High School Memory Vial
So many high school memories, fragrant pearls, evanescent, that they dissipated in whiffs.
High school showbiz
Aspirations of showbiz star dazzled my teen’s spirits, so in junior high, I contrived myself a glaring persona. Too monotonous, I was—downright boring. In a stealthy progression, I adopted my new role full. The high school converted into a stage for me to play on and have fun.
Act I, comedy, act II, mini-drama, III, class farce, and IV, acclaim in the corridor. Absurd theater galore! But poetry underlay my blatant side spectacle.
I even defined and confessed myself to my colleagues in “Confessions of a Raving Lamb”, a comic, melodramatic poem, emanating melancholy. An adolescent’s mix… Brute humor, absinthe whiffs, and occult introspective impulses.
Ana Victoritza—off, why did they maim her mid name—showed earnest interest in class. She hid spectacular brain circumvolutions and featured illustrative curly locks. A teen who valued academic instruction and results high. During breaks, though, she hopped from school etiquette into a chimeric limelight.
Sometimes she performed melodramatics in class—in math, too? Oh, not during Mrs. Coman’s lessons.
When student Ioan told her she was applying for admission to a language college—English, the elderly teacher’s mouth writhed in horror. “You have brains for exact sciences, so apply to a normal college.”
The—something including “electrical”—classes were my favorites for playing scenes. I took the handsome teacher with chestnut irises as my partner, “Chestnutty”, in an ongoing theater play. A romance with acts as many as the classes he taught us.
I cat walked my ingenue-diva heroine in intermissions. The love-struck, misunderstood personage roamed the premises, sighing. Frigid corridors, as stony as Chestnutty’s ignorant heart.
The bag
Oh, a memory pearl fidgets, issues with cute fragrances, disclosing a high school story! From sophomore.
An unspecified, routine course day. Whenever I exited a class, a humble bag met my eyesight. Forlorn, it lay on the granite floor, at the crossroads of stairways. A careless student had left their sports stuff there.
“The sloppy fellow still hasn’t retrieved the bag,” I told myself each time I contemplated the sad tableau.
Upon finishing classes, my soul wept at seeing the pitiable carrier lonely. I left with that image imprinted in head, conceiving the looks of its author. And lecturing him. Or her.
While I feasted on my mom’s goodies, the downcast bag haunted me. What sadness, what still life. My inner vision transposed the forlorn bag into art.
Still chewing a delicious meat morsel, I jumped to my feet, dashed out, slamming the door, and darted, desperate, through the yard’s gate. “God, what sports equipment shall I whip up for tomorrow’s PE? Sloppy me.”
High school memory pearls
Oho, redolent pearls hail my memory. Hearty, effervescent.
Lucia and I tasting the adventure of truancy toward senior year. On a bench tucked in the most secluded alley of the venerable Gradina Mare, we whooped and chuckled while lighting a cigarette. Not proper smoking, but fun.
Jeez! First time bad girls.
Fieldwork on the town’s shipbuilding site. The students climbed on ships’ top decks, at dawn glacial and unwelcoming, benevolent at noon, in sun’s glare.
Casino sessions of the complete team at my place… “This apartment gives off colorful vibes, like you,” said Viorel. Or Cristian, don’t remember.
We played interminable games of poker on the household’s entire supply of matchsticks.
In freshman, a classmate exposed to me the etymology of Cristian’s moniker. Mammoth, Moth, Othy.
Oh, the harvesting season, when we did voluntary—but compulsory—work in the countryside’s vast fields. Under a scorching sun, we harvested and had fun.
Florin, his fine blond tresses held in a red bandana, sang folk hits and played his guitar. The pack accompanied him—tra-la-la—when lyrics grew foggy, while makeshift drummers beat the rhythm. “Hey, where to, little lamb…”
Gabi, the sensual “coffee-eyed girl”, who hid her fancy turquoise rings from teachers’ stern, inquisitive peepers.
Daniela, as sensuous with her honeyed smiles and steel-confident eyes. The other bright mathematician, Mioara, the frail, wavy-haired brunette.
Dan, the super-grounded boy while in high school, now aviator yo-yoing his plane between sea and sky.
Mioara, the tonic one, hiding an adventurous wild spirit. Now, 45 years after, she gave the troupe the tone to reunite in a glamping site.
The memory vial
Some years after high school graduation, recurrent nightmares troubled my sleep.
In the baccalaureate examination, a math subject before me, I struggled to solve damn intricate integrals. Terror dissipated upon waking. “Thank God, I got my certificate ages ago. I’m a teacher!”
Mrs. Coman sure shines celestial smiles on me. “You teach English? OK, girl.”
And I know she tolerates with angelic insight other paranormal activities I develop.
Teen me beckons. Teachers and colleagues murmuring reach me from the vial of fragrant memory pearls I carry everywhere.
Its label reads: HIGH SCHOOL.
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