The class picture is rolled up. Despite all the books that I’ve put on top of it to straighten it out, it still curls up the same way it did when the photography studio first distributed the pictures to us. Pry it open and it shrinks closed, afraid of what memories it may bring back. Don’t spread it out, though, and its panoramic grandeur will never be appreciated. Rubber bands. Perhaps it is for the better. On the back of the glossy side is the matte white writing surface. I chose not to have anyone sign it; without enough people it wouldn’t have looked impressive. I never look for myself when I examine the picture. Instead my eyes gravitate toward the kids with the painted faces and red shirts, the lot of them spelling out, “SENIORS 2003”. The ‘R,’ with glossy black silk feathering her shoulders, wore a beaming smile. Anyone can spot it instantaneously. Well, I certainly do.
Fifth grade first sat me next to her in math class, and the first ‘Problem of the Week’ made her my partner. How many oranges are in a triangular stack — 101 at the very bottom? I did my best impression of Carl Gauss; 101/2 × (1 + 101) = 5151. She disagreed.
“The row above always has one less orange than the row below?”
“Yup. Think of it like many different little triangles. So three oranges in each triangle. Count the number of triangles.”
“But you’re skipping the ones in between.”
“Yeah, that’s why it’s one less.”
“OK, you’re confusing me.”
Maybe I didn’t do such a good job of explaining, but I was right — definitely right — and we kept on arguing about how to count it, until a friend of hers, who happened to sit next to us, snidely remarked that we were an old married couple. We shut up. Miss Okazaki picked another pair to do the problem at the front. Yet I liked old married couples. It meant I was able to talk to more people than just close friends and family.
She was a genuinely good and sweet. Although I don’t think anyone would say that she was unattractive, and she had a fairly good figure, but I certainly didn’t think she would win any beauty pageants, either. Still, she was no head turner and at that time I still thought that fighter planes and supercars were the only things that mattered in the world.
Eighth grade then came, and intoxication by hormones came in full force. My vision of this lady would immortalize into ideal. My downfall.
Each time she smiled, each time she smiled, each time she would shout at her friends in excitement — I would remember. I would keep these memories in my heart; she had a spirit for life that was rivaled by few others. Bubbly and effervescent, she carried herself with energy — unparalleled by skin tone, bone structure, or lock of hair.
Then came the big dance — where potential meets performance and expectations meet realization. Following authentically with the cliché plotlines of Disney shows, I found myself bound to the social lines of school. She was cool. Reality never felt so cruel.
Say something, I told myself. She doesn’t remember you.
And so I held myself back with classic introversion. I had bigger fish to fry, I thought, like saying “Hello” to acquaintances across hallways, going up to teachers and asking questions, and looking people in the eye.
As time passed, I created a world of promise for myself, approaching it with deliberate method and perfection in the most technical sense. Public speeches were the easiest. Drop in a script, the right diction, rhythm, and tone, and I could wow a good 500 to 1000 on any given day. My fiery disposition with my violin and bow never failed to elicit applause and accolades. I improved even my weaker attributes. I practiced mock conversations with various different people in my head and perfected the liar’s eye stare as well as the small talk template — weather, news, sports, gossip. On the basketball court, I would take the ball right to the hoop, never settling for jumpers. I overcame my fears.
Tenth grade sat me across from her in English. I decided I would use my newfound social charms on her that year.
“Can I borrow your pen?”
“Yeah.”
“Thanks.”
As well as that worked, I then decided to write a letter to her. I wrote it during my sleepless nights, all everyday of them. I told her how I thought she was the most wonderful person I had ever met, how she always seemed to brighten up my day, how those radiant strands of hair were beautiful beyond comprehension, how I wanted to share the energy that she had. I did not tell her about the throbbing chest pains that made the word ‘heartache’ as literal as ever, the longer route I took to my classes because I didn’t want to see her in the hallways, but if I did I would somehow keep her in my view until I could not distinguish black from blond.
I had that letter signed, closed, sealed, and ready for delivery but my hands mistook paper for hot coal.
Graduation sat me a row directly in front of her. I looked forward mostly, never back. I steal my glances from the class picture.
