thing.
Missy Fletcher—the coolest person in our school nobody ever got to know.
Before I dated Missy, I was with a girl named Whitney. Whitney’s goal in life—at least in high school—was to be just right . We’d meet outside the basketball stadium, but we couldn’t walk in until exactly halftime; otherwise, what would people think? She’d want me to buy her fries, but would only eat them if Sheila and Laura were around, girls who thought it was cool to binge and purge. If Marlene and Darlene (cheerleaders and identical twins) were around, she’d scowl at the fries in disdain. “Look at all that fat!” Whitney wasn’t dumb, I don’t think, but in her mind, it wasn’t cool to do homework or stand out in any way.
Missy didn’t give a thought to any of that kind of nonsense. She loved school, was a total brain, and wouldn’t even consider not doing her work to impress the Whitneys of the world. She chomped into food, and the sheer joy of eating was written all over her face. She read nearly a book a day, worked extra math problems for fun, and sometimes strolled through the Smithsonian on the weekend all by herself. I’d be away at baseball camp and then ask her what she had been up to. “There was a contemporary art exhibition at the Corcoran,” she’d say. As if it were totally normal to spend a Saturday doing that.
Missy was the most confident girl I ever knew. I told her that once and she nearly fell over laughing. “Me?!” She told me that she hated everything about herself, knew she was wrong in a thousand ways, but was helpless to change. One time she admitted she couldn’t believe that I liked her. I thought she was nuts, but later I saw that she really did have this crazily limited, restrictive view of herself and her potential.
We were getting ready to apply for colleges and Missy all of a sudden dug in her heels, saying that she wanted to stay in Alexandria, that she wanted us to keep dating. This was nuts, considering she had already aced the practice SAT and colleges were courting the hell out of her. She had a 4.0 GPA and had proven aptitude in math and science. The colleges were all over her, throwing scholarships at her like candy. Every now and then she talked to me about studying abroad or traveling through Europe. I even think she filled out the Peace Corps application, but never sent it in. Something stopped her. She worried with anxiety about everything. I think it affected her more than she knew. Growing up without a mom probably played into that apprehension, I would guess.
Of course, she had her father. Frank. God, that guy was one of a kind. He loved me in an entirely different way than my parents did. My parents were good but we were just getting by. Their goals were maintenance: keep the kids fed, the mortgage paid, and never miss Sunday Mass. But Frank . . . the guy would take me out to lunch—just the two of us, sometimes—and talk to me, ask my opinion about things: politics, sports, and the stock market. He made me feel like my thoughts mattered. He valued me. My dad was great in a lot of ways, but I never once had lunch with him alone.
Later that night, I logged on to Facebook and wrote Missy back:
Missy, has it really been fifteen years? I look at your profile picture and you look exactly the same to me. Then again, I still feel like the same guy I was in high school, but you’d never believe how far from the truth that is. I spent most of the past fifteen years in the Marines. I served three tours. Now I work for a government contractor. But all in all, I don’t have a reason to complain, not a reason for not being happy. I’m healthy and employed, and have three great kids. Katherine is thirteen, almost fourteen. Olivia is eleven, and Jake just turned nine. How are you and Frank doing?
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
The next day at Fletcher Financial, I entered my office, turned on my computer and the three screens, and headed to the kitchen to fill my mug with coffee.
Missy Fletcher—the coolest person in our school nobody ever got to know.
Before I dated Missy, I was with a girl named Whitney. Whitney’s goal in life—at least in high school—was to be just right . We’d meet outside the basketball stadium, but we couldn’t walk in until exactly halftime; otherwise, what would people think? She’d want me to buy her fries, but would only eat them if Sheila and Laura were around, girls who thought it was cool to binge and purge. If Marlene and Darlene (cheerleaders and identical twins) were around, she’d scowl at the fries in disdain. “Look at all that fat!” Whitney wasn’t dumb, I don’t think, but in her mind, it wasn’t cool to do homework or stand out in any way.
Missy didn’t give a thought to any of that kind of nonsense. She loved school, was a total brain, and wouldn’t even consider not doing her work to impress the Whitneys of the world. She chomped into food, and the sheer joy of eating was written all over her face. She read nearly a book a day, worked extra math problems for fun, and sometimes strolled through the Smithsonian on the weekend all by herself. I’d be away at baseball camp and then ask her what she had been up to. “There was a contemporary art exhibition at the Corcoran,” she’d say. As if it were totally normal to spend a Saturday doing that.
Missy was the most confident girl I ever knew. I told her that once and she nearly fell over laughing. “Me?!” She told me that she hated everything about herself, knew she was wrong in a thousand ways, but was helpless to change. One time she admitted she couldn’t believe that I liked her. I thought she was nuts, but later I saw that she really did have this crazily limited, restrictive view of herself and her potential.
We were getting ready to apply for colleges and Missy all of a sudden dug in her heels, saying that she wanted to stay in Alexandria, that she wanted us to keep dating. This was nuts, considering she had already aced the practice SAT and colleges were courting the hell out of her. She had a 4.0 GPA and had proven aptitude in math and science. The colleges were all over her, throwing scholarships at her like candy. Every now and then she talked to me about studying abroad or traveling through Europe. I even think she filled out the Peace Corps application, but never sent it in. Something stopped her. She worried with anxiety about everything. I think it affected her more than she knew. Growing up without a mom probably played into that apprehension, I would guess.
Of course, she had her father. Frank. God, that guy was one of a kind. He loved me in an entirely different way than my parents did. My parents were good but we were just getting by. Their goals were maintenance: keep the kids fed, the mortgage paid, and never miss Sunday Mass. But Frank . . . the guy would take me out to lunch—just the two of us, sometimes—and talk to me, ask my opinion about things: politics, sports, and the stock market. He made me feel like my thoughts mattered. He valued me. My dad was great in a lot of ways, but I never once had lunch with him alone.
Later that night, I logged on to Facebook and wrote Missy back:
Missy, has it really been fifteen years? I look at your profile picture and you look exactly the same to me. Then again, I still feel like the same guy I was in high school, but you’d never believe how far from the truth that is. I spent most of the past fifteen years in the Marines. I served three tours. Now I work for a government contractor. But all in all, I don’t have a reason to complain, not a reason for not being happy. I’m healthy and employed, and have three great kids. Katherine is thirteen, almost fourteen. Olivia is eleven, and Jake just turned nine. How are you and Frank doing?
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
The next day at Fletcher Financial, I entered my office, turned on my computer and the three screens, and headed to the kitchen to fill my mug with coffee.
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