Our Senior Year

By John Abraham-watne

Minneapolis writer Jason Wareheim never expected to go back to his ten-year high school reunion, but what he found back in his hometown changed the way he saw everything. The journal left behind by his best friend, Jack Wayne, brings back all the memories of their senior year, inspiring Jason to finally tell the story of ''the three musketeers'' and their lives in the small town of Clarmont, Iowa. Theirs was a story crossed by love, tragedy, friendship, loyalty, and simple cruising on gravel roads. This is a story of high school.

• Language: English
• Publisher: North Star Press of St. Cloud
• Release date: Sep 15, 2014
• ISBN: 9780878399925

John Abraham-watne

John Abraham-Watne lives near Lake Calhoun in Minneapolis with his wife, Mary, and their two cats, Marble and Scout. This is his first novel. He has done freelance journalism with the Minneapolis Examiner since 2009.

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OUR SENIOR YEAR

John Abraham-Watne

North Star Press of St. Cloud, Inc.

St. Cloud, Minnesota

Copyright © 2014 John Abraham-Watne

Print ISBN 978-0-87839-771-6

eBook ISBN: 978-0-87839-992-5

All rights reserved.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

First Edition: September 2014

Published by

North Star Press of St. Cloud, Inc.

P.O. Box 451

St. Cloud, Minnesota 56302

northstarpress.com

Table of Contents

OUR SENIOR YEAR

The Journal

FALL

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

WINTER

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

SPRING

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

SUMMER

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Epilogue

The Journal

The announcement appeared in my mail on a bright spring Saturday morning amid a circular for dry cleaning, some credit card applications, and a new issue of Harper’s . The red-and-black lettering on the envelope came from a place I hadn’t thought about for years. The scratched-out destination address—to me—was to my parent’s home in Iowa. My current address was written above it in my mother’s kind script. I opened the door of my Minneapolis apartment and tossed the other mail on the coffee table. Glancing at the erroneous address once more, I tore open the envelope. I recognized the silhouetted cowboy mascot struggling to control his steed in the upper right corner. It was an invitation to my ten-year high school reunion. A small checkbox for a vegetarian meal stood out at the bottom.

My first instinct was to throw it away, disgusted. The black-and-red color scheme brought up foggy memories of those colors in the high school gymnasium. I sat on my cheap little maroon couch and reflected on how the people from high school turned out one of two ways. Most stayed in our minuscule town and lost themselves to menial labor, drugs, or both. The rest, if they had been lucky, moved as far away from our hometown as they could. My story was a mixture of both. Now living in the Twin Cities as a struggling writer I had few options and was ready to move anywhere else. The story of my senior year of high school had been with me this last decade, longing to come out but not knowing how. I tried putting it down on paper a few times, but those memories didn’t come easily. Made up stories were more my thing.

The reunion I pictured was a spectacle in which those of us who hadn’t made it were expected to give approving applause to those who had. Hell, even the guy who gained the most weight would probably walk away with a trophy. I couldn’t deal with that yet, so I set the invitation among the collection of paperwork on my writing desk, where it would remain for several weeks.

I came upon the envelope one day when I was willing myself to write. Writer’s block had come fast and hard following a split with the one woman in my life I had ever loved. Several months earlier she walked past the cracked walls and peeling paint of my tiny apartment near Lake Calhoun and out the door forever. Since then I had drawn a blank. Ideas used to flow like water. I had one published book under my belt, several short stories in literary journals from the area, and had even received recognition online for my political writing. Then the river ran dry.

Abandoning my computer and writing at my desk by hand was my last hope to see things in a new light. I was doodling imaginary band names on the margins of the otherwise blank paper when I noticed the invitation. Half buried under receipts and car insurance papers, the silhouetted cowpoke on his horse, flailing back with one hand raised as if he was about to fall off his steed, stuck out from underneath. My eyes scanned the fancy cursive script. The reunion was to take place next weekend. The notion of attending weighed in my mind. It pained me to think about going through the motions and small-talk with people I had not spoken with in a decade, but in the end I decided to go. Perhaps the event would offer me something to remember other than sadness from that time of my life.

I called my parents in Clarmont and made arrangements to stay with them for the weekend. They were thrilled. I had not been back since I left for Minneapolis five years earlier. The idea of the class reunion seemed to offer me a pretty good reason to go, but what happened after the reunion changed the way I saw everything.

My parents still lived in the same house they’d been in for fifty years. When I spoke to my father on the phone, he seemed to relish the thought we’d have some time for bonding. I neglected to tell him I’d be hanging out at the local watering hole most of my evening and heading back to the cities the next day. As I walked out my parent’s large front door to attend the reunion, he had a forlorn look that made me feel guilty.

I left during the break in the award ceremony between Best Dressed and Most Weight Gained. I had only meant to bolt out for a quick smoke outside the bar, but when a few others from my class joined me and none of us spoke, I decided I could use some family time after all.

When I arrived back at my parents’ house, my father was in the living room, drinking coffee and reading a book by Gore Vidal. You’re home early, Jason, he said over a sip of his mug. How was the reunion?

Fine, I said, slumping onto the couch next to him. Some people made it in life. Some didn’t. There were the usual awards and stuff.

I see, he said. Did your old friend Joe make it?

No. I didn’t see him anywhere, if that’s what you’re asking.

Huh, he said, his eyes narrowing as they peered out the darkened front window. That’s a shame. You two used to hang out all the time as kids. I still see his parents around town, ya know. They say he’s more mobile than he’s ever been down in Des Moines. Say, you goin’ to be around for a bit tomorrow? There’s gonna be some good baseball on the tube. I thought we might watch together.

I don’t think so, I said, feeling shameful about ditching the old man but wanting even more to escape this town and the memories the reunion brought with it. I’m going to head back to the Cities tomorrow. Got a lot to do. Sorry. It sounded lame.

For a minute he just looked at me. He wanted to say something but then decided against it. All right, he mumbled, taking another sip of coffee. Glad to have you home anyway, even for such a short time.

Thanks, Dad, I said, getting up to go into my old bedroom which my mother had since turned it into a crafting room.

The conversation would have been the end of my reunion trip had she not been sitting there on the makeshift guest bed holding a small, damaged notebook. It looked like the ones we used to lug around in high school. The words Senior Year were scribbled on the front in black marker. I recognized the handwriting. Hello, dear, my mother said, setting the frayed notebook beside her. How was the reunion?

It was all right, I said. What’s that?

She looked at me with a distant stare I had not seen in many years. You remember Jack Wayne, right?

My eyes widened. Something dropped in the pit of my stomach. I looked down at the notebook. Of course I do. Was that his?

She nodded. His mother gave it to me last year before they moved out of Clarmont. He kept a journal for each of his high school years. She didn’t want anything to do with this one, considering it’s the one from his senior year . . . she trailed off for a moment. She thought maybe you might want it. She thought maybe you’d have some insight as to what happened, given you were his only friend.

The thought punctured me like a nail through a tire. I don’t know about that, I stammered. I think he had other friends than just me. I knew it was a lie as soon as I said it.

Well, you know, my mother said. I’m just passing the message along. She thought maybe it would give you some closure. That was a rough year for a lot of you kids. She paused, turning the notebook over in her hands before pushing it into mine. I didn’t read it, if you’re wondering. It’s not my business.

For a single moment the memories of my senior year came rolling back like a flood. The shards of guilt to which my stomach had built up a resistance over the years returned with a vengeance. I looked at the notebook. The familiar handwriting sent a chill down my spine.

Fine, I said. I’ll look it over.

Good, honey, she said, standing up and kissing my head as if I were five years old. I hope you had a good time back home.

I did, I said, knowing full well it wasn’t the truth. The reunion had been disappointing and now, with one simple object the past had caught up to me and was staring me in the face like a death mask.

•  •  •

I read through the journal the next day at a coffee shop a few blocks from my apartment. When I finished, I sat there in a daze, unable to comprehend my surroundings for a moment. I felt sadness in my heart but also, strangely enough, that feeling of closure Jack’s mother had expected. Here were the missing pieces from the story of our senior year. In this journal was the only true friend I ever had speaking from his heart. It also revealed a great deal of pain, sorrow and loneliness I realized were all too real and quite overlooked by me, his supposed best friend. There were certain things about Jack I knew, for instance his love for that girl. I also knew he took certain parts of our last year in high school hard, especially toward the end. But there were also many things I hadn’t known.

A week after reading the journal I sat down at my desk in my Minneapolis apartment. I took a pen in hand and stared at the blank page that had plagued me all those months. Then I started writing. I had to spin the story from my own perspective, of course. But after reading Jack’s thoughts I understood that the best I could do was tell my half of it. The rest had to come from Jack. And so it did.

FALL

Chapter 1

I began to lose my best friend, Jack Wayne, to forces I could never hope to control on the first day of our senior year. It was noon, and we were sitting in the stifling cafeteria, forcing our stomachs to accept the typical gruel that passed for food at Clarmont High School and catching up with the events of summer. Being nerds, we called ourselves the three musketeers, though I don’t think any of us had actually read the Dumas classic.

I had to hike all along those bluffs with my folks and sister in tow, our other friend Joey said in between bites of yellow mush that appeared to be potatoes. Joey was the smallest member of our group and kept his hair buzzed short so a fine fuzz covered his puny head. His parents worked in a consignment shop on the main street in Clarmont. His family was known around our school as less than affluent, but his shabby clothes didn’t bother us. On this inaugural day of school Joey wore a large white shirt with a big soccer ball on the front.

My best friend, Jack, wore a button-down navy shirt and was staring across to the other side of the wide room at a table populated by several girls. They sat in front of the giant elongated windows that faced the front walkway of the school. From the looks of it they were all younger than we were. I couldn’t tell who they were, only that Jack’s attention had strayed away from our current conversation of vacations and other summer escapades. He looked back at me and then gave a sheepish look down at his undisturbed lunch tray.

It was kinda sweet to see ’em, though, Joey continued undeterred, considering I was forced to go. It’s not like Council Bluffs is a real vacation.

I looked back over at Jack. His eyes had wandered over to that table again. Now he was just being inconsiderate.

That’s pretty wild, Jack said, his eyes moving back to our conversation. He pushed back the long brown hair he had grown over the past few months. I had to work all summer, thank you very much.

Jack was the largest of us, and not in muscle mass. His frame had decreased since his chubby elementary years but he still had at least a dozen pounds on me. Jack had worked at a general merchandise store on the outskirts of Clarmont called Pay-Go since he was a freshman. We musketeers referred to it as the poor man’s Wal-Mart. You could find just about anything you needed if you didn’t mind paying twice the asking price the actual big box store would charge. Jack claimed he needed the money for college, but over the summer I saw him spend more than a few dollars on the beer some of the college kids in town would buy for us underage fellows.

The intrigue around Jack’s parents could have filled a book. His mother, Judy, worked at the courthouse as an auditor and was quite the religious type. Her husband, Tom, seemed to go along with it most of the time. He worked the day shift at the big auto-part factory in Fort Dodge. On Sundays they were known to drag Jack along with them to this church in Blairsville, a town about fifteen miles from Clarmont.

Exciting, I said to Jack. Does anyone care what I did? They both looked at me with momentary interest. I realized I had nothing to say. My summer had been just as boring as theirs. It was hard to find much to do in a rural town with two gas stations, two restaurants, and one theater. I went down to Des Moines with my older brother in July, I said, recovering with a story about the capital city. That was a pretty good time. My brother and I had driven down there to meet up with his college buddies and hopefully get ourselves laid. Mission accomplished for him. I drank four beers and passed out on his friend’s couch, where facial humiliation via permanent marker ensued. I left out that part of the story as I told it to Jack and Joey. Then I reflected on how this could possibly have been the highlight of my summer.

Got drunk as hell. Had a good ol’ time, I wrapped up with fake bravado. The interest my friends had shown was wavering. Even got a number from a girl down there. That statement got it back. It was also total bullshit.

You’re full of shit, Joey said.

Yeah, I am, I said with a laugh. But it would’ve been awesome, right?

That got Jack to laugh. Pretty soon we were all laughing our asses off. The lunch bell rang, signaling the first afternoon of our senior year of high school. As we walked up the expansive corridor of black linoleum to return our lunch trays I pulled on the tail of Jack’s untucked shirt. He looked back with impatience, his hair flying around.

What? I gotta go to band. Jack was one of three trombone players in the Clarmont High School band, and was good enough to have scored a solo in the spring jazz band concert in eleventh grade.

Who were you looking at back there? I asked.

What? he replied with some defensiveness.

You know who I’m talking about, I said. Those girls. I nodded my head in their general direction.

Jack’s face flashed a shade of vermilion I had never seen before. He turned back to the tray deposit. It was no one.

Hold on, I said, grabbing his shirt again before he could slink away in his giant white sneakers. He pulled it back with a twist. You can’t tell me who you’ve got the hots for all of a sudden? Who was there for you when Jenny Shardane broke your fucking heart? Jenny was a starting hitter on the varsity volleyball team. She was very tall, blond, and seemed to date a different football player every month. Jack had asked her out our sophomore year after confiding his secret crush to me, who should have done a better job talking him out of it. Seeing her at the reunion ten years later married to one of those football jocks and with several kids in tow made me feel better. But back then it didn’t seem to dawn on Jack that girls like Jenny didn’t go for guys like us.

Don’t worry about it, he said, walking down the side of the cafeteria by the wooden gym doors. I was shocked. Until then I never had to provoke him about which girl he had a crush on. And this time he wouldn’t even admit to it. Something was different. I intended to find out what as I watched my best friend walk down the hallway and out of sight, his lengthy hair swaying to the movement of his feet.

•  •  •

August 29

The first day of our senior year went off without a hitch, I guess. I made it through all my classes, anyway. I have study hall with Jason, which is cool, and a free period every other afternoon. Mr. Parage said if I improve my grammar in Senior English I might have a shot at the honor roll. That means making sure I do my homework every night (a big if there). I’m worried about Pre-Calculus. Mrs. Wilkes said I can come in before school for help if I need it, which I probably will. I hate math in all its forms.

Caught up with the ol’ musketeers at lunch. They didn’t do shit this summer . . . big surprise. Jason and I hung out almost every day anyhow. I could’ve told them about my summer, but would they have cared? Jason already knows something’s up and Joey doesn’t care. I don’t like boring either of them with the church stuff anyways. I’ll probably tell Jason when we go out cruising this weekend. He’ll find out sooner or later.

I wonder if she even remembers me from the conference. She smiled at me across the room in band today. That must be a good sign. Of course I didn’t talk to her. I didn’t want to seem awkward. The truth is I was afraid. I don’t know how to talk to girls.

One hundred and seventy nine days to go before I finally leave this school for good.

•  •  •

The first week of school was uneventful. Most of the teachers still seemed to be on vacation so there was little homework. We three musketeers decided to have a celebration over the weekend. My real estate agent parents were down in Cedar Rapids for a seminar so my two-story brick house became the party zone. We sought out a group of guys in our class we referred to as the other fucks to see if they could find us some cheap beer. They came through, and we spent Saturday night getting loaded, playing cards around the oak coffee table and shooting the shit.

Fuck your straight, Alex Stromberg stammered, his eyes begin­ning to glaze. Alex was a football player and dutiful member of the jock contingent at Clarmont, but also one of the few people we knew with an older brother who could buy alcohol. Two kings, bitch! he yelled at Jack, leaning back in his black-and-red letter jacket and squinting. The smell of alcohol lingered over the table.

Jack looked down at his cards and swept dark-brown hair out of his eyes. Naw, fuck you. I win again, douche. Jack was many things, but a reckless card player he was not. If we ever played for more than a few bucks he would’ve owned us all.

Shit, Stomberg said, throwing his cards down on the table. They landed over the knot in the center. We’re going to have to take you on the ol’ riverboat casino one of these days, Wayne.

Jack’s skill at poker deteriorated after a few beers and the game became a bit more even. Joey fell off the chair he’d commissioned from the kitchen a few times. Alex’s girlfriend called twice wondering why the hell he was hanging out with us instead of her. Around ten o’clock he jettisoned out the door, chugging a caffeinated soda on the way to sober up, he said. By this time, Joey had passed out on my couch, beer