Blast From The Past

Jennifer stared at her computer screen, wrinkling her nose in disgust. The announcement hardly came as a surprise to her; she just didn't like seeing it in print in front of her somehow.

Hey Folks!

It's reunion time again! Central Collegiate's graduating class of 1987 35th reunion is June 25 at the Delta Ballroom with breakfast to follow at the Chick -n- Hog on the 26th (8 am).

The party starts at 8pm, Walk on in like an Egyptian and have the time of your life! Contact Sharla Jenkins-Walker for tickets or click the link below.

She pushed her auburn hair behind her ears and giggled to herself. The write-up was pretty clever, in that cutesy kind of way, but another reunion? There'd been 4 already, marking 10, 20, 25 and 3o years and she'd been to none of them.

High school was a time best forgotten as far as Jennifer was concerned. She didn't much care for most of her 1367 fellow graduates, and they cared even less for her.

Academically gifted, tiny and waiflike, she was hardly popular with the boys, not that it mattered, she wasn't all that interested in them either. She never had the right clothes, no Sun Ice Jackets or Benetton sweaters, not on her single mother's waitress salary. And certainly not with 2 younger brothers. She wore what she could afford.

She had exactly 2 friends at school, Buffy Richards, and yes that was her real name, and until her senior year, Sharla Jenkins, now Sharla Jenkins-Walker.

Buffy was a diminutive blonde, completely covered in freckles. She had a very sweet way about her and was absolutely boy-crazy!

Sharla was heavy-set and shy with one of the most beautiful faces Jennifer had ever seen.

Together, they called themselves Glam Squad, even though they were anything but.

Jennifer smiled inwardly, turning her face for a moment to the morning sun streaming through the window of her home office. "Glam Squad, what a riot!" she thought. Maybe it wouldn't be so bad, to see the girls again.

Maybe it wouldn't be so bad to see any of them again. It wasn't as if she'd done poorly for herself. She went on to university, got a degree, then another and another and became Dr Jennifer P. Charlevoix, Cardiothoracic Surgeon and Dean of Medicine at the University Medical Centre.

She didn't look too bad for 53. That was one of the unintended bonuses of being an underdeveloped teen. She wished she didn't care about such nonsense, she told herself she didn't. Yet, her mind turned with visions of herself walking into the ballroom after all these years with all the former jocks, bald and wearing "bought and paid for" t-shirts over their large beer guts looking on in awe at her slender, yet shapely frame.

She reached her hand to the laptop and clicked "Interested," then sat back and caught her breath. Maybe it was a mistake, she thought, or not. She had no time to weigh her options, she had a class to teach at 10 am and had already wasted more time than intended.

She put the reunion out of her mind. It was more than 3 months away. She carried on with her daily life, teaching, performing life-saving surgeries and just chilling with Darren, her husband, a lively, almost child-like engineer with a quick wit and an odd fascination for vintage horror films.

About 2 weeks before the scheduled festivities, a package arrived on Jennifer's doorstep, dropped by a drone. There was no return address, just her name and home address written out perfectly in large, roundish letting.

She didn't recognize the writing. She hadn't ordered anything, at least not that she remembered. She stood, door open looking at the box on her front step. She checked her favourite shopping apps, just to make sure. Nope.

Maybe Darren ordered something and used her credit card, she thought. It wouldn't have been the first time. She picked it up. The box itself was quite large, about 18x12 inches and about a good foot high, but it was deceptively light.

She shook it. Nothing. No noise at all. It didn't rattle, nothing moved. She placed it on the dining room table and left for work.

Hours later she came home to find the package exactly where she'd left it and her husband on the sofa reading.

"Your parcel's on the table out there," she pointed, sounding a little more annoyed than she meant to.

He shrugged, poking his lips out in a sort of half-pout, "Not mine," he replied, "I figured it was yours."

Jennifer shook her head, sighing heavily, "No, you've obviously ordered something and forgot."

Darren shook his head, then reasoned, "The evidence would suggest otherwise." He smirked, slightly amused by his wife's frustration over such a benign occurrence.

She didn't share his sentiments and didn't know why. All she knew was this package in her dining room, dropped out of the sky, presumably for no reason and it pissed her off to no end. It made her uneasy. Parcels don't just drop from the sky addressed to a specific person.

She glared at Darren and trudged out to the dining room, grabbed the box and returned, slamming it on the coffee table, "You mean to tell me you didn't order this?"

He leaned forward quickly, reaching toward the package, "Careful, it might be breakable!" his voice squeaked.

Jennifer ripped into the box, tearing off first the brown paper and then the tape, determined to expose the contents and her spouse's obvious dishonesty or forgetfulness.

She peered inside, showing her hand into what seemed to be a thousand brown paper bags all crumpled up to fill the box. She felt something soft, almost plush.

She lifted it from the box. It was plush. It was a small stuffed cat, grey with green eyes that looked like marbles. She glared at Darren again.

"Wasn't me, I swear," he held his hands up in surrender.

She picked the box up and turned it upside down, dumping the contents. Aside from the brown paper, there were two other items, a ski mask and a metal rod with a funny almost mushroom-looking ball on the end.

Rage filled her again. She picked up the metal rod and shook it near Darren's face, "What the hell?"

He sat back down on the sofa, confused. "It wasn't me, I swear," he pleaded. Then he asked, "What is that thing?"

Jennifer stepped around the table and joined her husband, staring straight ahead at the box in front of her. She knew he was telling the truth; he hadn't sent it. "I'm not completely sure but I think it's part of an artificial hip."

"Well, who would send you an artificial hip?" he asked, "That doesn't make any sense?"

She got up, picked up the stuffed cat and ski mask and stood quietly, examining them. "What did a cat, a ski mask and an artificial hip have in common? And what did they have to do with her?"

She reached into her back pocket and pulled out her phone. She reached over to Darren, "Give me that thing," she snapped, "I'll send a picture of it to Jazzi to see if I'm right."

Jazzi, formally known as Dr Jasmine Richter was an Orthopaedic surgeon and a colleague of Jennifer's. They became friends after Darren's motorcycle accident and subsequent knee surgery.

It didn't take long for Jazzi to respond affirmatively, "You know it's part of a hip, Jen, it's the femoral stem and head. Why do you have part of a hip, btw?"

She ignored her friend's question. She had no answers. There was no for anyone to send her part of a hip. There was no reason for anyone to send her a stuffed cat or a ski mask either. And there certainly was no reason for anyone to send them together.

Her mind began to spin, trying to make sense of nonsense. Her annoyance shifted to curiosity and quickly to an unsettling mix of terror and anger. There was something decidedly sinister about the anonymous box and its contents.

She stared at the items. A cat. A mask. A hip. No matter what calculation she performed, they didn't add up. She wasn't a cat person. She had nothing against them, but she preferred dogs. She lived in Florida and hadn't worn a ski mask since she was a kid. And the hip? Well, she was getting older, but so far her original parts were holding up just fine.

"Maybe it's a prank," Darren put his arm around her. She was shaking. "Students, you know..."

Jennifer sighed, shaking her head. It was the simplest explanation but she feard Occam got it wrong this time. The easiest answer was not the correct one in this case, mostly because it made no sense.

"Why would a student of mine send me a hip?" she challenged, "A heart, maybe, but a hip makes no sense." She didn't bother to mention the cat and the mask.

"Trying to throw you off the scent?" he offered weakly.

Jennifer shrugged. It was possible. It wasn't likely, but it was possible. That and she was over thinking about it. There was no clear threat. The unconnected contents sent no real message. It was probably best to carry on with life as usual.

"You got your suit for the reunion?" she asked.

Darren nodded, kissing his wife on the cheek, "Yes, dear." He squeezed her warmly, "You know," he teased, "for someone who hates reunions, you sure seem concerned about this one."

She couldn't deny it. She was excited. More excited than she wanted to admit. Enough time and distance had elapsed for her to almost look fondly on her youth.

It wasn't all bad. Even she had to admit that she, Buffy and Sharla had some good times. She put the box out of her mind and allowed nostalgia to fill her.

She checked Facebook and the reunion website. Sharla had tagged her and Buffy in a photo, "Glam Squad Back In Action!" the caption read.

Sharla had on a mini skirt and oversized sweater. Her blonde hair was huge. Jennifer had on baggy jeans turned up at the ankles, a huge buttoned-up blouse and a chunky belt. She shuddered at the horrific make-up. Whoever thought blue eye-shadow was a good idea?

And Buffy, little Buffy, was clad in a denim mini skirt and a crisp white t-shirt, and a ski mask.

Jennifer stared at the photo. Ski mask? Why was Buffy wearing a ski mask? Why did someone send her a ski mask along with the cat and the hip? Her mind started to reel again. She called out to Darren who was making dinner.

"Darren, hey, look?" she hollered.

He peered over his wife's shoulder, "Yeah, you look cute," he quipped.

"No, here," she tapped on the screen impatiently, "Buffy's wearing a ski mask..."

'Yeah, and you're wearing Cougar Boots and the other girl has a scarf, so?" he challenged, You're trying to find meaning where it doesn't exist. All I see are 3 silly girls in the wintertime."

"But..." she began.

"If there's a connection, why isn't there a cat and a hip?" he asked. "Did any of you have a cat? Did any of you have an artificial hip?"

Jennifer laughed out loud showing a large row of slightly crooked teeth. She was being ridiculous. She knew it. It was a picture. And she remembered the day it was taken, the first day of Central's winter carnival. They had just built a snowman for the snowman building competition. They lost in spectacular fashion, but they had fun.

As the days before the reunion ticked by, Jennifer found herself forgetting about the unsolicited package. She was enjoying the photos and the memories. She was even enjoying reconnecting with some of the members of her class.

The Delta ballroom was decorated in as tacky a fashion as the old school gym used to be for dances. Streamers, crepe paper flowers, a random arch and a huge banner that read "Class Of 1987," covered the walls. The floor was dotted with a series of white tables and chairs and a makeshift bar was set up in one corner.

She felt the eyes on her as she entered. She didn't hate it. The eyes were different, not the same disgust she was used to. These eyes were curious, admiring. They weren't sure who she was. Until she took her nametag.

She looked around for a familiar face, scanning the crowd. Nothing.

Then, a squeal and there she was, Sharla, in front of her. She hadn't changed much. She was still sturdy, not fat, not thin, just thick and powerful. And her face hadn't changed a bit. She was stunning. it was like time stopped just for her.

"Oh, my God, Jen!" she beamed and grabbed her. Her arms swallowed her up. "It's so good to see you! Did you get my package?"

Jennifer pulled away briskly, "What package?"

"The one I sent you silly," she responded incredulously. "The cat, the mask, the hip...Mr Fluffy?" She couldn't believe her old friend didn't remember.

And it all sank in. The senior prank, the night before graduation. The Glam Squad, edged on by a few others donned ski masks and set out to kidnap Mrs Belcher's cat, Mr Fluffy.

Mr Fluffy wasn't a real cat. He was a grey statue of a cat that sat at the edge of Mrs Belcher's driveway. She spoke to him as if he were real.

It all made sense, but it wasn't funny. Well, it mostly made sense. They did wear ski masks, the cat was grey. It was too heavy to steal, solid concrete. But the hip? That was out of place.

As if reading her old pal's mind, Sharla piped up excitedly, her blue eyes twinkling, "Oh, you didn't know, you left for your grammie's place right after graduation! Old lady Belcher broke her hip that night running down the stairs to rescue Mr Fluffy! Isn't that a hoot!"

Jennifer bristled. She was instantly filled with disgust and regret. No. That wasn't a hoot. That was disgusting and sad and wrong. So, so wrong. And Sharla was standing there, laughing about it.

She turned to Darren, clasped her hand in his and said, "Come on, there's nothing here for me."