Feb. 3rd, 2010

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We were sitting at the picnic table in Sandy’s yard pouring over the high-school yearbooks she had brought out, looking for ourselves and one another and commenting about which of us looked the same and who looked completely different.

“There’s Felicia Handy,” Sandy said softly as she pointed to a picture, and the group of us fell silent. She must have been looking at the yearbook from our freshmen year because that was the only yearbook that had Felicia’s picture in it. She shot herself just before our sophomore yearbooks went to press and the powers that be pulled her picture so that when the yearbook came out a few weeks later there was no sign she had ever attended school there. I thought this unfair; if she’d moved away in the middle of the spring semester, they would have left her photo alone. But the nature of Felicia’s demise had the adults panicking that it might give the rest of us ideas about taking the easy way out, and so they thought it best to remove her picture and hope we’d all forget about her.

It didn’t work. I could tell from the way everyone froze and the sharp intakes of breath around that picnic table 25 years later that every last one of was still haunted our memories of her.

15 there's still time for you / Time to buy and time to choose / Hey 15, there's never a wish better than this / When you only got 100 years to live… )

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