Amor Fati

Author's Note: The following story has real-life elements, but still, mostly fiction. Enjoy, and constructive criticism is always welcome!

“ELEANOR!”

The trouble with attending the wedding of an old classmate was that one ran into other old classmates, Eleanor Button mused. She’d already dodged several so far. Perhaps she could pretend she hadn’t heard and make her escape?

“ELEANOR! It is you, isn’t it?”

The voice sounded older – fifty-something, not twenty-something –and regrettably it was close enough that a graceful escape would be impossible. “This is what comes of dilly-dallying over dessert, Eleanor Button,” said an inner voice, which sounded disagreeably like her Auntie Florence. “And what were you doing at the dessert table, anyway? Aren’t you supposed to be on a diet?”

Better the unknown voice than Auntie-Florence-In-Her-Head.

“ELEANOR!”

It – rather, she - was right behind her now. Eleanor turned, and was faced with –

“It’s Mrs Harefield! You were in my grade 12 English class, Eleanor… Don’t you remember me?”

How could anyone forget Old Harey? Swathed in multicoloured scarves, well-thumbed copy of War and Peace in her hand, Old Harey had established herself as the intellectual authority of Monsignor Ryan High School. She had taught English Literature and History, and considered herself an expert in the performing arts as well, which had led to many highly entertaining confrontations with the drama teacher, Mr Carton. Eleanor had been one of her favourite students.

“Of course, Mrs Harefield. How are you? Still teaching?”

“Oh wonderful, my dear… You know, I so enjoy working with young minds... They come to me as unformed masses of clay, and I give them definition!”

Eleanor supposed that any definition that happened to Old Harey’s pubescent charges was due to the uncomfortable process of growing up, but she kept that thought to herself.

“But of course you, Eleanor, were different! How you loved to read! If only your classmates had followed your example – but of course teenagers are teenagers, no matter how much you highlight a good path to follow, they insist on doing as they please!”

Eleanor barely suppressed a grimace. Old Harey had been assiduous in her highlighting of Eleanor’s good example.

“How many of you have done the reading? None? Eleanor, what about you? My dear, is that a twitch or a nod? God did not give us the gift of speech so that you could twitch, child. Now speak up, have you done the reading? Yes? Now why can’t the rest of you be like Eleanor?”

In hindsight, Eleanor knew she never really had a chance of being popular in high school. She’d always enjoyed being a geek too much to ever hide it. But there was still a small part of her that thought, “If only Harey would have shut up about what a paragon I was, perhaps more people would have liked me.” Given that this was the same part of her brain that thought tequila should be an integral part of a healthy diet, Eleanor tried her best to ignore the thought.

Old Harey was still speaking, “Nevertheless, so many of my former students are doing terribly well for themselves… Denver Choi appeared in an off-Broadway play last year, Jeremy O’Leary is doing something financial in New York, Sarah Black is a surgery resident…”

Eleanor was nonplussed. “But I haven’t seen any of them tonight?”

“Oh no, they’re not here… facebook, my dear! I mean, of course it’s deplorable, centuries of letter-writing tradition to be replaced with pokes and lols and what have you, but still, I can’t argue, it’s a remarkably effective way to keep in touch. Which reminds me, we must – what is the expression – friend each other as well! But my dear, I’m being stunningly rude. I haven’t asked about you at all! What are you doing?”

“Well, I temp mostly.”

Old Harey’s expression froze. “Temp? But – but, Eleanor, you went to Columbia!”

“I dropped out. I figured college was just a practice run for the bigger rat race, and I decided that’s not what I want to do with my life. So I temp here and there, and when I have enough money, I travel.”

Judging from Old Harey’s face, she’d have been less appalled if Eleanor had told her she made sculptures from elephant dung.

“My dear, you had so much potential…”

Eleanor didn’t quite know what to say to that, so she shrugged.

“Anyway, I’ll catch up with you later, child. Must circulate, you know!” Old Harey fled. Eleanor looked after her, looked down at her dyed satin wedding shoes and sighed.

Two months later, Eleanor had still not received a friend request from Old Harey. She could live with that.