I Got Invited To My Old High School’s Prize Distribution And I Don’t Wanna Go
The email hit my inbox last Tuesday, right when I was leaning over my desk eating cold leftover fried rice out of the takeout container, my laptop fan whirring so loud it sounded like it was about to take off. It was from the principal, the same one who sent me home in 12th grade because I dyed the ends of my hair electric blue. “We’d love to have you back as our guest of honor for this year’s prize distribution,” it said. “Just a 10-minute talk after you hand out the awards, nothing too strenuous.” I stared at it for a full minute, then pushed my fried rice away and groaned out loud. I don’t wanna go.
It’s not like I’m ungrateful or anything, I get that it’s supposed to be a compliment. They picked me because I graduated a little over five years ago, got a decent job, my mom posted about my tiny promotion on Facebook back in March and I guess someone connected the dots. But all I can think about is all the annoying, awkward stuff that’s gonna happen if I say yes.
First off, it’s on a Saturday. A Saturday. I work five days a week staring at a screen, the only thing I look forward to all week is sleeping in until at least 11, no alarm, no Slack pings buzzing in my pocket. This thing starts at 10 a.m. I’d have to wake up at 8, iron clothes, drive 45 minutes back to my old town, find parking somewhere near the school that’s not a 10-minute walk in whatever weather we’re getting. The forecast already says rain. My only nice pair of flats has a hole in the sole. I’ll end up with a squelchy wet sock for three hours. No thanks.
I dug out my only nice blazer last night, the one I wore to my cousin’s wedding two years ago, to see if it still fits. It does, but there’s a coffee stain on the left cuff from the open bar at that wedding. I tried scrubbing it out with dish soap, and it just spread, now it looks like a weird pale brown abstract splotch. I can’t afford a new blazer right now. My rent went up 12% this month, I dropped $80 on a new bike tire two weeks ago after some jerk slashed mine outside the grocery store. A new blazer would cost more than I spend on groceries in a week. That’s just how it is right now.
I remember what these things are like, anyway. I sat through four years of them on those hard plastic bleachers in the gym, my butt going numb after the first hour, the skylight turning the whole place into a sweaty greenhouse, even in October. You’d sit there for ages while they called name after name you didn’t know, and you only perked up when your friend got called, so you could whoop a little too loud and get a glare from a teacher roaming the aisles. I won the English department prize my senior year, remember? I was so excited I made my mom bring three different cameras, I practiced my smile in the mirror for two days before. Now I can’t even find that stupid plaque. It’s definitely in a box in my parents’ attic, under my old prom dress and a stack of worn-out manga I don’t read anymore. That’s how much those big, fancy prizes stick with you, right?
And they want me to give a 10-minute inspirational talk. What am I gonna say? “Hi guys, I work in marketing, I cry about my spreadsheets at least once a month, I eat cereal for dinner four nights a week, and I still don’t know what I’m doing half the time. Follow your dreams!” That’s not the stuff they want. They want the “work hard and you’ll get everything you ever wanted” speech, the one that makes the parents nod and the kids zone out and check TikTok under their bleacher legs. I can’t pull that off, not honestly. I’d end up rambling about how most of the people who don’t win prizes here turn out just fine, how I failed pre-calc twice and my teacher told me I’d never get into a good college, and now I make more money than he does, and I never once have to calculate a derivative. That’s not inspirational, that’s just awkward for everyone in the room.
What am I gonna do if I run into that pre-calc teacher anyway? He still works there, I saw on the school website. Do I go up and say hi? Do I pretend I don’t see him loitering by the refreshment table? If I say hi, he’ll probably just stare at me for 10 seconds trying to remember who I am, which is way more awkward than if he did remember and was weird to me. My best friend Lila, who I still talk to every day, said just go, get the free catered lunch, stuff two cookies in your purse and leave early. But the free lunch at these things is always those sad sandwich trays with stale wheat bread and cookies that taste like pure sugar and no butter. I make chocolate chip cookies way better than that at home. Why would I drive 45 minutes for stale cookies when I can have good ones on my own couch?
I still haven’t RSVP’d. The deadline is tomorrow. I keep opening the email, staring at the accept and decline buttons, then closing it again. Sometimes I think maybe it’d be fine, maybe one kid who feels like they don’t fit will see me up there with my stained blazer and my messy hair and think okay, that person turned out okay even if they didn’t do everything right. But most of the time, I just think about my couch, and the new episode of that dumb house flipping show I’ve been binging, and walking my friend’s golden retriever who pulls too hard on the leash and stops to smell every leaf on the sidewalk. That sounds way better than a three-hour prize distribution with a wet sock and a fake smile.
I still don’t know what I’m gonna click. I might just leave the email in my drafts and forget about it. That’s probably what I’m gonna do. Yeah. That sounds right.
Please indicate: Thinking In Educating » I Got Invited To My Old High School’s Prize Distribution And I Don’t Wanna Go