June 2005

I saw Tommy today. Seven years later and without a doubt, it was him, carrying that half-smirk, half-scowl on his face, swinging his arm widely, as if he was bigger than he really was. Perhaps, it’s Tom now, or even Thomas. He is, after all, in law school. Graduated even, so I’ve heard. And me, I was in an faded teal smiley face t-shirt and running shorts, probable rice on my face from my half-eaten burrito bowl. My first instinct was to look away. So I did.

It was stupid. We went to high school together. He was smart, he was funny, and we talked. Nothing fancy, just friends. Then after graduation, he disappeared into the netherworlds for all I know. And now here he is—I immediately recognized him. For moment, I thought he looked right at me. It seems, though, that he didn’t recognize me at all.

Had I changed that much?

I’d like to think that I’ve grown bolder, more assertive since high school, and yet I couldn’t bring myself to cross the restaurant to say hello. I couldn’t think of anything to follow it up with. My mind raced with possible witty quips. I chewed slowly—I didn’t want to bite my tongue again. Literally.

He was heading to the cashier, his keys in his hand. And I was sitting only a few tables away. I couldn’t say anything. “Hey, Tommy, how’s it going?” Blank. Nothing. Why couldn’t I say anything?

So I did the only thing I could do. I looked away. I pretended to be engaged in conversation, lithy laughter. My rice was so damn interesting now. And I watched him walk by from the corner of my eye, close enough to hear the clanging of his keys. A cloud of hot air rushed into the dining room as he opened the door to leave. The front panel of the restaurant was glass, and when he suddenly stopped and turned for quick glance back, I swore that he couldn’t think of anything to say either.

I got a microphone headset. It was cheap at Staples, and I thought it’d be fun to talk to my friends on the internet. I took ages picking out a nice comfy one (the over-the-head kind, even though it looks a little dorky because the behind-the-head kind hurts my big ears). The packaging was exhausting, apparently Diana-proof, but not quite. I fumbled with the wires (pink pluggy-thingy goes in the…pink pluggy-thingy!). I fumbled with the volume settings. Eep, feedback, feedback. Then I swept my hair up in a frenzy of plastic, electronics, and wires. Time to check the mic. “Testing, 1 2 3.”

Really? Is that really what I sound like? “Testing.” OMG. I don’t sound like that in my head at all. I thought I was a smart, well-spoken women. But I’m really a foulmouthed prepubescent 9-year-old. Suddenly, all my public-speaking moments came flooding back to me. Well, that explains the giggles. Worse yet, all my terrible terrible dating moments came back to me, too. I imagined how I must have sounded, attempting my version of flirting—apparently after inhaling a balloon full of helium. Dear God. So much for being a husky-voiced vixen.

And I’m going to be a doctor? I’m going to tell people what to do in my 9-year-old voice? “Mr. So-and-so, if you don’t take your antihypertensives, you are going to have a stroke, and would you like to see my new Barbie dollie?”

I panicked. The voices from the internet was already floating in my headset. “Hi, Diana! You there?” Silence. I was sure they could hear my breathing as I turned potential phrases over and over in my head but saying nothing. “Diana?”

I took a deep breath. “Hi.”

Pause. “Wow, I didn’t expect you to sound like that at all.”

“Oh,” my voice squeaked out, and I fell my red rushing to my cheeks. Alvin and the Chipmunks.

“Yeah.” There was static. “Cute.”