When I first took a look at Vanessa Vale, she did not greet me with a smile or by giving me a hug. Instead, Vanessa was chewing on food when I walked toward her, and when she spotted me, the first thing she did was laugh. After Vanessa finished laughing, she turned and removed a stack of cold leftover food from the table and pushed it toward my chest with one swift motion like she was still the same person who, years ago, was the scholarship girl hiding behind the gym to eat lunch by herself.
“There you go!” she yelled so that everyone in the reunion hall could hear her. “For old time’s sake.”
A piece of potato salad fell off the plate and onto the floor. A piece of chicken bone made contact with my black dress. Three decades of memories resurfaced as I looked around the room at thirty other former classmates who were turning to look at me, all of their faces wearing the same type of weak, hungry cruelty that I was all too familiar with.
The clock rewound ten years to 16 years old. I was standing in the cafeteria while I stood there soaking wet with milk in my hair, and Vanessa was reading my deepest fears into a microphone she had stolen from the drama club while holding my private journal.
“She thinks she’s gonna matter one day,” Vanessa declared as all the students around her began to laugh. “Poor little Nora Bell. She actually thinks people like me will someday listen to her.”
Laughter erupted among her friends and classmates.
The winter of that year, my mother passed away. My father, due to his nightly alcoholism, never drank a single word to me again. I wrote those dreams down in that journal and kept them there because paper was the only thing in my life that didn’t laugh at me.
Now, standing in front of me, Vanessa was draped in red silk, rubies, and diamonds; she was dripping with the type of wealth that cut deep. Behind Vanessa, sitting behind her, was her husband, Grant. He was checking the time on his gold watch and appearing to be impatient with what he was seeing and hearing. Two of the girls from Vanessa’s former clique were filming the entire incident on their phones.As Vanessa triumphantly remarked, “You are not very talkative, huh? Still sensitive?”
I directed my gaze to my plate. Then, I glanced at her.
“You don’t remember me.”
With raised eyebrows, she asked, “Am I supposed to?”
She almost elicited a smile from me.
The sign above us stated that we were celebrating Westbridge High School’s graduating class of 2016. The ballroom of the hotel was decorated using rented chandeliers and champagne towers. Also, the event had posters thanking Vale Properties for their “generosity” in sponsoring approximately half of the event.
I had not attended the event out of nostalgia.
Rather, I attended this event because of the usefulness of the invitation to me.
As Vanessa moved closer, she offered, “I am guessing, catering and cleaning? No shame in that. Someone must do that.”
At this point, my laughter was louder, less restrained, and released through cruelty.
I had set my plate down carefully on an empty table.
Then, I began to reach inside my coat jacket.
With a smirk on her face, Vanessa wondered, “What are you pulling out, a coupon?”
With that, I placed my business card onto the remaining food on her plate.
A simple white card with black text. No design.
Her eyes fell to the plate.