"Now you're just somebody that I used to know." -- Gotye
You were a jock with an impressive high school sports career, stunning blue eyes, a super-hot athlete girlfriend, and considerable popularity. I was a nerd, and though I was also popular, I belonged to a completely different social hierarchy than you. You chilled with other athletes and fellow Long Island commuters while I hobnobbed with academic overachievers and people who joined way too many extracurriculars. But because this was sophomore year of high school, before AP scheduling forced the top 10% of our class into near-identical schedules and permanently segregated our cliques, you and I ended up in the same geometry class. And we sat next to each other in the front row.
We had never formally met before, but I knew you by reputation and expected you to ignore me. But you didn't. You talked to me, asked me questions, and tried to get to know me a little. I did the same. And eventually, we developed... I wouldn't quite call it a friendship. I'm not sure what it was. But we'd share smiles and laughs before and after class. We'd confer on practice problems. We'd exchange rueful glances whenever the teacher said something particularly inane. And every once in a while, you'd lean over and draw pictures in the margins of my notebook. Our tenuous association would vanish the second we left the classroom every day, but for what it was, it was nice.
In May, we switched teachers, classrooms, and, to my horror, seats. Then in September, I embarked on the AP Calculus math track while you decided to stick with a sane schedule. We parted ways. I registered for too many AP classes, made friends with the Science Olympiad team, and set my sights on the Ivy League. Presumably, you returned to your sports stardom and your hot athlete girlfriend -- and I say "presumably" because, once our companionable days in geometry class were behind us, I have no recollection of ever interacting with you again.
We graduated. I moved to Manhattan and became a rocket scientist, but I still kept in close touch with my high school friends and teachers. You, on the other hand, became one of the many kids from my class who vanished off the face of the planet after graduation. No one ever mentioned seeing you or hanging out with you. You never came to any reunions. And, basically, I forgot about you.
Last weekend, I visited my parents and grabbed a book out of my old room to kill an afternoon. The Catcher in the Rye was required reading in sophomore year of high school, and as I flipped through the familiar scenes, I marveled at how much my comprehension of the text had improved since I last picked it up.
About a hundred pages in, I discovered that an old bookmark was still tucked between the pages. It was a fragment of looseleaf about four inches square, torn out of what appeared to be my geometry notebook (judging from the partial circles and angles visible near the ripped edge). In the center of the scrap, someone had clumsily drawn two stick figures -- one with a skirt and high heels, the other with a tie and glasses. The figures shared the same bewildered expression and the same Homer Simpson-esque hairdo. They were holding hands. One figure was labeled with your name and the other was labeled with mine in boyish handwriting.
I remembered your face -- those striking eyes and easy smile -- long before I remembered your last name. I also realized, for the first time ever, that I had a crush on you during high school. I wasn't willing to acknowledge it back then because you were a jock, I was a nerd, our presence in the same class was a never-to-be-repeated fluke, and girls in my crowd had zero chance with guys from yours, but I fully admit it now. (I'm still not willing to admit that your habit of doodling on my notebook may have indicated even a hint of reciprocity, though; you were a jock, I was a nerd, and old habits die hard.)
I wondered what ever became of you, so I got on Facebook, Google, and Twitter to find out. And it turns out that the man who vanished off the face of the planet after graduation has nearly no online presence either. I did give myself half a heart attack when I found a memorial website dedicated to an athlete in your sport with your name, but one additional search hit proved that you're still alive and competing.
It's been exactly ten years since we last sat next next to each other, sharing smiles and pretending to learn math. Wherever you are and whatever you're doing now, I hope you're happy.
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