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A Curse So Dark and Lonely

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Brigid Kemmerer

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“Before I could even think of a suitable retort – hopefully a witty one – I saw, out of the corner of my eye, someone walking with deliberate purpose from the cafeteria entrance toward our table. I turned my head in that direction, and when I recognized who this someone was, my heart leaped to my throat, and I almost forgot to breathe. Speaking of the Devil, I thought, as I beheld the familiar presence of Martina Elizabeth Reynaud, considered by many to be one of the prettiest girls in the Class of 1983. Even dressed as she was – denim jeans and a matching jacket, with a plaid button-down blouse, scuffed girls’ Keds sneakers, and her long chestnut hair pulled up into a simple ponytail that bobbed up and down when she walked – Marty was simply, heart-achingly gorgeous. Wherever and whenever she was in a room – even a busy cafeteria – she almost always got looks of admiration and/or envy from her fellow students. Most of the guys in our school wanted to be with her, while many of the girls wanted to be like her. She was tall, lithe, and naturally sexy; these physical attributes drew a lot of attention to her. Most guys, including me, paid particular attention to them, mainly on the rare occasions when she wore her athletic shorts and T-shirt on the way to change in the girls' locker room after her fourth-period PE class. She was also one of the nicest, sweetest people who went to South Miami. She almost always had a pleasant smile or a cheery 'Hello, there!' – especially early in the morning, when most of us were either grumpy or still groggy from waking up early to get to school.”

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“So, Jim, are you going to sing a solo at the Christmas concert?" Bruce Holtzman whispered to me as we sat in our usual seats in the back of the crescent-shaped dais, strategically placed between the basses and the tenors. “I know you’ve been saying you don’t want to, but you still have a few days to practice – if you change your mind, that is.” “I don’t think so,” I muttered back as quietly and firmly as possible. Class was still in session, and even though Mrs. Quincy was easygoing and not as strict as some of the other teachers at South Miami High School, she still expected us to focus on learning our songs for the concert and behaving like mature young adults. Not like “a bunch of undisciplined hooligans,” as she once put it. “But it’s an easy way to get extra credit,” Bruce persisted. “I don’t get it. You’ve been a Singing Cobra for what? Nearly a year now? And we only get a few chances to shine per semester, you know.” “Bruce,” I said, trying to keep my voice low and calm so as not to draw attention. “I don’t mind singing in a group, as part of a larger unit. Singing a solo? That’s another story altogether.” “Why? What’s the difference?” “I don’t know,” I confessed. “Safety in numbers, maybe? I’m perfectly happy to sing the songs in the program and let others who want to sing a solo strut their stuff. I get nauseous at the thought of going on stage and singing all by myself in front of everyone in the auditorium.” “Why, Jim,” Bruce exclaimed with a surprised, puzzled tone, “don’t tell me you still get stage fright!” “Hey,” I snapped, “pipe down, man. Do you want us to get in trouble with Mrs. Quincy? I’m not doing a solo. End of story.” “Okay, okay,” Bruce said in a placating tone. “But that extra credit sure will look good on your transcripts come next year. Especially if you want to get a scholarship.”

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