I scanned the crowd, eagerly seeking the high school friends I hadn’t seen in so many years. At last I spotted them across the room, waving, pointing out the seat reserved for me. I started toward them but hesitated when my glance landed on someone else. Like a child bursting with excitement, she bounded out of her seat and rushed toward me. Time slowed to a crawl, my steps became sluggish, as if I were wading through quicksand. I looked at my friends across the room, pleading with my eyes for them to help me. They laughed and pointed as I was embraced by Frances Crum.
I always felt kind of sorry for Frannie—not sorry enough to actually be nice to her, but sorry, nevertheless. There was something about her that was just so pitiful. I thought she might actually be attractive if she would do something with her hair (wash it, maybe?) and put on some decent clothes, but, of course, I didn’t dare say that out loud.
She was so desperate to be popular; she tried so hard that all she did was drive people away. Every time there was a new student at the school, Frannie would stick to her like bubblegum on a shoe, and she couldn’t get rid of her. Eventually, the new kid would start making fun of her as well, just to make her go away.
Trying to Fit
I remember the year she decided to be a cheerleader. She thought that was the fast track to popularity. The coach had announced open tryouts for the three available spots. Excitement ran high, and all over campus girls practiced their cheers. Some were good, some were bad—and then there was Frannie, in a class all her own. She seemed to have more knees and elbows than anyone else. Her superskinny body jutted and jerked while the others flowed from movement to movement. Even the worst of the contenders looked worlds better than Frannie.
“And trying out in position number three, Frances Crum!” I watched her face change as people began to jeer—one minute grinning with excitement, the next minute crumbling, cracking, shattering like a windshield. Her head dropped, her shoulders drooped. She took a deep, shuddery breath, then raised her head and smiled, holding onto her composure by a thread. For a moment, I admired the courage she exhibited, until I remembered that this was Frannie Crum.
The music started, and Frannie was immediately out of sync. She tried desperately to match the movements of the other girls, but somehow she looked like a marionette dancing a ballet. All eyes were on Frannie, and the gym reverberated with laughter. I laughed right along with them, until I saw the tears on her cheeks. Making some excuse to my friends, I walked out just as Frannie attempted a cartwheel. I couldn’t bear to see someone humiliated like that—not even Frannie Crum. The next day, though, I made “Frannie” jokes right along with everyone else. Needless to say, she didn’t make the cheer squad.
Frannie pulled me over to her table and introduced me to someone. “Donald, this is the girl I told you about. This is Stephanie. She was my best friend in high school.”
A New Course
At football games we would watch for Frannie and hide when we saw her. Sometimes when we were engrossed in the game, Frannie would suddenly appear beside us. We would ignore her or slip off to the snack bar, one by one, never to return.
One Friday a bunch of us went to the movies to see something romantic and sad. We ran into Frannie buying a ticket to see some stupid animated film. “Oh, that’s what we’re going to see,” I said. “Why don’t you go inside and save us all seats, while we buy some drinks.” I had to bite my lip when she carefully counted out a handful of change for a soda.
The two movies ended at the same time. As we left the theater, gushing over the gorgeous and tragic leading man, I saw Frannie coming toward us, her head hanging and her eyes red. She looked up, and her eyes met mine, then she turned away without even acknowledging us. I laughed it off, but didn’t particularly enjoy the rest of the evening.
A thousand moments flooded my mind, cruel hurtful moments, when it would have been so easy to say a nice word or give her a smile or walk away when others were making fun of her. I had always considered myself to be kind and friendly, but now, disgusted by the memories, I wondered what kind of person I really was.
I looked again at the group of friends gathered at the far table, watching us, waiting for me. I longed to be over there with them, laughing, comparing notes, filling each other in on the last 10 years. I looked at Frannie, sitting alone with her date at this big, empty table, once again on the fringes. Ten years ago, I had been afraid to do what I knew to be right. And now? I held out my hand. “Donald, it’s good to meet you. Do you mind if I sit here?”
