This was something I wrote while I was stalled on other projects. Not super-long but hopefully it's cohesive. For those following Red Roses, I'm still at it. Chapter 3 should be my next post but I keep tinkering with it because I want to get it right. :)
As always, all feedback (positive or negative) is welcome. Standard disclaimer for my crappy copy-editing applies. Thanks for reading!
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Samantha paused at the outer doors of the gym building. Bass rhythms vibrated the glass as dance music played beyond. The self-doubt, which had been just a flicker in the back of her brain, grew to a roaring fire. She closed her eyes and took a deep breath.
Courage, lady.
She pulled the worn metal handle and opened the door. The slight squeal of metal on metal reached her ears and a glimmer of a smile flitted across her lips. That door had squeaked when she last opened it thirty years ago. Samantha stepped inside.
The volume of the music increased. A pair of long tables stretched across the hallway. A banner draped around the long edges of the tables, falling to the floor. Stitched in blue, the words, "Welcome Back, Center Valley High Class of 1989!" ran the length of the white fabric.
Two women sat behind the table. Each wore a form-fitting dress that looked two sizes too small. Their coifed hair and gaudy jewelry bespoke a certain degree of wealth. Both appeared simultaneously bored and excited.
Even three decades on, Samantha recognized them, from the ill-fitting outfits to the nose-in-the-air attitudes they displayed.
Some things never change,
she thought.
Samantha approached the tables. One of the attendants looked up and smiled a plastic smile. "Welcome back, fellow Cougar."
"Hello, Marjorie. Hello, Carol."
The woman flushed with appreciation. Marjorie, the one who'd first spoken, said, "You remember us? Wow, we must look just like we used to back then." Carol tittered her agreement.
"Something like that," Samantha said with a smile. "Or I read your name tags."
"Oh, right." A note of hesitancy entered Marjorie's voice. "I, uh ... I apologize but your name escapes me."
"Samantha Marcos."
Marjorie's mouth fell open. Samantha didn't have to ask; she knew the woman was struggling to reconcile the skinny, acne-faced teenager she'd been with the woman she was now.
"Wow," Carol said, rubbing her double-chin. "You, uh, filled out nicely."
"Thanks. I hit a growth spurt after graduation." Samantha pointed to the rows of name tags. "Can I sign in?"
"What? Oh, yes, of course." Marjorie pushed the guest book register and a pen across the table while Carol flipped through the name tags until she found Samantha's.
Samantha signed her name. She resisted glancing up and down the already-scrawled columns to see if he was here. She handed the pen to Marjorie, took her tag, and pinned it to the lapel of her sea-green dress. "Thanks, ladies." She strode past them to the doors to the gym. Behind her, Samantha heard Marjorie launch into the same litany of greeting to some new arrival.
She glanced around the gym as she entered. The immediate area was filled with circular tables and chairs. On the left, the organizers had set up a buffet and bar—probably in violation of state laws concerning alcohol and schools, Samantha thought, but in small-town Ohio, the school board and police no doubt looked the other way. Beyond the seas of tables was an open dance floor, already occupied by a handful of gyrating couples. A DJ and his rig sat at the far end. The lights were low but not really dark.
Samantha guessed about two-hundred fifty guests already circulated. She thought that if about half were dates and spouses, then there were a hundred to a hundred-fifty of her old classmates, out of a graduating class of two hundred twenty-nine.
Good odds. Just maybe—
She shook her head to clear the thought.
The rhythm of a long-forgotten pop band busted in a lip-synching scandal reverberated through the gymnasium. Samantha snickered at the memory; they'd been so popular at the time. The music of the late eighties had never quite been her thing. She preferred the tunes from the seventies.
Just one more thing we had in common.
She made her way to the bar, scanning the crowd. She caught a few glances thrown her way. Samantha was certain most of them didn't recognize her. At graduation, she'd been a gangly five-foot-five scrawny teenager with black hair she always kept in a pony tail, thick glasses, and no makeup. Her social skills had been non-existant. Now, at five-nine with some corrective surgery to her eyes, a good diet, and a steady regimen of exercise, Samantha knew she turned a few heads. Her breasts were on the smaller side but her long legs displayed a runner's tone and her stomach was flat and hips slender. She wore her raven hair—still glossy and vibrant—straight and past her shoulders. Even the few strands of silver peeking through seemed to enhance her look rather than detract from it.
"Women pay a lot of money for those kinds of highlights," one of her friends had told her months ago, in a jealous voice, "and you got them for free."
The man behind the bar acknowledged her with a nod and a smile. She returned it. "Hi, Will."
He peered at her tag and his eyes widened. "Samantha? Wow. You, uh ..."
"Yep. Can I get a white wine?"
"Sure, coming right up."
She accepted the glass from him. "How'd you get dragooned into this duty?"
He shrugged and grinned. "I volunteered. I figured most folks would be by the bar at some point, so it seemed like a good place to be able to catch everyone."
She nodded at his reasoning. Will Nichols had been one of the more popular kids in their class, simply by his friendly, outgoing nature. "You still here in town?"
"Yeah, I took over Dad's job at the mill. Foreman now and pretty much run the place, though I've done some bar-tending as a side gig—you know, mostly as a hobby, just 'cause I enjoy it—so this second nature. You remember Clarissa Gomez?"
Samantha thought. "A couple years behind us? Her folks moved up from New Mexico our senior year, right? I didn't know her too well but she seemed nice enough."
"Yeah. We ended up dating and got married." He smiled and held up his hand, sporting a thin gold band. "Twenty-four years now. Two boys and two girls."
"That's great, Will. Is she here tonight?"
"No, she stayed home with the kids. I'll tell her you said hello. Are you married?"
A slight sense of sadness hit her. "I was."
Sensing her evident distress, Will only nodded.
Samantha held her glass in both hands. "Will, I have to ask. Have you seen Alex tonight?"
"Alex Yensen? Not yet but I know he responded saying he was coming." The corners of Will's mouth turned up in a brief smile. "Alone. No guest."
Her heartbeat accelerated just a hair. "Okay. Thanks. We can talk some more later."
"Sure thing." Two women she didn't recognize approached the bar. Will turned aside to deal with them.
Samantha took her drink and meandered away. She chatted with a few folks she'd known at an acquaintance level in school, just generally catching up. Aside from remarking on her physical changes, everyone seemed surprised that she was also the head of a successful marketing firm in Philadelphia. More than one remarked that she had emerged from her shell.
She watched a woman she thought was their former class president, dance with a man she didn't know. Watching them sway together elicited a host of emotions, none of which Samantha wanted to deal with. She sensed a presence at her elbow and turned to it.
Even in the three-inch heels that put her at six feet, she was shorter than the behemoth before her. Despite his height and broad shoulders, the new arrival had the look of a man who was melting. A roll of fat hung over his belt and even with his sports coat, his love-handles were evident. He had just a fringe of hair around the perimeter of his balding head. His eyes glinted with arrogant lust as he stared at her and the greasy smile on his face caused his jowls to quiver. "Hey, Samantha. Remember me?"
"Yes, Mike. I remember you." For numerous reasons, she'd never forget the school's All-State quarterback. In a perverse way, she was glad to see time had been less than kind to him.
