Four months ago, an invitation came in the mail. The blue envelope with my name written in calligraphy in orange pen, Amelia Harris.

The invitation read:

Class of 1994 Your 20 year High School Reunion is coming up.

When: September 18, 2024 at 7pm

Where: The Old Gym at Washington High School. Yes, the one that has the musty smell that clings to every surface - a potent mix of mildew, rust, and something vaguely chemical.

What to expect: a chance to have awkward conversations with old classmates you haven’t seen in 20 years, unlimited nostalgia, questionable dance moves and reminiscing about the old days before mortgages, children and back pain.

What to bring: A smile, dancing shoes and a willingness to laugh at how we’ve changed (or not).

RSVP and let us know how many will be coming with you or if it’s just you before July 18, 2024 so we know how much of the punch we need to spike.

September 18, 2024

I grab a name tag I got from the ladies sitting at the table in front of the gym and write my name on it. At 7:30 pm on the dot, I take a deep breath and hesitate before pushing open the gym doors. A swirl of nerves tightens in my stomach. What if no one remembers me? I haven’t kept in touch with many people, too busy with work and life. But part of me yearns to reconnect, to see if those high school bonds still exists, even after all these years.

Everyone turns to look at me and I glance down at my white running shoes. I didn’t have enough time to change after getting off work at the hospital before coming here. The gym seems a little smaller than I remember. I can now reach the blue and white banner that is hanging off the basketball hoop. My memory must be rusty because I don’t remember blue and white being my high school colors. I walk around trying to find someone I know. After a few minutes, I see a group of women who look very familiar. I put my left hand on my heart and breath out.

“Hey ladies, it’s been so long!” I squealed, rubbing the back of my neck. “I’m sorry I am late, long day at the office but I’m here now. I can’t wait to hear what’s been going on in your lives these last 20 years!”

The group turns to me with puzzled expressions.

“Sorry, who are you again?,” asks the tall blonde, her name tag reading Alexa Robertson.

I laugh before replying, “it’s me Amelia! We had English class together our senior year. Remember Mrs. Simmons with all her colorful bandanas?”

The women exchange glances with each other. Miranda Walton, the short red head squints and replies,“Amelia? I don’t think I remember you. Are you sure you’re in the right place?”

I glance around again, trying to find a familiar face. Something feels off—the banners hanging on the walls and the length of the gym mats don’t match my memory. But it’s been twenty years. Still, a gnawing doubt starts to creep in as I continue to scan the room.

Another woman in the group, Wanda Le who has been silently observing whispered, “This is the Franklin High Reunion, right? We graduated from Franklin High in 1994.”

Before I can muster a response, a deep velvety voice from across the room shouts, “She didn’t even go to Franklin High with us!”

The room bursts into laughter and all I could do was join in. I walk out with my head down and stand besides the gym with my face in my hands. How had I missed the signs? Maybe it was because I was in a rush to get here after work. I turn around one last time, hearing the music and laughter from inside. At least I made someone’s night. Next time, I’ll double check the address. Who knows- this mix up could be a funny story to tell at my next high school reunion.