I stepped back from the sign-in table, pinning my panther shaped name tag on the lapel of my linen blazer. Thirty years. It was hard to believe so much time had passed since high school graduation and the last time I had seen or spoken to most of the people milling around the vestibule and banquet hall. I hadn’t attended any of our previous reunions and I wouldn’t be at this one except business brought me to town.

I wandered around looking at the displays the reunion committee put together to inform us of the activities of our fellow classmates from the glorious class of ’76. I paused at the “In Memoriam” table, draped in black and gold, our school colors, but also in this instance, the colors of mourning. Twelve members of the class were already gone.  I knew, all too well, about two of them; my good buddy Howie and my dear friend Carolyn. Howie succumbed to AIDS during the early days of the epidemic and Carolyn died by her own hand, a victim of deep depression.

I stared deep into the smiling blue eyes of Howie’s senior picture; his spirit still alive on that flat surface. He was our class clown and our school mascot the last two years of high school. He hid his homosexuality well. Only a few of his closest friends knew. Once we graduated, he left town quickly, headed across the country to the gay Mecca of San Francisco. By the mid ‘80s, he was sick and alone, ostracized by friends and family. He stayed with me in Atlanta until he died. I spent many hours with him as he wasted away. “I miss you, bud,” I mouthed at his picture.

Carolyn’s deep sadness wasn’t obvious in her senior picture. In it, she fairly glowed. We knew now she was good at hiding her insecurities and unhappiness. Though quiet and sometimes introspective, she always seemed so happy and to have all she would ever need. She was intelligent and beautiful and popular, although she didn’t seek or bask in her popularity like some did. In September of 2000, Carolyn took her husband’s handgun and ended a life we all thought was charmed. The note she left behind for her husband was simple. “I’m too tired and too sad to go on from here. I love you. Please continue to live, to laugh, to love.” We never knew why Carolyn took her life.

I moved on to the “Where Are They Now?” tables. Each member of the class was asked to send in a copy of a recent photograph and a short biography. Along with a copy of our senior picture the entries were put into notebooks and scattered across the tables for us to look at. Some of the biographies, the ones the committee found most interesting, were mounted and displayed prominently. I expected the displayed biographies to belong to the reunion committee members or their best friends, so I just glanced at most of them. Then one caught my eye.

There I was, my recent photograph and my senior picture enlarged to glossy 8x10s, my biography and copies of some of my articles and accompanying photographs displayed on a black background with my name, “Shelby Livingston,” in large gold letters across the top. I stood there, staring, my mouth hanging open in shock. I couldn’t believe they put my life and my work on display.

“What do you think, Shelby?” a voice from my past asked.

I whirled around and stood face to face with the first person who helped me realize I could succeed at anything I put my mind to. She was a student teacher in several of my classes my senior year, including journalism. I privately credited much of my success as a freelance writer and photographer to her. She was now head of the English department at the high school.

“Ms. Gilmore!” Without thinking, I threw my arms around her neck in the hug I always wanted to give her but didn’t dare so many years ago. She returned my hug just as enthusiastically. I felt a bit of my heart melt.

“After all these years, I believe it would be okay to call me Valerie,” she said, laughing. She stood back, still grasping me by the shoulders.

We looked each other up and down. She was still a beautiful and youthful woman, although I knew she had to be in her mid-fifties. Her smile lit up a room. Her hair, cut short in an attractive way that accented her high cheek bones, was a rich brown with only a few stray silver hairs. I wanted to sit and talk for hours but we were suddenly surrounded by other people vying for her attention.

“We’ll talk before the evening is over.” She turned her attention to the others.

I turned back to the display of my achievements and shook my head again in wonder. In high school, I was avoided by the popular crowd and only had a few close friends. After graduation, my friends and I scattered to colleges and towns across the US. Few of us returned to our hometown except for family gatherings and special events such as this. To see my accomplishments displayed in such a manner surprised and pleased me in a way I truly hadn’t expected.

I turned to move down the line of tables when a familiar shock of bright red hair caught my eye. The person I considered one of my best friends for sixteen years of my life and who became my worst enemy during my seventeenth year was headed straight for me. I looked around for a quick escape but there was none.

“Shelby, how are you?” she asked. Naomi’s voice was ragged from the effects of too many cigarettes and her skin was rough from working outdoors for long hours without proper protection. “It’s been a long time, huh?”

“Yes, Naomi, it has been a long time.” Instinctively I was on guard, even though it was over thirty years since she deeply hurt me and my friends.

“You look good.” I couldn’t say the same about her, so I just nodded my thanks. “Looks like you’re doing well, too,” she added, acknowledging the display over my shoulder.

 “How long are you in town, Shel?” she asked, using the nickname only my closest friends used. I wanted to tell her she had no right to use it, but I was trying to let the past go and move on, something easier said than done, even after thirty years.

“I’m not sure yet, but probably another week or so.”

“Can we get together and talk. Please?” she asked, an uncertain note in her voice. I looked at her warily, wondering what she wanted. Just then the chimes announcing dinner rang. I followed the rest of the class into the dining room without giving Naomi an answer.

The rest of the evening passed quickly. People who had little to do with me in high school now wanted to pretend we had been best friends. Amazing how a little success and name recognition could change the way people acted. The few people I had been close to were not in attendance, with the exception of Naomi, whom I avoided as much as possible.