Megan

My family only moved once when I was growing up--at age eleven, when everything in life is going so well anyways that getting uprooted from your neighborhood in something that passes for country in the Chicago suburbs and plopped down all of ten miles away in the middle of a legitimate urban center, well, that's just the arsenic laced cherry topping on the crap pile that was my hormone-ridden life. Mom and Dad's reasoning was all very sound, of course. Location, location, location--proximity to a "great school and the best"--I don't even know and I certainly didn't care. It only ended up being three years before my old friends and I were all dumped in the same high school anyway, and we all got back to normal, but there was no convincing us of that at the time. The week before we moved, Emily head me over for one last sleepover. I thought it'd be an idyllic, movie-montage-memory-sequence of all our good times--the laughter, the tears--but it turned out to be an audition of sorts for my replacement. A whole night with me, Em, and a bunch of girls whom I didn't know, barely liked, who were far more interested in the romantic entanglements of the Backstreet Boys than I ever was, and who, it therefore followed, would be a far better best friend to Emily than I ever was. Em definitely got the better end of that deal. I saw Em and Megan--that's who she ended up with, Megan (said with an appropriate mixture of awe and disgust)--those three years later, the first day of freshman year. They wore matching pleated skirts and sported bouncy high ponytails. I wore khaki pants and my ponytail looked like someone had cut the tail off a rat and stitched it to the base of my neck. Clearly Tweedle Dum and Tweedle...Dee really found each other. You thought I was gonna say Tweedle Dummer, didn't you? Yeah? Yeah? I'm not that mean. I mean, she was my friend. I even hate the name Megan. Megan. Who names their kid that? Megan. Megan. Ah, who am I kidding? It's a lovely name. Megan. Crap.

I Hate February Part 1

Tenth grade was somewhat more settled--y'know, as much as you can expect sophomore year, and over inflated ego aside. Besides my bi-weekly appointments (twice a week, not every other week, very important), I was almost always in school. I actually made a few new friends, which is impressive in tenth grade--most all of the cliques are formed as freshmen, if not before. But through the AV club, and, yes, band, I actually met some new kids who didn't stare at me or ask too many questions--even when I couldn't march, or had to sit practice out one day. It was new and refreshing, and I felt whole. Then came February.

I've always hated February. It seems to be shedding Winter, but still fighting Spring--like a naked snake. Isn't that a lovely image. When I was seven, my grandma sent us money to go out for Valentine's Day, which--okay, going out on Valentine's Day is kinda stupid anyway, especially with a family, and really especially if you don't make reservations (DAD), but then, as we were finally eating our meal--at, like, ten at night, I might add--a snowstorm decided that that would be the perfect time to dump three feet of snow all at once. On our heads. We were stuck at the restaurant till five AM the next morning. I still blame February. And Dad.

Then when I was ten, it was in February that my family got some, well, life altering news, though I guess we'd had a slight inkling that it was coming...but then--THEN--there was the February my sophomore year of high school.

Ninth Grade

I got on the wrong side of--well, she wasn't a season, but she was as old as they are. Mrs. Cranberry--no, really. Mrs. Cranberry. Yeah, that was my reaction, too. She was my ninth grade English teacher. You know how terror has a side effect of blindness? I never did learn how to diagram a sentence--I could never make out what was on the board. Mrs. Cranberry must've been--well, she might have been 40, but at the time I was convinced she was at least 90. She used to prowl up and down the rows of desks with her ruler in hand--no, she never hit us, it wasn't Catholic school. But she always reminded me of that--what was that captain's name from Mutiny on the Bounty? That guy. That was like a Disney version of Mrs. Cranberry.

Ninth grade was an unsettled year for me. I spent half of it in school with Em and the rest of my friends, and the other half visiting Nina. Mom and Dad talked about taking me out of school entirely and just homeschooling me or something, but they were trying to keep my life as normal as possible--which I appreciate now, but I think at the time I felt like they were being terribly inconsistent:"Why can't you keep your grades up, are you stupid?" "No, you can't go to school today, you have to go stay with Nina!" Okay, so they never actually called me stupid, but that's what it felt like--hey, I was 14; I was going through puberty; I was allowed to be irrational!

Scotland in the Spring

My parents always told me they'd send me to Scotland. I was really into Scottish history when I was in high school. I had posters of Scotland on my wall, and my favorite Christmas presents were those big picture books of the rolling hills of Scot--I wasn't a geek, okay? I was just enthusiastic. That's what my mother told me. Enthusiastic.

So then when I couldn't go to college, my folks said, don't worry, hun, you'll go to Scotland instead. Great, I thought, a total win on that one. Of course, I haven't actually gone yet. But I will. We were talking about maybe next spring. Nate could go with me, and we'd do one of those tours... Scotland in the spring sounds nice.

Okay this--and pardon my rabbit trail, but spring always seems so contrary to me... and I mean that in the best possible way. It refuses to operate in the accepted pattern: when something dies, we think, it's supposed to stay dead. But the year, every year, against all odds, forces its way back into the land of the living to give the world another shot. Stupid? Or just stubborn? I admire its tenacity, I admit (or her tenacity--I'm pretty sure Spring is too pretty to be a dude), but I think she also scares me a little. I wouldn't want to get on the wrong side of Spring.

Burgundy Weddings

Y'know, Emily just got married last year. Not to her prom date--or her first college boyfriend, incidentally. It was actually to her biology TA. (Heheheh...biology...heheheh...) I'd call her a slut if I hadn't met the guy--Kyle. Oy. I'd have failed the class too, with a teacher like that. Can't blame the girl a wit. I wasn't able to make it, but they swung by my place the week before the wedding. They seemed disgustingly happy, so Emily must've worked her cue reading skills out eventually. And I'm really happy for her. Disgusted, but happy.

I only ever went to one wedding--a friend of my brother Nate's. He took me as his date, which would have been much sweeter if he'd had other options. It was fun, though. I helped him pick out a tie; he helped me pick out a dress--apparently black is frowned upon for weddings. Shame. We found a pretty nice burgundy number, though--I was up to a 5.2 by this point, which helped. I tried to twist his arm into wearing a burgundy tie, but I think he was already regretting asking me to go, so I didn't push the point too hard.

It was an indoor wedding, which was good, 'cause it poured all day. I've never really understood why someone would even risk planning a wedding outside--talk about stress. I mean, seriously, isn't there enough on your mind?! My wedding plans always included a castle in Scotland, though, so perhaps I'm not one to talk about crazy wedding locations.

First Kiss Clarification

I used to think that a girl always knew when a boy wanted to kiss her--that there was an intuition that came with age about such things--so I'd always blame the girl if she missed the moment in a book...or movie...or when I was spying on people in the park. But then Emily told me about her first college boyfriend...maybe I shouldn't use Em as my measuring rod for relationships, but I don't have a lot of input here. Unless you want me to go off of my parents, which just strikes me as a terrible idea.

Anyway, it turns out that Em couldn't read this guy, and ended up going in for the kiss when he was trying to blow his nose. Which is just gross. So maybe Teddy wasn't thinking about kissing me, maybe he just had a sinus infection, maybe I'm a pathetic loser who will ultimately die alone...but that's the last time you'll hear me admit it.

First Kiss

I never was kissed. In high school, I was the resident 1.4, and after...my social life never really picked up. All the cute boys went to college, and I...didn't. No--that's not true. Chad didn't go to college. Chad was gorgeous. He's Nina's older brother. He used to come visit when we got a room together after high school. And after she...left, he still came to visit me. Which was sweet. He didn't have to...he was always so sad...but very nice. He'd sit and talk with me for a half hour every Thursday afternoon for 6 months and 3 weeks. Then he stopped coming. He never kissed me, though. I never expected him to.

Teddy almost kissed me once. Teddy was...Teddy was sweet. Teddy was sad. He was new--he was young. He always came to visit smiling, but always left about to cry. I swear it wasn't because I was a jerk. Well, I half-swear. Tact has never been my strong point. Once my parents were visiting when he stopped by, and when he got all sad, they asked him to leave--but I told him to stay. (I love being an adult.) I liked that he cried.

My parents cried a lot, too, but that was different. My mom would get all clingy and my dad would shut himself in the garage with his beer. ...he never gave me one, which I just found insulting--I could've commiserated, I could've been that daughter. Instead I listened while they fought in the hallway.

Once Teddy came while they were fighting--they must've been so focused on each other that they didn't see him or they never would've let him come in alone. But they didn't, and he did, and he came in and sat by my bed, and looked at me--this was when he almost kissed me--and...it took a while for him to speak, 'cause I think what he wanted to do was cry, but he took my hand and asked if he could turn on the TV. To drown out the sound of my parents fighting. I mean, he didn't say that, but that's what he meant. That and that he wanted to kiss me.

Junior-Senior Prom

I was on the tech committee for the prom--every year since freshman. I was the AV geek in the back--I told you: buttons and wires! But not that year. Not the year I actually had a date. Nina didn't have a date either. We sat in a room together and swapped "I have no life" anecdotes. She says she won, but she's wrong. I totally won. ...yay me...

Em had a date, which she rubbed in my face from the start. Of course Em had the whole blonde hair, blue eyes thing goin' on. Which she never failed to remind me "everyone says is the prettiest." She was really pretty in her pink and white gown--all...princessy and sparkly. Her date was kinda cute, too. I only met him once, he picked Em up after a class we had together a few weeks before the dance. His folks had money, and he had the most amazing backpack...

Neen and I were on diets, so prom night we made a list of our favorite ice creams and then spent an hour imagining eating them. Best Rocky Road I ever ate.

You know, Hank actually smiled when I told him I couldn't go. I think he went with Karly Fisher--a 3.9. The jerk totally traded up. Emily reminded me of this the night before. She and her date were supposed to double with me and Hank. They still went with Hank and Karly. Em called after and said it was the best night of her life. Of course, she'd just had her first kiss, so maybe I shouldn't take it too personally.

That Little Black Dress Part 2

When I was 13, I visited this tiny baby in the hospital. My mom and dad were talking with her parents, and I'm looking at this--I mean, I could hold her in one hand--this tiny baby girl. I'm looking at her through the glass, and I'm thinking: This is it. Her life will be spent the size of my favorite doll, all wired up, and in a plastic box. Her parents couldn't even hold her. It makes my black dress story kinda pathetic, I think. Maybe. I did really like that dress, though.

I almost wore it once. I was 17 and--okay, first off, I don't know if you'd find me particularly attractive now--I mean--I don't know your type or anything, and it's not like I put on makeup this morning--but whatever I am to you now--let's say a 7--divide that into 5ths. That was me at 17. A 1.4. (I've had this conversation a lot--I've done the math.) Okay, so I was a 1.4 in a sea of 8s and 9s (I thought in high school, girls were supposed to be awkward), but this one boy, Hank (he should probably take his parents to court over that name), he was also kinda awkward and, well, maybe a 2.6. But he asked me to the Junior-Senior prom, and I was beside myself. And while all my friends were busy shopping for new dresses, I already knew what I was wearing (and I knew this because there was no way in hell my parents could afford a new dress). So I put my beautiful dress on my chubby 1.4 body and twirled in the mirror, dreaming of dancing under colored lights to crappy boy bands with Mr. 2.6. And it's a good thing I did, 'cause that was close as I got to my Junior-Senior prom.

That Little Black Dress

In high school, clothes were my enemy--nothing fit, I hated how I looked in everything and my parents had...other bills to pay, so my school wardrobe every year came from Goodwill. Or The Salvation Army. And once I got a dress from a consignment shop that had me dancing in my seat on the bus until Rocky McGreeves, who sat behind me, smacked me on the head and called me a retard. But mostly my clothes came from Goodwill. Once Mimi Young saw me wearing her old Nirvana T-shirt. She stood on the table in the lunch room and announced it to the whole school. I'm pretty sure I actually died of shame that day.

Yeah, clothes and I--I mean, my weight was in a continual state of flux, so nothing ever actually fit, but there was this one dress: a little black dress that--I could've gained 50 lbs and it still would've looked fabulous. (And I know because I did.) Nina was so jealous...Emily really never wore black, she was more of a wear-the-entire-rainbow-at-once kind of girl. But deep, deep down, I know she wanted it, too. She'd come over some days after school, and we'd dress up and pretend we were going to the prom. She told me black was a stupid color to wear to the prom, but I didn't care.

I loved that dress. I'd put it on at night and twirl in front of the mirror. I never got to wear it out though...

Friends

It's a funny thing about my friends--I have two groups: the friends I've had since age 4, and the friends I've had since age 10. And without any overlap. ...besides me... (But they all agree that I'm crazy.)

I've known Emily since the first day of kindergarten. We were two 4 year olds in a sea of aged, mature 5 year olds. Bonding was inevitable. Emily's the kinda girl who speaks too loud and too fast and has strong opinions about things that are none of her business...but you love her anyways. Though I don't think we'd like each other if we met now--it was the sharing of a traumatic experience that made us life long friends. Well, when were 10, she went through a phase where she was afraid to come near me, but we don't talk about that.

Nina I met when I was 10. We shared a room one summer--my first overnight. Some kids get eased into an overnight experience. First they do evenings at a friend's house, then a sleepover, then those half-week long camps for kids whose parents trust about as far as they can throw 'em...or think they'll get homesick. Not me. First nuthin'--then "oh, hey, why don't you go share a room with a complete stranger all. summer. long." It didn't matter, ultimately, though. I met Nina. And all summer long, we were inseparable--did you ever see that movie The Parent Trap? It was like that. Like I'd found my long lost sister. Which was good, 'cause I only have brothers. Adorable, lovely brothers, who I will love till the day I die...but brothers still.

Nina was all girl. She was more into shoes--she had a pair of sparkly ballet flats that she really wanted me to be jealous of...but I wasn't. I preferred bags and was incredibly possessive of my I Love Lucy backpack. Our fashion focuses may have been a continued source of contention, but I'd rather be fighting with my BFF than...you know the song. Emily came to visit once that summer, but she was scared and...well, we don't talk about that. I'm sure she was just jealous of me and Nina's clothes.

Electrocardiograph Technician

I was twelve when I decided what I was gonna be: An Electrocardiograph Technician. Naturally. I mean, my friends were going to be ballerinas and astronauts, so I fit right in. Electrocardiograph Technician. My friends didn't know what one was. Their loss, I told them.

I loved how they hooked up all the wires and they sat in front of the big machines and pushed buttons--I LOVED to push buttons--the excitement...the waiting...then Something Happens...I still love to push buttons.

Electrocardiograph Technician. I even signed up for a class at the community college when I turned 16--dual enrollment and all. But I couldn't go. I'd...forgotten...about my standing appointment on Tuesdays. I wonder who did go, and if any of them became Electrocardiograph Technicians.

Instead of a technician, I became an inspiration--that's what people call me: an INSPIRATION. People who don't know me, that is. My friends just call me a piece of work.