Just Melanie

I was a geeky, scared-to-death kid who didn’t know a soul the day I walked into Elgin High. I grew up going to a one-room country school about 18 miles away and seriously knew no one. There were a few other kids who seemed to be as lost as I was . . . they were “farm school” kids, too, as we were called.
My first day was horrendous. I wasn’t dressed right, I didn’t look right, I didn’t have anything to say. It seemed everyone else knew each other. They just looked at me and I was instantly labeled “one of the new kids.”
I suffered in silence through my day, sitting on pins and needles as I waited for the moment I could get back on that bus and go home. I was relieved when the hour finally arrived — and as I rode the bumpy country roads back home, I opened up the planning calendar my mom had given me in which I triumphantly crossed off the square that signified that day. It was over. My first day of high school was over.
But with horror, I looked again and saw there were a lot of boxes yet to be crossed off — and knew I’d need three more calendars before my high school career was finally over.
Days went by and then weeks. Before I knew it, it was time for Homecoming. The week before, the phone rang on a Saturday afternoon at my house and the sisters giggled that there was a boy on the phone. A boy? I couldn’t believe it. No boy had ever called me before, and I certainly hadn’t expected any to call any time soon. As I nervously took the receiver and said hello, I was startled to hear a guy on the other end say his name (which I will not reveal, because I actually feel sorry for him now). Let’s just call him George.
“George” was on the phone for me? Come on! Are you kidding me? He was a senior who, of course, was a great athlete, really popular and I guess considered quite good looking. What on earth did he want with me?
The candidate for Homecoming King then proceeded to ask me if I wanted to go to the dance with him, as his date. I didn’t even know what to say . . . I just sat there in silence, not knowing what to think. I was completely stunned, shocked. And thank God I didn’t say anything, because in the middle of that silence, I would hear George and what sounded like a couple other guys in the background, laughing their heads off.
The whole thing was a joke.
Horrified, I hung up the phone and sat there on the kitchen counter. They actually took the time to call me, long distance, to make fun of me, obviously hoping to hear me say I’d go so they could tell everyone at school that I seriously believed he’d have anything to do with me.
I remember looking in the mirror, eyes red from crying, wondering if I’d ever look the right way. There were so many things wrong with me — too chubby, too many zits, terrible hair style, bad eyebrows and a complete inability to apply make-up. Add to that the fact that my chest was as flat as the farmland in York County. My 15-year-old soul was crushed to realize that I was even worse, in other people’s eyes, like those of George, than I already thought of myself.
Of course, the story circulated around school that George and his jock friends had done what they had done. Some people were actually on my side, noting that it was a cruel thing to do. And of course, there were those “cool” people who thought it was hilarious. I remember walking down the hall, hearing them laugh as I passed by the doors of study hall — completely mortified.
My mother told me that he was just a confused young man and I shouldn’t let it bother me.
“Some day, he will realize what he did to you,” she said. “There will come a time when you will have eventual satisfaction, and you’ll be able to smile about all this.”
Fast forward 15 years — and you’d find me working at the business my husband and I owned in Elgin, called “Outta-Bounds.” It was a sports bar and restaurant, and it was packed because it was the weekend of the alumni banquet. Jerry was in the kitchen cooking, and I was trying to deal with the masses as they poured in. It was at that point I realized the people who had been seniors while I was a freshman were celebrating their 15th reunion.
It was a big class, and as they filed in, it was entertaining to see how everyone had changed — alumni banquets have a way of doing that. And then I heard a voice to my left, asking my name.
“So, who are you and how long have you lived in Elgin?” said this 30-something guy who actually looked more like he was in his mid-to-late 40s.
He stood there, all cocky, leaning up against a stool.
“Where’s your wife?” one of the other guys asked him.
“Oh, I have no idea,” the man said, pulling his shirt down over his protruding belly. “She’s mad at me again, probably went to her folks’ house,” noting he’d actually married someone from high school.
“Seriously, though, how long have you been in Elgin?” he asked me again, trying to give me this weird grin that made me feel like throwing up a little in my mouth.
“I’ve been in Elgin a long time,” I said, as I waited on other customers.
“Really? What’s your last name?” he asked, clearly indicating that his wife’s non-presence was not a problem, at least for him.
“Wilkinson,” I said, making change for some other people.
“Wilkinson?” he said. “Wilkinson?”
Then he proceeded to list all the Wilkinsons he knew, asking if I was related to any of them, which I said I was.
And then I realized I had been handed the opportunity of a lifetime. As I looked at him more closely and really listened to his voice . . . it dawned on me. This man was a shell of a person who used to be George. Long gone was his chiseled athletic body . . . as well as his hair. His weathered skin was no longer the stuff legends are made of. His mentality, however, appeared to be exactly the same as it was 15 years prior.
He suggested that I “come sit with him, after I was done working” (never noting that I was one of the owners or that I wore a diamond ring on my left hand). That’s when I realized that I had the upper hand — he had no idea that I was the same young girl he had so humiliated or that he was the one being humiliated at that point.
“I can’t believe that I don’t remember you,” he said. “I thought I knew all the Wilkinsons.”
“Well, I’ve only been a Wilkinson for a while,” I said, pointing at the apparently invisible ring on my hand.
“Oh, so you’re married!” he said, actually not caring a whole bunch. “Me, too. Not the best idea was it, to get married?”
I didn’t answer him. He just kept talking, inviting me to join him later and so on. He went on and on, clearly making his disgusting intentions obvious to me and some of the people around him. Every sentence solidified the fact that he had no idea who I was.
“What was your maiden name?” he said repeatedly.
Finally, with one deep breath, I looked him straight in the eyes and said the word.
“Mueller.”
He nodded his head a few times, and then stopped. He stared at me, and I stared back.
“You were Melanie Mueller?” he asked, eyes now wide with realization.
“Still am,” I said, opening the cash register. “Just older, smarter and with a better last name.”
About then, some of his classmates realized what had just happened — and that George was now feeling the sting of humiliation. He was making a fool out of himself, trying to put his clumsy moves on the same person who was so gross he decided a mean joke was warranted.
“I wouldn’t have guessed it,” he said, with real guilt and remorse across his face. “Sorry.”
I’m not sure if he was sorry for being such a heel at that moment, or sorry for what he did to me so long ago. It didn’t matter, at least he said the word.
About then, Jerry came out of the kitchen and George hurriedly made his way to a table to join other people — thankfully, not asking me to join him. And I heard a few of his so-called buddies say, “What a jerk,” “He hasn’t changed much,” and “He didn’t see that one coming.”
“Is that who I think it is?” Jerry asked me, as we continued to work.
“Sure is,” I said, giving him a wink. “And that’s what I call eventual satisfaction.”