Time Flies (31 page)

The first thing I saw was my trio of box spring ladies. They were perched side by side in a softly lit niche set into the wall on one side of the huge beach stone fireplace. Their metal hoop skirts
sparkled like jewels. The petunias in the hat of the first box spring lady were still perky, and her parasol was tilted like she was shading them from the sun. The second box spring lady held her parasol out in front of her like a weapon, as though she were protecting her friends. The boat propeller hat tied under the chin of the third lady gave her just the right nautical touch, as if I’d somehow known all along that she’d end up on display by the side of the sea.

A long rectangular table blocked our entrance. Two women with freshly frosted hair and no-nonsense looks on their faces sat behind it like bouncers. There was a sign on one side of the table that said
A–L
, and on the other, one that said
M–Z
. There were exactly two name tags left on the beachy blue tablecloth.

“It’s about time, Barb,” one of the women said to B.J. “You know you were supposed to be here at six thirty sharp to get ready for the committee receiving line.”

B.J. pretended to stick her index finger down her throat and kept walking.

The other woman stood up to block her. “Wait,” she said, “you forgot your name tag. We made special ones for the committee members.” She pointed to her own tag, which said
ALICE ADAMS WARRICK!
in royal blue Sharpie next to a black-and-white copy of her yearbook picture. “See, we get little gold stars next to our names . . .”

B.J. rolled her eyes. “Adorable. But I don’t need a name tag. Everyone will know who I am. And if not, oh, well, their loss.”

ALICE ADAMS WARRICK!
crossed her arms over her chest. “I can’t let you in without one, Barb. You were at the meeting when we voted on it.”

“Fine,” B.J. said. She grabbed her name tag, peeled off the back, and stuck it onto her forehead upside down.

The first woman shrugged. She took a sip of her drink and then handed me my name tag. “Hi, Melanie,” she said. She pointed to her own name tag, where her senior picture showed a person from an entirely different lifetime. “Bev Braxton. I know, you never would have recognized me. Sorry to hear about you and Kurt.” She lowered her voice. “You were always too good for him.”

B.J. grabbed me by the arm and yanked. She peeled her name tag off her forehead as we worked our way through the crowd.

Off to our right, a guy in a suit was leaning over a table dipping a shrimp into some cocktail sauce. B.J. tiptoed over and pressed her name tag to his butt.

He turned around and smiled boozily at her.

“Oops,” she said. “Thought you were someone else.” She reached past him for a shrimp.

“Classy,” I said. We worked our way through the crowded room. B.J. stopped to talk to someone and I kept going, on a mission to find the restroom. As much as I couldn’t wait to get here, now I couldn’t shake the feeling that I didn’t belong, that I was impersonating someone who had gone to high school with all these strangers.

B.J. caught up to me. “Should I Stay or Should I Go” blasted out at a deafening volume, heavy on the bass, from two enormous speakers that seemed to have weathered as many decades as the people in the room.

“What?” B.J. yelled. “Are you kidding me? This isn’t one of our high school songs. I was practically a
homeowner
when this song came out.”

“So?” I yelled. “It’s a good song.”

“Some idiot on the committee had the crazy idea that if they played the music that came after us, it would make us feel younger, but I know we voted it down. Wait till I get my hands on that music subcommittee.”

B.J. stomped off into the crowd. I found the door to the restroom and pushed it open.

I took my place behind five or six women already in line. Two other women looked up from the sinks. “Melanieeeee,” one of them screamed.

“Hiii,” I said as I tried frantically to remember her name. I knew it began with a
J
, but was it Janie or Jeannie. Janet? I squinted at her nametag, trying to decipher it. Wouldn’t you think they could have at least made the font a little bigger?

“Kitteeee,” she said. She shook her hands dry as she lurched over to give me a hug.

“Ouch,” I said.

“Are you okaaaay?” she said. Her breath was strong and retro. Kahlúa Sombrero? White Russian?

“Fine,” I said. “Nice to see you again.” A stall opened and someone else I didn’t recognize emerged. The line inched forward.

Kitty Kahlúa Breath stepped behind me. “Ohmigod,” she screamed. “Ohmigod, ohmigod, ohmigod. Did Kurt do that to you?”

The line disbanded and re-formed behind my back. I thought about making a run for it, but my Tab-filled bladder wouldn’t let me.

A gasp filled the air.

“Relax,” I said. “It’s just purple marker.” I heard another gasp. “Really. Skin Skribe surgical marker.”

“You were always too good for Kurt,” somebody behind me said.

I peed as quickly as I could and managed to escape the restroom. B.J. was nowhere in sight, so I decided my game plan would be to cover every square inch of the room to make it easy for Finn to find me. Casually, so it wouldn’t look like I was trying too hard to be found.

The Beastie Boys were singing “Fight for Your Right to Party.” The après-swim crowd was just coming in, carrying their clothes and dripping water everywhere. The guy in his boxer shorts gave another Tarzan yell. He ran over and pretended to belly-flop on one of the tables.

“Pig pile,” somebody bellowed.

CHAPTER 33

Blue and white crepe-paper streamers zigzagged overhead. Bouquets of Best Class Evah helium balloons rose from flowerpots on each table. A few balloons had managed to break free and slip past the crepe paper to roll around on the wooden ceiling.

My stomach growled again. I grabbed a handful of Goldfish from a fish-shaped dish on a table and ate them fast, before anyone could tell me not to.

Mobiles made from actual vinyl record albums dangled from the ceiling around the DJ station on one side of the room. On the other side, big rectangles of fluorescent yellow and green poster board, already starting to curl at the edges from the seaside humidity, decorated the wall behind the bar with retro drink recipes written in huge, Boomer-friendly letters.

TEQUILA SUNRISE

2 oz. tequila

4 oz. orange juice

³
/
₄
oz. grenadine syrup

Pour tequila and orange juice over ice in tall glass and stir. Tilt glass and pour grenadine down side. It will go straight to the bottom and rise up through the drink like a sunrise. Garnish with maraschino cherry and orange slice.

LONG SLOW COMFORTABLE SCREW UP AGAINST THE WALL

1 oz. sloe gin

1 oz. vodka

1 oz. Southern Comfort

1 oz. Galliano

orange juice

Mix all ingredients in tall glass filled with ice. Find a wall.

SEX ON THE BEACH

1
¹
/
₂
oz. vodka

1
¹
/
₂
oz. peach schnapps

2 oz. cranberry juice

2 oz. orange juice

Mix all ingredients in tall glass filled with ice. Find a beach.

I walked the outskirts of the room counterclockwise, hoping I’d recognize Finn if I saw him. Maybe casually waiting for him to find me wasn’t the way to go after all. Would it be totally embarrassing to have him paged?

Madonna’s voice joined the party with a rousing rendition of “Vogue.” The dance floor filled with people who were old enough to know better. The boxer short brigade had decided to air-dry and piled their clothes on an empty chair. They surged onto the dance floor en masse, and the dry people gave them their space. One of the swimmers was wearing only her very nice animal print bra and underpants set with strands of blue and white crepe paper knotted around her waist like a beach wrap. She looked amazingly good for our age. I wondered whether she’d had a pre-reunion tune-up.

I watched as the sea of dancers framed their aging faces and threw their hands behind their balding heads, remembering that short window of time when the whole world was striking poses and vogue-ing it all day long. It was definitely post-high-school, probably post-college, too, and that realization made me feel not younger, the way the music subcommittee intended, but practically ancient. Like so much of life, “Vogue” had passed me right by. Was I married already? Had Trevor and Troy been born yet? What was I
doing
when I could have been vogue-ing away?

A group of women were dancing together in a circle near the edge of the dance floor, flipping their expensive hair and flashing their freshly painted nails as they vogued. One of them caught my eye and motioned for me to join them. I smiled and backed away.

I turned and started walking in the other direction, narrowing my circles to make sure I’d casually covered every square inch
where Finn could be waiting. I had a horrible feeling I’d eventually end up in the exact center of the room, twirling in a circle like the cheese who stands alone in “The Farmer in the Dell.”

Even with all the windows open and big ceiling fans circling frantically, I was starting to sweat. I worked my way up to the bar. First I’d have some water. Then I’d get a drink before it was too late. Would Sex on the Beach be too obvious? Finn would find me sitting at the bar and ask me what I was drinking. I’d look at him and smile and tell him to ask the bartender.

Years from now, he’d still be telling the story.
So there I was, looking for the love of my life everywhere, and I finally find her up at the bar. And what do you think she’s drinking? So what could we do—we headed for the beach and stayed there till the sun came up
.

Of course, we wouldn’t really have had actual sex on the beach. You had to be young and foolish to put up with all that sand, not to mention the fact that you’d be lucky to get a blanket, let alone a sexy top sheet to drape strategically over the body parts that had started to show some wear and tear. But we’d have sat on the beach and talked about old times, and planned some new ones, and kissed the night away.

Halfway to the bar, I spotted a woman I was pretty sure had been in Finn’s and my Algebra class. She still wore her hair long and parted in the middle. I wove my way over to her.

I squinted at her name tag. “You look great, Carrie,” I said.

“Connie.” She squinted at mine. “You, too, Melody,” she said.

“Hey, you haven’t seen Finn Miller, have you? There’s a quadratic equation I need to ask him about.”

“Let’s Dance” blasted out, burying her answer.

“What?” I yelled.

“Gone,” she yelled.

I made a final loop of the room, mortified to realize I was fighting back tears like a lovesick teenager. I heard B.J. yell my name from across the room somewhere, but I ignored her.

Finn Miller was gone. GONE. We’d passed each other like ships in the night, and now he was probably back in his hotel room, wondering how I could have done this to him. How I could have broken his heart twice in one lifetime.

The bar area was packed, no surprise, but there was a vacant chair down toward one end. I worked my way over, saying excuse me again and again. Finally, I wiggled my way up to the empty space.

David Bowie finished singing and the room burst into applause.

The bartender put a cocktail napkin in front of me. “Last call,” she said.

I looked at the clock on the wall behind her. In three minutes, I’d turn into a pumpkin to match the one on my back. I’d return to my hotel room and sit out on the pathetic little balcony and pout until the sun came up.

“I’ll have a Long Slow Comfortable Screw Up Against the Wall,” I said. “Or a Sex on the Beach. Whichever is better. You decide.”

The bartender grinned. “I’ve had pretty good luck with both of them.”

“Surprise me.”

She walked away. I tapped the guy sitting next to the empty chair on the shoulder. “Is this seat taken?” I yelled.

Kurt turned around and looked me right in the eyes.

CHAPTER 34