After reunion, old friends are forever 14 — miniskirts included

After lunch with Linda, I bought two miniskirts, who knows why. One denim, one tie-dye. I set them side-by-side like young friends on my orange chaise and whenever I passed by, floated by, I fell into an adolescent dream where love is luv.

At one time, the minis could've been hanging in my closet next to my favorite, a sweet number the color of buttercups. It fit snug as a bug, and whenever I climbed up the school stairwell, I could hear "Sugar, Sugar" and feel my hips swivel like nobody's business. And now for a silly thought: Do hips my age swivel?

Which brings me to a moment in 2017.

Late afternoon. In a condo building that overlooks Whole Foods, I wait for the elevator up. Ding! Step in, half-smile at the lone occupant, a woman with stylish silver hair to her shoulders. Press button, go zombie. But … is she staring at me?

The elevator moves.

"Excuse me," I hear, "are you Francie Park?"

Blankly. "Yes."

"I'm Linda Bern. Do you remember me? From high school?"

Linda who? Suddenly, words whiz by me like comets. Freshman year, a mutual friend Sue. Uh, every other girl was named Linda or Sue in those days. She's still talking at the speed of light when the elevator opens and I trip out, hearing:

"Friend me on Facebook!"

Our modern-day history

Once home, I de-fog. The year is 1970. Oh, right … Linda. Our friendship was short-lived, lasting only that freshman year. Perhaps we went to sock hops and danced to "Sugar, Sugar." Connected, then drifted apart. Eventually, she transferred to a new school across town.

Soon a clearer image emerges. She's 14, standing on my family's porch waiting for her ride. Shoulder-length brown hair, itsy skirt over Twiggy legs. Our voices are hushed, as if the universe is eavesdropping. We're talking about boys we're crushing on. I don't remember their names, or who they were. I only know we couldn't have pictured our paths crossing again a half-century later. Not in a million years.

Linda sends me a friend request on Facebook, and our modern-day history begins.

Via light messaging and scrolling, we get re-acquainted. Unlike me, Linda's retired, divorced and, judging by her posts, more fun-loving than me. These days, anyway.

That said, in a long-distance marriage — in more ways than one — I would've enjoyed an occasional night out with a neighbor. Sit outside Whole Foods with a little pizza and wine, walk home. But now I was in the middle of packing up to move to be closer to my long-widowed mom.

A good two years pass before we finally rendezvous. All we might share is our freshman year of high school but, who knows, maybe our elevator encounter will prove cosmic. Or not.

Different orbits

By now, life has changed. My husband and I have separated, and Linda's living in a new place where we chat on her patio over wine and little gourmet eats. Immediately, two things are crystal clear. First, in our jeans and halters, we don't dress like grannies. Second, what's vague to me is vivid to her. Like pom-poms gone wild, Linda shakes names in my face.

"Did you know so-and-so?"

"No."

"How about so-and-so?"

"No."

Her rah-rah spirit takes me aback. It's as if Saturday night battle-of-the-band dances are still going on.

"Yes, you know, he dated so-and-so."

"No."

"When they broke up, he started dating so-and-so."

No-and-no. Who were these people? Classmates from yore don't exist in my orbit. Meanwhile, Linda recently heard from a high school friend who had a thing for her way back when. Maybe still does.

"Francie, are you sure you didn't know him?" she presses.

In late February, we meet outside Delia's Cafe for lunch. I can almost hear "Sugar, Sugar" blaring from an AM radio as Linda bounces toward me, lit up. And then there's me, so dark I may as well be wearing a death mask. No spring to your step when you're dragging an emotional ball and chain. Not because my divorce is official now, God, no. But this: Six months earlier, I watched my mother die.

Inside Delia's, the familiar aroma dishes up a collective memory of all the pizza joints I've ever walked into. Greasy Eggplant Parm. Red Venetian candles. Booths with mini jukeboxes. The nostalgia is soothing; makes me hungry for things lost.

Once seated, I ask Linda if I've been reading her Facebook posts right. Fancy candle-lit settings, for example. "Are you seeing that guy from high school?"

"Yes," she squeals, "He's my boyfriend!"

Linda's all dreamy, wrapped up in an amorous mist. But don't you worry, girlfriend: "It'll happen for you, Francie, when you least expect it."

Hmm. Possibly I'll slow dance in the dark and melt like a sweet-smelling candle in someone's arms again. But I can't imagine that today.

Enter miniskirts

Almost immediately, the pandemic breaks out. A lifetime later, we meet outside for a summer lunch at our old stomping grounds, Whole Foods. Crazy windy, but the sky is blue. Here's to eased-up isolation.

"Linda, what happened to The Boyfriend?"

"What boyfriend?"

Suddenly, she's 14 again, bringing up this classmate, that classmate, assorted characters. My ears quit on me — can't connect stars that were never there. Maybe running into each other on an elevator after all these years was more coincidence than constellation. Our only common ground seems to be one coming-of-age year that barely registers in my conscience.

Near midnight, Linda messages me. Out of the blue, she got a text from an old beau who's in town.

I did have a really curious reaction … I curled my hair … Bwhahahaha … What're you gonna do with me? ...

For some reason Linda at midnight, sitting pretty with nowhere to go, does something to me. I love it. No, LUV it.

The next day, without thought, I order two miniskirts online. One denim, one tie-dye. I count down the days for their arrival. Three … two … one … Rip open the package, model them in the mirror. Perfect. Snug as a bug.

I message Linda about my silly purchases. She replies, "As Carly Simon says, you and I are just … 'Two Hot Girls on a Hot Summer Night.'"

We make plans to meet at a new sushi bar in September.

"Wear a miniskirt," she says.

I can't wait.

This article originally appeared on NextAvenue.org.