The Name Tag at Our Class Reunion

Dinner

They served roast beef, mashed potatoes, green beans with bacon, and a dinner roll that tasted like the cafeteria in a way that made half the room laugh out loud. There were sheet cakes from the grocery store with blue and gold frosting.

Heather came around to every table. She was still pretty. Her hair was shorter now, a smart blonde bob, and she had on a sleeveless black dress and the kind of tired around the eyes that makeup doesn’t cover.

She had a clipboard. She stopped at each table, said a few words, made a check mark, moved on.

When she got to our table, she said hello to Kim and Kim’s husband, Jeff, and asked how their kids were. Then she looked at me. Her eyes went to the purse strap, then back to my face.

“Tammy,” she said. “I’m glad you could make it.”

“Me too,” I said. “The gym looks beautiful, Heather. You all did a lot of work.”

She blinked. I don’t think it was what she expected. She said, “Thank you,” and she made a check mark on her clipboard, and she moved on to the next table.

Kim said something under her breath that I won’t write down.

“Stop it,” I said.

“I’m not doing anything. I’m eating my roll.”

Seven fifteen

At ten after seven, Heather went up to the podium and tapped the microphone. The DJ cut the music. The room settled.

“Okay, everybody, if I can have your attention,” she said. “Welcome home, Pruett Pirates.”

People cheered. Somebody at the back did the old fight song chant, and half the room joined in, and she laughed and waited for them to finish.

“We are so glad you’re all here,” she said. “We have a lot of people to thank. But first, as many of you know, we reached out to the county this spring and asked if someone from the county would come welcome us back. And the clerk of courts’ office said yes. So please give a warm Pirates welcome to our county clerk of courts.”

She stepped half a step back from the podium and turned toward the gym doors, the way you do when you expect someone important to come in from the hallway.

I stood up from table nine.

I took the name tag off my purse strap. I smoothed it with my thumb. And I pressed it onto the front of my navy blazer, high on the left side, right over my heart, where everyone in the room could read it.

Then I walked to the podium.

Heather’s face

I have seen a lot of faces at a lot of counters in twenty years. I have watched people learn their house is going to sheriff’s sale. I have watched men find out their ex-wife filed first. You learn to read a face.

Heather’s face did three things. First it was confused. Then it went to the name tag on my blazer, and it went white. Then it went to her own clipboard, as if the answer might be written there.

“Tammy,” she said, low, not into the microphone. “You’re the clerk?”

“Since 2020,” I said, just as low. “It’s all right.”

She stepped aside. Her hand was shaking a little when she let go of the microphone stand. I don’t think anybody saw it but me.