Feral Reunion

Claire Ordish:

Sitting in my car outside Jefferson High, I almost chicken out. The parking lot teems with so many SUVs, that everyone must be a soccer parent by now. Except me. I peeked in high school, which is especially cruel since I didn’t have any friends growing up.

So far tonight, the soundtrack is my nails tapping the steering wheel out of nervous habit, rather than the electronic music playing in my high school’s gymnasium for my ten-year reunion. Did your life ever suck so badly that you thought, ‘It’s okay self. Next time they see me I’ll be pretty, and thin, with a sexy man on my arm, and a hundred thousand in the bank account’? Yeah, me too.

But it’s time to pay up, and I don’t have it. Any of it. I have an average attraction level, a curvy waist with a fat ass, four-hundred dollars in the bank—on a good day—and I most definitely do not have a sexy man.

Sigh.

I check my phone again, not for messages, but for distraction. It’s now 7:42 p.m. The invitation promised an open bar and light hors d’oeuvres. I suppose at the very least if I’m feeling self-conscious, I can grab a drink and a snack.

My tongue runs over peppermint-cleaned teeth. Lipstick intact, I step out of the car. My emerald dress clings snugly, a gift-wrap around my frame. Even though there are thunderclouds above, I pretend not to feel the chill.

Voices drift across the parking lot. I shrink into old habits, angling to take up less space.

One step, then another. My block heels thud on the cracked asphalt, each strike sending a tiny tremor up my spine. Shoulders squared as if braced against the wind, I walk with practiced confidence, hoping to convince even myself I belong here.

Inside the high school gymnasium, blue and silver streamers spiral from the rafters, brushing the tops of balloon towers. Every surface gleams under fluorescent lights. Staff must have polished the floorboards beforehand. I remember peeling back the laminate when we had to stretch during P.E. But the worst part is dozens of eyes flicking over me, trying not to stare. It happened then, and it’s happening now.

I hover in the entryway, where the coat-check attendant scrolls on her phone, barely glancing in my direction. “Hello,” I murmur, voice small against the hum of conversation. She doesn’t look up.

So I step passed her, holding my coat safely in my own arms. The gym buzzes with organized clusters. Men in sharp sport coats gather near bleachers. Women draped in jewel tones mingle around high-top tables. It seems like the popular kids gravitate like magnets—some faces untouched by time, others softened by new lines. I drift between them, searching for someone to just smile at me and invite me in.

I’m here for closure, I remind myself. I want apologies, recognition—someone, anyone, to say, “Claire, I remember you.” I cradle that wish.

Having no luck, the drinks table beckons. I pour neon-pink punch into a plastic cup, fingers pressing into the cold condensation. The liquid sloshes at the rim, sweet and slightly bitter.

Meanwhile, across the room, Janelle Matthews stands under a spray of streamers, her sleek ponytail catching the light. Admirers orbit her, drawn by effortless magnetism. When our eyes meet, I swear I see her roll them.

I hope I’m just paranoid.

Nearby, former football players—broader now—lean against the wall, their laughter echoing memories of old uniforms. Brad Geof—B.T., as we all called him—booms with laughter. Nope. Not safe over there.

Two women from chemistry class swirl champagne flutes, their giggles tinkling. Perfect. I drift closer, practice lines on my lips.

“Hi,” I say, voice tentative. “It’s been a long time, huh?”

“Yeah,” one replies, nodding before turning away and continuing her conversation with the other women.

I sip my punch, its sweetness cloying, and tug at my dress. In a nearby mirror I glimpse my reflection. My spirit is deflating.

My watch reads 8:11. If I circle the room again, maybe I’ll spot a familiar face from the yearbook—the club I never had the courage to join. But at least I sat next to them at lunch.

I spot the president of the yearbook near the snack table and saunter to her. Once there I wait for an opening and quip, “The cheese cubes are dangerously good.” Three heads tilt toward me, smiles flicker, then vanish. “Yeah,” one says, already moving on. Just like the last person said. “Yeah.” Is there a script tonight I don’t know about?

Maybe it’s me. Maybe I carry rejection like a scar. I remember sophomore year, the ache it left behind.

Someone bumps into me, sending punch dribbling down my hand. “Sorry,” a stranger mutters without looking back. Two women glance up, lips twitching. That they notice!

The only thing that could make tonight worse is seeking out my high school crush—Beau Claw—and making a pass at him. He’d crinkle his nose and say, “Did you go here?” Ugh.

I need to regroup. That’s all. As pathetic as it is, I need to gather myself in a bathroom stall, or splash water on my face. Something. Anything but this.

At 8:51, I find the closest restroom and duck into a vacant bathroom stall. Cool blue tiles and a flickering bulb greet me. I clutch my small bag like a lifeline and rile through my clutch for my favorite lipstick. I don’t need a mirror to know how my eyes are glistening with unshed tears. I won’t let them fall. I refuse to give them that small, final victory.

For a second, I imagine I am someone else—a party guest in a romance novel, about to be rescued by the perfect stranger.

But the fantasy fizzles, quick as it comes.

I fish out a tissue, dab at my lips, check my teeth for lipstick in a compact. Anything to keep busy. My hands shake a little, which is ridiculous. It’s just a party. It’s just people I don’t care about. It’s just old wounds.

The air is cooler in here. Tinged with cheap vanilla air spray. I could hide for the rest of the night, but that’s not what I promised myself. I have to try again. Just… after I breathe.

I close my eyes and count backwards from five. At three, my chest unclenches.

I will myself not to cry.

Not yet.

Outside, someone shrieks with laughter. I fold the tissue, set my jaw, and straighten my spine.

There’s still time. Maybe someone will remember my name. Maybe I’ll get my apology for how I was treated. And still being treated, apparently.

Then, the door swings wide, almost slamming. My heart thuds. First I make sure the stall door is unlocked, then I make myself as small as possible, feet tucked back, purse drawn to my chest. It’s stupid—I’m almost thirty—but the logic is pure high school.

Two sets of heels. Tap tap, then a scrape as someone rests her bag on the counter. Janelle’s voice, high and sing-song, floats over the partition.

“I swear, I almost spit out my Prosecco when I saw her.” Lipstick tube clatters, then a pause. “You know who I mean, right? Claire Ordish. She actually showed up in that dress.”

A snort. Lisa, breathless, tries not to laugh, but snorts anyway. “Oh my god, yes. Did you see what she’s wearing? Like she’s trying to stuff ten pounds of potatoes in a five-pound sack. She’s a little too round for anything less than an oversized t-shirt.”

They both cackle. The sound is sharp, bouncing off the tile. I press my back against the door, nails digging into the fake leather of my clutch.

Janelle says, “Honestly, who told her that color was flattering? I mean, she was always a little… sad, but that’s just pathetic.”

My stomach twists. It hurts. My stomach, my heart, my head. Ten years later and I’m still a joke. I don’t even understand why. I’m a nice woman. I pay my taxes and give everyone extra bags when they purchase milk at the grocery store. I mean, sure, cashiering isn’t the world’s most glamorous job, and I may be a little overweight, but I’m not diseased. They’re not even trying to get know me.

Lisa’s tone goes gleeful. She’s enjoying this. “I’m telling you, she’s totally a virgin. Right? Like, Claire Bear—I bet she’s never even—”

Janelle cuts in, less amused, and more cruel. “Who even invited her? Like, isn’t this for people who had actual friends?” The scoff is theatrical. “I didn’t see her talking to anyone.”

“Actually no,” Lisa starts. “I did see her talking to a couple of people.” Dramatic pause. “But that’s only because they couldn’t get away fast enough.” And they laugh again.

No, I’m definitely not in a romance novel where the heroine gets whisked off her feet by some handsome man—I’m in a horror story.

There’s a burning in my cheeks so fierce I think maybe I’m running a fever. My hands shake. There’s no space inside my chest for air. The edges of their words press in, relentless, as if the cracks in my shell were always waiting, ready to split.

I wish I could slip out this stall and end my nightmare, but the thought of seeing their faces right now, is unbearable.

They rattle off more, barely pausing for breath. “She just stands there, like she thinks she’ll get a makeover moment.”

“The only thing getting made over is her cholesterol.”

“I heard she’s still single—shocker.”

“Honestly, if I looked like that, I’d skip reunions altogether.”

“Maybe she’s a stalker. Maybe she came to watch us. Creepy, right?”

A silence. Mascara brush clinks down.

Then: “Let’s go. I need another drink if I have to look at that for the rest of the night.”

The door slams behind them.

Silence, except for the dull roar in my ears and the faint drip of a faucet.

For one trembling second, I hope they’ll come back, offer something soft to patch the wounds. But of course not.

My throat closes. I put my hand over my mouth. The first sob is almost gentle, just an exhale. Then the next lands harder, shoulders buckling. I bury my face in my palms, willing myself to stop—stop—stop—but it doesn’t work.

I gasp for air, muffle it with a wad of rough toilet paper. Tears swamp my vision. Mascara—waterproof, supposedly—gives up, trailing dark rivers down my cheeks. I know, because I touch my fingertip to my skin and swipe away black.

Great. Now it’ll be obvious that I was in here crying.

They weren’t even creative. Just… relentless.

When the tears slow, I push myself upright. I wipe the mascara, the sweat, the salt, until my face looks like a stranger’s. Eyes red-rimmed, lips puffy, foundation patchy on my nose. I dab at it, but there’s no fixing this. Not without starting over.

I stare at my reflection in the mirror. I look defeated. There’s no pep talk left.

The possibility of rejoining the party—fake smile, casual “just needed a break”—is gone. I can’t do another round. Not like this.

At some point, the shame begins to morph into something else. Something colder, metallic at the root of my tongue. Anger maybe, but flickering, uncertain. Why am I letting them have this much power? Why am I still hiding?

Because it hurts. Because the truth is I am still that girl, and the only difference is I thought I’d grown past caring.

I can’t stay. Not for another minute.

As I cross to the door, I move quietly, making sure the hallway is empty before I slip out. Every step is a dare—I dare you to see me now. I dare you to pretend I matter. I keep my head high, but my vision blurs at the corners.

Outside, the air hits cool and sharp, almost a relief. I let the door sigh shut behind me, closing off the noise.

I make it to my car before my knees threaten to buckle. Needing support, I lean onto my trunk and just hold myself there. The only small bit of relief I get is how alone I am. No one to see my tears.