Best All Around

by Lea Valencia Pritchett

At the class reunion, Valerie waited by the punch bowl, trembling as she reached for the crystal ladle, unsure of herself as she scooped the punch up and dropped it into her cup. A portly man she did not recognize stood onstage and tapped on the microphone, bringing the Class of 1987 to attention. Thin and brittle in her flowing pantsuit, Valerie cared so much what the man might say next that her heart was a clenched fist and her eyes were bullets. In his hands he held an open yearbook, and with his finger he traced a line down a single page.

"Let's see now, the Senior Superlatives," he said agreeably, following the ceremonial order of class reunions.

First, there had to be the name tag table. Then the introduction of spouses and lovers, the manufactured optimism of the single, the tall tales of success: stunning promotions, athletic prowess, houses with fairway views. And then the dance—the music—the only thing anyone had in common. The Class of 1987 loved its Duran Duran, its Lisa Lisa and Cult Jam. The men and women forgot their airs and gyrated without guile to a series of bass throbs by Prince, but Valerie stood, grinding her teeth. She wanted to hear the Senior Superlatives revisited.

"Best Looking," said the man, "Cindy Holt and Mitchell Cooksey."

Cindy, undulating on the dance floor, paused and batted her eyelashes, her frosted blonde hair long and flowing. She was now a loan officer at a downtown bank. Mitchell raised his punch cup in a toast from where he leaned against the wall, talking business with the other salesmen.

"Most Intellectual," he said next, "Jennifer Cosgrove and Morton Beck."

Vigorous clapping, Jennifer aloof, Morton nodding in humility, his suit and tie five years out of style.

"Best All Around ... "

Valerie shook in her dyed-to-match shoes, and raised her chin expectantly. Should any one thing mean so much, should her mental health, her very survival come down to this? Her brown eyes darkened and her black hair held steady in its tight chignon. If they didn't cheer for her, Valerie knew where to find a triple overdose of painkiller.

"Isn't this a cool song? Damn, it's been years since I heard that."

The man had forgotten the next Superlative, lost for a moment in Lionel Ritchie. Valerie thought her bones would tighten until they flew apart. "Say it," she whispered, "my God, please say it."

"So anyway—where was I? Oh, right. Best All Around. Jason Sullivan—"

Jason moonwalked backwards in his wire-rimmed glasses, his wife glowing at him, proud.

"—Jason Sullivan and Valerie Bodlovich."

There was absent-minded applause, but no recognition.

"Anybody know whatever happened to Valerie? I haven't seen her," he said, shrugging.

"I heard she died," someone volunteered.

Then the music blasted them all out of their thoughts, and the Class of '87 danced and danced as if their lives depended on it.

Copyright © Lea Valencia Pritchett 2003