Anniversary

Before my desperate escape, I was an engineering dropout who worked at Starbucks and spent his free time at the library, staying there even as Louise and her friends came and went throughout the day. Louise Wright, before becoming the woman I was supposed to marry, was once but a transfer student who came to our high school at the start of the eleventh grade back in ’91. I found it weird that a girl from Paris — the one across the pond, not the one only a forty-minute drive away — would share a surname with the American brothers who built the first plane. I was also intrigued when I heard that she was living under the same roof as Catherine Shanks, the prim and proper only child of a wealthy family. 

But after my initial interest in my new foreign schoolmate, my attention for the next two years was captured by another transfer student who came two months later in October. Around the time when Clarence Thomas and Mikhail Gorbachev were all they ever talked about on the news, I heard murmurs at lunch that Tara Robles was back at our school. She was no stranger to me — I met her before she transferred away at the end of the ninth grade — but I could scarcely recognize the person she became during her absence. While I was waiting for the start of fifth period physics class, she came in and plopped down next to me. Her first words to me in over a year: “We meet again, Gale Jones. Did my number one fan miss me?”

We first spoke to each other almost exactly two years earlier, at a big football game I was roped into attending back in ’89. Even in a country that preferred hockey — in a city that cheered for the Leafs, out of lack of better options — high school football was still a mainstay. The differences between Canadian and American regulations annoyed the serious sports fans in the crowd, but the bleachers buzzed with energy even as a trickle of rain dampened the mood. The most excited were my fellow freshmen — the “niners”, as they were called with endearing derision — who by mid-October had settled into their rightful places at the bottom of their tribal hierarchies. They showed their devotion by chanting abridged school names as battle cries. 

I never cared about football, so I will make no attempt to describe the action. At some point the players exited the field, high on the adrenaline of playing a back-and-forth bloodbath. Cheerleaders from the opposing school came out for their halftime performance. Besides their glistening exposed legs, the only other thing I noticed about them was that their wet gold uniforms looked more like a light brown or a dark beige. After they finished and skipped off the field, it was our school’s turn. In galloped girls adorned in bloody crimson, much to the delight of our side and the muted silence of the other. Following the example of Timothy Clement, who was clapping and cheering beside me like a madman, I went all out until my hands strung and my throat was hoarse and raspy. 

When the red-clad lasses arranged themselves into a human pyramid, I credit my baboon instincts for how I noticed that the smallest of the bunch, perched high above the others, was Tara Robles from math class. Even with all the colorful face paint, dramatic makeup, and glossy exuberance plastered on her face, I could tell she loathed every second of it. No doubt, she was roped into cheerleading by some pushy upperclassmen. I did not know her, having exchanged no more than a glance from across the classroom, but I knew her to be a diligent yet uninterested student. Unlike Catherine, a born tryhard and the eternal Queen of the Goody Two Shoes, Tara did not treat class as a chance to flaunt her knowledge by shooting up her hand. Instead, she was the type to write down thoughtful inquiries and leave them for after class. While packing my things after the bell rang, I would often see her stay behind, waiting for Catherine to finish boasting and gloating about something or another to the teacher. When it was Tara’s turn, she would politely ask the questions she had about the lecture. Until then, she stood around and rolled her eyes at the Queen of the Goody Two Shoes, not knowing I was there to witness it all.

Tara was hardworking and humble. But more than that, she was fundamentally honest. All this I came to know from watching her instead of paying attention to my own studies. So seeing her of all people living a lie for a crowd of her peers was odd, to say the least. In any case, the moment passed. The cheerleaders neatly disassembled the pyramid; and Tara, no longer at the center of attention, looked much more at ease during the rest of the routine.

Sometime during the second half — I think the score was tied — I went down below the bleachers to get away from the noise. At the concession booth, I bought a small bag of popcorn without an accompanying soda. Unwilling to pay to quench my thirst, I went to the restroom area for some water. Standing by the drinking fountain was none other than the reluctant cheerleader in question, picking at the label on an empty Évian bottle. Sensing my presence, she glanced over and nodded. I nodded back. “Good work out there,” I said before ducking down to catch the stream.

“Thanks. Oh!” Recognition appeared in her voice. I wiped my mouth and looked up at my mortified classmate. “You’re in my math class! Your name is . . .”

“Gale Jones. Nice to meet you, Tara Robles.”  Before she could apologize, I rushed to spare her feelings. “Don’t worry, I’m just good with names.”

She nodded graciously. “That’s seriously a useful skill to have.”

“That it is.” 

Right there is where I could have left the conversation; who knows how different my life would be if I did? But rather than say a polite goodbye, I spoke my mind. 

“There’s no need to force yourself, you know.”

“Excuse me?”

Crap, I thought to myself seeing her raised eyebrow. There was no backing away, though. “I don’t think fake smiles suit you. Based on what I know, at least.”

Her expression softened, but she was still frowning. “Oh? And what do you know?”

I paused, and decided I might as well say it. “I think we’re kind of the same. I want to be my own person, just like you do.”

“Be your own person? What does that mean?”

“It’s hard to explain. It’s a feeling I have.”

“Hmm.” She hummed, and took my place at the fountain to fill her bottle. “You seriously might be spot on. Looks like names aren’t the only thing you’re good with.”

“Thanks.”

Another place where the conversation could have ended. This time, it was her who took the lead.

“You see right through my bullshit, don’t you?”

Even such a mild curse word caught my attention when it came from Tara Robles. There was something special — something stimulating — about hearing her say bad words and speak her mind. A nice girl like her was laying herself bare, and for someone like me. How could I not offer her the whole truth?

“I think I admire how you go about things,” I said.

“And how do I go about things?”

“You maintain a stiff upper lip, but also stay true to who you are. You do what needs to be done while keeping your head.”

Her embarrassment was plain to see, as was her happiness. “Thanks for the vote of confidence.”

“Anytime,” I said. “Seeing the good in people is important.”

“Agreed.” She giggled. “I now see the good in the quiet boy who sleeps during math class.”

“Hey, it was just that once.”

“You totally snored a little, too.”

“That was more important to remember than my name?”

“Absolutely,” she said with a straight face before bursting into laughter. I laughed along; her real smile was quite fetching. Meanwhile, she had finished filling the plastic bottle. She twisted the cap back on and tossed it between her hands. “So, Gale Jones. In your eyes, I must look seriously out of place.”

In my eyes, she looked anything but. “If you ask me, you look good wherever you are. Sorry, that came out wrong!” I rushed to correct myself. “Not that you don’t look good in that outfit.”

“Oh?” Tara smirked. “So it’s just the outfit?”

“No, no!” Hot blood rushed to my cheeks as she enjoyed herself at my expense. “It’s your real smile — no, all of you. You look great.”

“Flattery will dig you out of any hole.” She grinned and took aim at a trash can; her bottle flew in with a loud clang. “I was about to ditch and go home. But I think I’ll stay around, in case our side wins. What do you think, Gale Jones?”

I nodded, happy that she took my words to heart — and that I might see her out on the field again. “Good idea.”

“Here, have a parting gift.” She struck a pose, cocking her hip to show off her gentle curves. She flipped her hair and put on a movie star face. “For the one and only fan of my smile.”

Before I could say anything, she swiped a handful of popcorn from my bag and stuffed it into her mouth as she galloped off — maybe to wherever the rest of our school’s cheerleaders were, maybe back to Venus.  Before she disappeared from my sight, she hollered back, “Come say hi after the game!”

When I returned to the bleachers to watch the rest of the game, I tried my best to hide all evidence of my pubescent sexual frustration. In the end, our school lost the game by one point — a rouge, according to Timothy. Whatever that meant. While our side booed Canadian football rules, the opposing school’s cheerleaders went onto the field for a pseudo-golden victory display. We, the conquered, could only look on as our foes celebrated their hard-earned win in the evening rain. Our school’s cheerleaders did not perform again. There was talk of an after-party happening at some upper year’s house, but I called it a night and went home. I found myself scanning the crowd a little more than usual. In the end, I did not find who I was looking for.