High School Horror

Did I really just ask Valarie Gipper, “Does Matt Kuhn have a girlfriend?” I had been at Mattawan High School for just one week before asking my fellow classmate and potential friend. Why, why, why did I feel compelled to ask her that? Val giggled and said no, she had known Matt for a long time and thought of him as a brother. When her ride pulled up to the curb in front of the school she smiled and waved goodbye while I pondered the unsavory feelings swirling in my stomach.

I didn’t even know Matt, but I sat next to him in English and that somehow was enough to make me interested. I pushed thoughts of cute boys aside to consider my predicament. I had a problem. I was obsessive and compulsive about surveying every new location for potential romance. To this day I still can’t comprehend the reason behind that impulse. I must have had an overactive biology or something. I don’t like to admit it. Since then, I have traveled far from that sunny afternoon in many respects. Boys don’t consume my thoughts as they used to—I think it was boredom more than anything else that caused me to become enamored with such frequency.

Back then, I had left my little town of Lawton for excitement, adventure, and a fresh start my junior year of high school. What I found was anxiety and a whole new social world to navigate. Mattawan was comprised of roughly one thousand strangers. My second hour English class alone was full of potential connections. Matt Kuhn was in Miss Stuut’s AP English class, one of his friends, Mike Reiter, intrigued me—in other words, he was on my radar too. Mike had a stutter. He was tall and had a floppy brown head of curly hair. I’ve always had a knack for developing a romantic interest in silly-somewhat-smart-but-awkward-guys. I remember I would cringe whenever he would try to make a point during class.

He would circle the point he was trying to make, like a vulture, but he never seemed to be able to go in for the kill. Meanwhile, I was doing my best to catch the eye of this dark haired muscle man in my chemistry class. As winter formal drew near I was hoping for an invite from someone. Soon after I realized my chemistry crush wasn’t going to ask me, Mike walked up to my locker. “W-would you want to go t-to formal with me?”, he posed the question. I said, “yea, sure.”

I shouldn’t have said yes. I should have found a group of girl friends to go with. I could have gone by myself or I could have skipped the whole ordeal. It wasn’t worth it. To be honest I think I nudged him into asking because I knew he took an interest in me and I wanted a date. Why, oh why, did I want a date so badly? But I said yes, so I figured, ‘I’ll get the dress and he’ll make the reservations and it’ll be a semi-successful night’.

He didn’t make reservations. He picked me up at my house the night of the formal dance. The roads were horrible that night—really slick with snowy white visibility. We had to drive slowly even though he brought his mom’s big, black, four wheel drive gas guzzler. We unfortunately ran out of talking points before we were even halfway into town. His plan was to tag onto another groups’ reservations at Carraba’s but it didn’t work.

We arrived at Carraba’s, a fancy Italian restaurant. After opening my car door, Mike rushed to the door of the building to open that as well. What he didn’t realize was that his first priority might have been to steady my arm as I trudged through the snow and slick ice in open-toe heels. Luckily, I didn’t fall. Once inside, I stood awkwardly in the doorway while Mike talked with his friends. When he shuffled back toward me with the bad news I was relatively unaffected. I hadn’t been set on a fancy dinner and I was eager to get to the dance. I spotted Fazoli’s across the street and suggested we go there.

Fazoli’s is Italian too but quite incomparable to Carraba’s. The neon signs and bright red booths leave much to be desired if you’re looking for cheap cuisine grander than fast food. I had been to Fazoli’s a handful of times and had always appreciated its unassuming food and laid back appeal. We stepped through the double door entry way and I suddenly felt all too visible in my shiny gold formal wear. We were seated immediately, that is, we seated ourselves. This wasn’t surprising, considering we were the only customers.

I ordered my usual—Chicken Fettuccine Alfredo. I don’t recall what Mike ordered. He talked about the golf team, in which I held zero interest, and the conversation quickly degenerated. “So, how did you do on that paper?”, I asked. “How was reading The Scarlett Letter?” and “Did you like it?”, were my follow up questions. It was terrible. And consequently so was the food. I choked it down while the scrawny, brown-eyed boy in front of me struggled to form the simplest of conversations with me. The slimy noodles went cold faster than they ever had before. The Alfredo sauce was flavorless and lacked the creaminess promised by the menu’s picture. Even the endless bread sticks held no appeal. Although, it probably wouldn’t have mattered if my Chicken Fettuccine Alfredo had been prepared by a famous chef that night, I still would have had a rough time enjoying it with Mike as my company.

When we finally arrived at the dance I stayed with Mike long enough to see if his dancing skills were any better than his conversational abilities. He was more of a conversationalist. Looking back, I may sound harsh but what made the night so bitter was knowing that I would have had more fun on my own.