When my best friend Gail and I walked into our 20th high-school reunion a few months ago, we thought at first that we'd entered the wrong function room. We stood in the doorway confused, peering into the party, which was already in full swing. Could this room full of wrinkly, graying men with beer bellies and women with crow's feet, librarian haircuts, and pointy eyeglasses be the apple-cheeked, gangly, energetic, hell-raising Class of 1981? The sign at the door claimed that it was.

I last saw these people the day we tossed our graduation caps high in the air during an outdoor commencement ceremony in the pouring rain. My family moved shortly after graduation, so I had lost touch with most of my fellow students. But despite the passing years, I was sure my memories of them were vivid. They were handsome and beautiful, adventurous and funny, kind and good-natured, ready to go places and do things and make a difference. The jocks, the heads, the stoners, the cheerleaders . . . we all got along, and I looked forward to seeing them again. But who, I wondered, were all these old people? "I didn't know we could bring our parents," Gail cracked.

We stood there staring for a split second, searching for a familiar face among the wrinkles. We saw none -- we could not see the trees for the forest. Overwhelmed, we headed immediately to the bar. Just as the barkeep set down my wine, I heard a loud bellow of a laugh off to my right and, recognizing the laugh before I saw the face, I turned. It was Steve, a goodhearted car nut, the first kid in class who'd grown a mustache (unless you count Joan, who had a hormone problem). In high school, Steve lived in blue jeans and a white T-shirt; we thought it might have been the same set. But strangely, the source of the laugh was a large, balding man wearing a chunky gold ring, a bolo tie, and expensive Italian boots. Maybe it wasn't Steve after all. Bolo Man recognized me, smiled, and waved hi. Like magic, the familiar twinkle in his eyes transformed him from a balding old guy into high-school Steve. It was as if he'd been inhabited by the ghost of his teenage self.

"My God, he hasn't changed a bit," said Gail. "Except that he looks completely different."

The ghosts showed up throughout the night. When Jon sat down in front of me, I wouldn't have known him were it not for his nametag. Jon had been the certifiably hottest guy in high school. He was known far and wide for his luxurious head of golden curls, hair that would fly out behind him as he sprinted down the soccer field, hair that melted the hearts of girls from six to 60 . . . hair that had utterly abandoned Jon several years after graduation.

"Now I know how women with big breasts feel," he laughed as he sat before me, profoundly bald. "No one tonight can look me in the eye when they talk to me. They just keep staring at my head." He grinned his infectious, snaggletoothed grin, and another teenage ghost appeared.

Moments later, an equally bald man came up and embraced me with a heartfelt "Kristine, how are you?" I pulled back and scanned his shirt for a nametag. There was none. I searched the face for something, a clue, a twinkle, a facial feature, anything that would reveal his teenage ghost.

"I'm sorry," I finally admitted. "I got nothing."

"It's Mark," he said. And in a flash, his face morphed before my very eyes into the handsome former neighbor on whom I'd had a mad crush for the majority of senior year. My heart did the same little leap it did back then, as Mark's familiar features took shape.

All night long, I encountered strangers, then watched as the ghosts of my old high-school friends occupied their bodies and clarified their faces. The notion that I might not recognize them became unimaginable. As the night wound down, I looked around the room, but now it was filled with familiar faces. The dance floor was packed, Kansas's "Carry On Wayward Son" thumped from the sound system. Four of my favorite classmates, Dave, Nick, Steve, and Phil, were standing in a huddle by a table. They had been, and still were, inseparable. Gail was standing at my side, laughing. Suddenly, the ghosts took over. This was no longer a reunion. It was our senior prom. Every one of us was 17 again, every face fresh, eager, apple-cheeked, and lovely, every body gangly. The whole world was waiting just outside the door, and all we had to do was go and open it. I smiled, then laughed out loud.

Then somebody yelled, "Last call," the lights came up, and the ghosts ebbed away to reveal our wrinkles and gray. We said our goodbyes, traded business cards, and promised to call, knowing we probably wouldn't. The ghosts still lurked within, of course, and always will, but the adult bodies they now occupied had babysitters to pay, children to kiss goodnight, and adult lives to get on with. It was time for the ghosts of the Class of '81 to go home to bed.

Kris Frieswick can be reached at krisf1@gte.net.

Issue Date: May 3 - 9, 2002