5, 6, 7, 8

I was uncomfortable being alone with you.
You were a cheerleader. You were popular. I was neither.

When you asked to talk with me, alone, I was certain it had to be a trick. I waited for the bucket of blood to drop on my head. I waited for the set up of "this boy really likes you...." I ran my hand underneath to check for gum before I sat. I was so uncool it was epic. Your click needed only to whisper my name in each other's ears and the laughter would spread throughout the lunch room. None of you ever TALKED to me.

Until that afternoon you and I shared a name, but little else.

It was about a boy. You had a crush on a boy and you desperately needed someone to talk too. It seems this boy was the captain of the football team (classic) and gorgeous and the boyfriend of your best friend, also a cheerleader. You had my attention at "I need to talk about Shawn." In our small high school everyone knew everyone else and those with gossip held court. And yet, somehow you knew I would not do that. Somehow you knew that I would actually listen.

I'm sure I must have told you to tell him how you felt.
I'm sure I must have told you to be honest with your friend that you liked her boyfriend.
I'm sure I must have told you that if something is meant to be, it will be.

You married Shawn.
Your daughter became a cheerleader at the same High School.
You have grandchildren with Shawn.
You still live there, I think, and you are still friends with the girl who was dating him.
Shawn went bald.
I'd bet you are still blonde.

Thank you for talking to me that day, Deb.