Just your luck – Because your last names started with the same letter you were destined to be next to each other from Kindergarten to eternity.
And every Christmas it was the same thing. Everybody in your class gave everybody else presents – nobody was supposed to know who gave who what – It was your teacher’s idea. It was called Secret Santa.
Not so secret – it was alphabetical. You got pencils – she gave you a list – she told you to surprise her. She was insane. You could tell.
Worse – she liked you. You lived on the same block – you lived in the same building – her apartment was upstairs from yours. You took the same bus to school. There was no escape.
She wore braces – she ate with her mouth open. She would knock on your door and invite herself in. Your mom thought she was cute – your dad thought she was weird. She hovered. She followed you.
You thought you did something in your last life to deserve this.
You looked forward to Christmas about the same way convicts looked forward to Death Row.
She was relentless – she was demanding – you were stuck with her.
All because of the alphabet. Two tiny letters; a lifetime of misery.
You burned out braincells trying to find the cheapest item on her list. You couldn’t get out of it – the whole class would know – your teacher would embarrass you – the Principal would call your parents – the PTA would shun your family. No way around it – even the flu. You tried.
Last day before Christmas vacation – “Santa” got picked from a raffle and sat at the front of the room doling out presents, accompanied by an attempt at “ho-ho-ho” that resembled a Malamute’s trip to the Vet.
Your mom felt sorry for you and splurged for a flagon of Windsong by Coty – you got the usual; Eberhard-Faber Number 3 soft-lead – four of them.
You prayed that someone would show up next semester with a last name right between yours and hers.
But there was that thing called fate and your dad getting the promotion. You were moving – you were moving to L.A. – there was a god after all.
You were thrilled – the class was jealous – she cried.
And for the first time, maybe since first grade, you felt maybe she wasn’t so bad after all – maybe she really did like you. Maybe she was just one of those people who had a hard time not being strange.
You’ll never know.
You will miss Dick Biondi though – 45 minutes worth of December 1962 should be proof of that.
