Max Collins - Girl Most Likely

They emerged from the Toyota ready for the “dress-up” night, but not ostentatiously so — her father in a nice dark gray suit from Men’s Wearhouse set off by a royal-blue-and-white-striped tie, the GHS school colors.

Krista was in a little black Ralph Lauren dress, picked up at a Nordstrom Rack in Oak Brook — half off the already discounted price. The black lace dress, with little cap sleeves, hit her just below the knee. The neckline was conservative, too, setting off her mother’s pearls. Low-heeled, comfy pumps and a little pop-of-color red Kate Spade purse on a gold-chain strap completed the effort (half price at an outlet store).

Chic on the cheap!

For February, the evening was chilly but not cold, and she braved it rather than bother with a coat. Her father didn’t wear a coat, either, the suit enough. They strolled the outdoor walk past the glassed-in indoor pool and went into the modest convention center lobby, where a few of her classmates were standing around chatting. Krista offered them a collective smile and wave as she and her father started up the wide stairs.

More classmates, women in cocktail dresses, men in suits (her father’s cleverness dashed by frequent royal-blue-and-white neckties), were in the wide hallway outside the banquet room. Pop took her arm and guided her inside, where perhaps sixty people — classmates and significant others — were engaged in murmuring conversations that added up to a roar, many with phones out to share pictures of kiddies and grab selfies.

Round tables for six were everywhere in the high-ceilinged, modern, open-beamed banquet room, with a wall of windows onto the lake. No music was playing, but a small stage was set way off to the left, with a portable dance floor already in place. Food stations with servers were set up along the wall opposite the lake view — Italian, Chinese, Mexican, side dishes, meats for carving.

“Somebody’s popular,” Pop said, giving her a sideways smile. “Looks like three football teams huddling around one quarterback.”

It did at that, and Krista had a good idea who the “quarterback” was. As they drew closer, heading for the table where Jessy and Josh Webster were seated, chairs waiting for the Larsons, she got a glimpse through the wall of fawning classmates (male and female alike) gathered around the obvious belle of the ball.

Astrid Lund was smiling, laughing, listening, occasionally answering a question, but only granting a few words at a time, though generously posing for selfies. Tonight she wore a dress Krista remembered from last month’s Vogue — a Dolce & Gabbana form-fitting red satin ruched number with spaghetti straps and a ruffled flounce hem.

Suddenly Krista felt like she was wearing a potato sack — a frayed one.

Galena High’s favorite female alum was wearing impossibly high, pointy-toed gold heels — Christian Louboutins, as their red soles announced. Her clutch purse was iconic Chanel, quilted black leather with intertwined Cs on the front flap. The oversize Rolex of the night before had been replaced by a delicate diamond-studded wristwatch — Tiffany? Movado?

Astrid’s hair, swept up in a French twist, a few carefully selected strands falling loose, made Krista in her short, styled do feel like the tomboy she sometimes feared she was.

They joined Jessy and Josh at the table. Her friend looked chic in a black tuxedo-style pantsuit, and Josh looked spiffy in a navy suit with, yes, a royal-blue-and-white tie. They both greeted her father warmly, and he and Josh shook hands. Pop, who hated small talk, held the chair out for Krista, putting her next to Jessy and himself between his daughter and an empty chair.

Jessy whispered, “Hope you don’t mind. I invited Frank and Brittany to join us.”

“That’s fine,” Krista said, not loving that, but not really minding either.

“It’s just,” Jessy said, “Frank was on the football team with Josh.”

“Sure. You and Brittany can talk cheerleading and I can remember what it was like being unpopular.”

Jessy grinned at that and slapped Krista gently on the arm.

When Frank and Brittany finally joined them, the jock-turned-car-salesman — that’s right, Frank in a royal-blue-and-white tie — was nice enough to field drink orders for everybody, volunteering to take care of the first round. Krista and Jessy asked for white zins.

“Get me a zombie, Daddy,” Brittany said to Frank, her eyes and speech indicating some pregame drinking, which had taken the plumply sexy blonde halfway to Walking Dead herself. She was trying a little too hard again tonight, hot-pink mini-spandex dress, plunging neckline, too much jewelry, too much teased hair, over-rouged cheeks, long fake eyelashes.

Still, Krista thought, most of the men in this room would be drooling over what Frank had at home. And, damn, those were some kick-ass motorcycle boots!

Pop and Josh got up to accompany Frank and haul back all those drinks.

Jessy leaned close. “Did you get a load of the Girl Most Likely?”

“Sure did.”

“What do you make of that outfit?”

“I feel like I’m wearing clown shoes.”

“Oh, sweetie, you look fantastic in that dress! But do you think our Astrid’s all decked out in a knockoff?”

Brittany, empty chairs on either side of her, looked up with half-lidded eyes and said, “Don’t think so. Bet that’s five grand she’s wearing easy.”

Jessy said, “Oh, please!”

Krista said, “Astrid’s on the top-rated news show in Chicago. She must be pulling in real money. Those shoes? A cool thousand. That little purse? Another five thousand.”

Jessy rolled her eyes. “Maybe I should see if she’d like to buy a little Galena getaway and fight that big city stress. A modest million-dollar mansion, perhaps.”

The men returned and distributed drinks to the women. Josh and Frank had carried beers over for themselves, and her designated-driver father was having a Diet Coke.

Various classmates dropped by to say hello, and pretty soon the guys except for Pop, who was sitting glancing around and taking things in, got up to mingle. Girlfriends of Krista’s and Jessy’s would come by and fill chairs for a few minutes, catching up, exchanging cheek kisses and the occasional hugs and selfies, saying they really should stay in touch, then scurrying off not to.

When the cocktail hour was over, everybody found their chosen tables and went to whichever food stations appealed to them. All the options smelled and sounded good to Krista, and both she and Pop had a little of everything. A second round of drinks, Pop’s turn this time, were acquired to go with the food. It was all very pleasant. Fun. Nicer than Krista might have hoped.

At one point, Pop asked Jessy, “Is there any kind of program tonight? Nostalgia stuff? Slide show, video of graduation...?”

Jessy shook her head. “We decided against that. Maybe next reunion. We just haven’t been out of school long enough for that to seem a long time ago.”

But it kind of was. Krista had the experience almost anybody did at a class reunion — seeing geeky girls who had blossomed into beauties, and beauties now overweight or otherwise gone drab, wearing the same hair and clothing styles as ten years ago. That seemed less true of the men, though now and then she would spot a guy who’d grown older than would seem possible — ex-military and farmers whose hard lives showed in lined faces and prematurely gray hair.

Brittany, who said very little and was on her third zombie — a potent drink Krista had tried only once in her life — said to Jessy, “Tell me about the band.”

“They’re from Chicago. The committee drove to a gig of theirs across the river and checked ’em out. They’re called the Cover Band, and that’s spot-on. Play everything from Train to Maroon Five, Foo Fighters to Oasis.”