was saying but all I could do was stare at the center button of her very tight blue blouse that was in danger of popping and putting out my eye.

“Are you listening to me?” she asked, visibly annoyed. I wasn’t in a much better mood myself but managed to suppress a smart-assed reply.