Thursday, 28 August 2003 | High school

Like a four-leaf clover. No, a wheel. No, wait, like a Confederate flag. My high school was positioned in the middle of a field, in the middle of the four small Southern towns that sent their sons and daughters there to learn about civics and grammar and acne and dating.

Somehow, at my high school, there was not the diversity of social groups that you find at other high schools. Chunky gold nuggets, however, did attend my high school. They dangled from thick gold chains that fell over the soft cloth of turtlenecks; they adorned odd-smelling shirts of raw silk; they rested on top of blouses covered with embedded rhinestones.

Boys who got perms in the backs of their heads attended my high school, too. They twisted their acid wash jeans at the cuffs and rolled them high enough to make room for high-top Nikes and scrunched white tube socks. They played their Skynard while leaning on Cameros in the parking lot, the skin above their lips hiding underneath savannas of peach fuzz.

Curling irons and hair spray built the girls' hair that attended my school, stiff helmets that framed the tan baseline-rimmed faces, rows of pink eyelids, and sugar bowls full of powder. Keds and Sam&Libby made themselves at home on the tips of the crossed legs bobbing underneath the desks; Polo logos were stitched on top of beating hearts; Oakley sunglasses on chords hung around tanned necks.

The cafeteria offered cream-filled doughnuts and soggy pizza squares, and the commons area presented a rainbow of carbonated caffeinated beverages. The overly strict principal stood tall and skinny in the hallway outside of his office and had a perpetual look of disapproval on his face. When he rose to power during my sophomore year, he was quick to ban the following articles of clothing: open-toed shoes, two pair of shorts worn at the same time (one over top of the other), Umbros, tank tops, "offensive" t-shirts, and skirts that didn't fall past the tips of girls' fingertips when their arms were pressed against their sides.

It seems odd to me now, but during my freshman year, there was a sanctioned "smoking pit" outside of the building, where fourteen-to-eighteen-year-olds could light up during breaks and in the five-minute rushes between classes.

There weren't many parties produced by my high school; one had to go elsewhere for those. There were sports, of course, and there was almost always a pack of people hanging around a truck or two in a certain grocery store parking lot, killing time and blaring music and flirting. If they weren't in the parking lot, they were probably in a certain nearby town which was famous for its "cruising" problem—teenagers stop-starting at 5 miles-per-hour down the main street, whistling and strutting, laying low in reclining seats with single hands propped on top of steering wheels. Promises made between passing open car windows, maybe to meet in the McDonald's parking lot before circling around the block another time. Class rings, gossip exchanged.

Despite all of the ways I felt displaced in high school, I did have acquaintances and friends (some of whom I'm still in touch with). Which is why I find it so annoying that there is no 10-year reunion scheduled for my class. Which means I don't get to participate in this reportedly surreal social experiment, full of stories and spouses and babies and surprises. High school reunions are supposed to be a given, right?