BWOC

You know it's scary when I want to start a post with the written equivalent of belting out John Mayer. "I wanna RUN through the halls of my HIGH school, I wanna scream at the TOP OF MY LUNGS..."

"She was a BWOC."

M peered at the yearbook photo and the cryptic senior memories printed below. References to varsity teams, the after-school job, AP classes, Shakespeare, concerts, old boyfriends, crushes and best friends.

I glanced at her sideways. "BWOC?"

She chuckled and looked back at the bright smile surrounded by a thick mane of long, pale hair. "You were a Big Woman On Campus, dear."

R laughed as my face reddened. Amazing how dynamic one's high school years can look through yearbook pages and school plaques. So what if I felt like a wallflower all four years? I looked accomplished in retrospect. Thank you, Father Time!

The lockers were a different color. The maroon had been replaced by an inexplicable shade of mint green. The principal noticed my subtle double take and laughingly apologized. The switch was made before his time, he explained. I snickered and pointed out the locker that held my books and (oh God) varsity jacket senior year.

The smell was exactly the same, and the marble floors cast the same quixotic reflections. You couldn't tell if the light bounced off the shiny walls onto the shiny floor or vice versa. A triangulated glow of muted white light.

The gymnasium was dark. ALmost intimidating - a realization that surprised me. The number of evenings and Saturdays spent sprinting across the floor, the pep rallies, graduation...hell, our championship banner hung on the wall and my name was engraved on the marble soccer plaque in the gym lobby. I still knew to keep to the sidelines when walking across the varnished wood floor. "No street shoes on the court!"

As I waited in the hallway, I looked at a stained-glass window over the front door. A mural depicting my National Honor Society advisor, whose death had surprised me a few years earlier. I looked at her etched face before turning to face the wall and the brass-and-wood plaques above the lockers. My brother's name was up there - I had to smile.

The pay phone had been moved, but the rest was as I remembered it. Smaller, though, which would have seemed impossible as a high schooler. Each of the rooms contained just what I remembered, even many of the same teachers. Grayer, comparatively smaller versions of the figures I alternately feared, loathed and adored as a student.

They remembered me - asked how my parents were, inquired about my brother. Teased me about the Red Sox, conversed with me in German. One pointed out drawings that a classmate (and my high school crush) had created sophomore year - he had kept them taped to the door to the chemical room ever since because he loved them so much. I remembered when he first mounted them there - then I realized it had been nearly a decade since that day. I made a mental note to email that old friend and share the anecdote. He'd get a kick out of it.

I knew this place well. Spending nearly every day of six teenage years will do that. But as I tried to remember what was important to me then, I realized just how much had changed. When teachers' eyes widened as I explained my involvement in theater during college, I remembered being 16 and wanting to join the theater club - but being too intimidated to do so. As M described my "beautiful long, blonde hair," I remembered tossing it just right so it would look its best for the senior year soccer team picture.

Getting a good picture for the yearbook was one of the most important things around. The yearbook photo. Beating out my class rival for the top soccer award senior year. Winning the state softball championship. Getting straight As and a good score on the AP English exam. Quoting Shakespeare with C as we walked through the hallways. Trading senior portraits with my classmates. Leaving my mark on my high school.

These were the things that were important.

I wasn't a BWOC, dear teacher.

I was one hell of a dork.