I had reserved the two front pages of my high school 1992 graduating yearbook for Chris. He did not disappoint. Etched in blue Bic ballpoint and in our memories forever (or so we believe) are the inscriptions and drawings of the gems that our teenage minds thought were hilarious. These included words from our own secret language, jokes we repeated more times than could beat a dead horse, reminiscings of times spent together entertaining ourselves prior to ubiquitous Internet access, and of course characacturistic depictions of our favorite and not-so-favorite teachers.
Every few years we would pull out the book, laugh till our jaws hurt and the veins in our foreheads almost popped, and once our laughter settled, end up staring deeply into the mysterious photo of the one Black girl in our graduating class who neither of us had ever seen, heard of, nor spoken to.