A priceless opportunity to gloat

HIGH SCHOOL reunions have one purpose: if you were unpopular and managed to make a success of your life, you get to gloat before the now balding, previously popular people who have five children, a failed marriage and a dead-end job under their belts.

My friend Ruby came storming into my house, nearly taking the front door down on her way in, with news of our imminent 10-year high school reunion.

The big day is apparently less than a month away, and Ruby insists that we have to look awesome as we make our grand entrance.

She announced that we would have to put in extra hours at gym, and, ripping a burger out of my hand, decided that we should just stop eating altogether.

She also thought we should rehearse tactful ways of introducing our important, meaningful jobs, and practise how we would gracefully handle the many questions that would surely follow.

She hasn't told me about this yet, but I found a document that she prepared. It details her every accomplishment over the last decade. This includes being the youngest person to join the local civic association and to be voted onto its executive committee, and that she once attended a protest against the culling of the poor bunnies on Robben Island.

I think she is planning to dish these presentations out at the reunion to anyone who pays her the slightest bit of attention. I actually have no idea how to save her from herself this time.

Why, I asked, would she want to put herself through all of that misery to impress the same people who probably would not even remember she was in their class?

Apparently, she felt, this was her one chance to prove that even though she was deemed a nerd at school, she had turned out pretty well.

But the real reason behind the lunacy, I suspect, is a certain crush she had on a certain boy from Grade 8 all the way to matric.

Ruby's antics catapulted me back to those formative five years. When I think of my high school days, I suppose it was not all that bad.

Besides the overwhelming sense of teen angst, our biggest worry was what to wear to parties, as opposed to missing the tax return deadline. The height of embarrassment was a pimple in an inopportune place with no hope of covering it up. These days, embarrassment means you have probably done something considered illegal in several African countries, and had it published on the internet.

I remember Ruby's love interest changed each week. But as was the case with most of us, there was one boy she believed she was in love with, but never mustered up the courage to tell him. Unsent love letters - written on paper decorated with flowers and scented with what she thought was pleasant perfume - piled up in her desk drawer. The letters were almost always sealed with an unsightly kiss of red lips.

Thinking back, I can't recall where exactly she got the bright red lipstick from because I do not remember anyone ever wearing the ghastly shades of red or pink we sealed those letters with. They must have been leftovers from the '80s. Not that the '90s were any better as far as fashion went.

In fact, I pulled out an old photograph taken in the prime of our teen years and - before burning it - wondered how any of us ever solicited interest from the opposite sex. The lipstick colour of choice was black - to match the black and orange nail polish. Accessories included at least three neckpieces worn at the same time. These were made of beads, yin yangs, crystal balls clutched by a silver claw, etc. Oh, those were strange times indeed. And our parents knew better than to talk some sense into us before letting us leave the house looking like gothic hip hop hippies.

Not only were those strange times, they were fickle too. The night of our matric ball, which was the last time we saw most of our classmates, was the night Ruby's fixation on this boy ended. Or so I thought.

Not only did I find an "Ode to Ruby's productive life" document, I also stumbled upon a letter addressed to this boy. (Well, I guess by now he would be a man). In the letter she declares her undying love for him, and reckons they were destined to be together. After further snooping, I found a packed suitcase. Yip, in the letter she suggests that they run away together, something they should have done 10 years ago.

I have a feeling this is going to end badly. I bumped into said boy-man and he has since exchanged his earrings for cufflinks, covered his tattoos with respectable shirts, lost most of his hair, is a father of three and drives a sedan.

I don't think any number of tequilas or scented letters will convince him to run away with my dear Ruby. Now to convince her.