I remember Senior Skip Day 1998, a crowded hot bus ride to Cuesta Park. CuestaCollege Park was bordered with tight nit pines that silenced the roar of Scenic Route 1 traffic. San Luis Obispo High School Seniors poured out of the buses and stormed the grassy fields. A handful of teachers sent as chaperones, leaned back in lawn chairs, Hawaiian shirts, shorts and sandals the uniform of the day. Occasionally, one of the teachers would man the grill and fire up some burgers and hot dogs.

Clusters of Seniors hid in groves, or dropped in the middle of the meadow, some wandered from group to group. There were wall flowers hiding near the beverages, rarely approaching anyone. There were ags, vegans, punks, fags, dykes, and a handful of multicultural cliques, jocks, dorks, the whole lot. I was one of the wanderers, stopping at each group saying my “hellos,” having my yearbook signed, and not a bit different from anyone of the teenagers running around thinking they were grown.

I was dehydrated from the California sun beating my pasty white skin, but the slight breeze that swept down the valley and over the wall of trees soothed the burning. I headed towards the centrally located picnic benches, and the promise of ice water, soda, or juice. I kept wondering which teacher brought the flask with Captain Morgan in it. I opened the Igloo’s lid and jammed my hand deep into the shockingly cold ice water grasping for any non-diet beverage. Around the fifth try I found a plain old ordinary Coca-Cola; I almost jumped for joy, but then I would have shaken the coke and I wasn’t putting my hand back in there.

I was off in my own little world: the crack, fizz and bubbling sound of a just opened coke, in the land of thirst, that sound is my best friend. I brought the can to my lips, at this time I felt a tapping on my left shoulder. I had a choice, drink then turn, or turn, wait, then drink. I drank as I turned. I couldn’t tell you if I expected that tap to come from any particular person, but I can tell you that I was taken aback when I realized who wanted my attention.

“Hey,” he said, “Monique? Do you remember me? Sam?” I’m certain the look on my face betrayed my answer, “Yeah, Sammy, I remember you,” I spun through my mental rolodex trying to place him. “Do you remember what you told me?” he asked. “Look, man, I’ve told a lot of things to a lot of people, why don’t you tell me, and I’ll tell you if I remember,” I stated.