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I knew she wanted the vanity, the show of it.
But I didn't call her out.
We were classmates, after all. We'd once shared a dorm, eaten and lived side by side.
I couldn't very well stand up now and insist the car was mine, and burn everything to the ground with Teresa.
The reunion got started.
Two tables had been set out in the private room.
All through it, people kept toasting Teresa, flattering her:
"Teresa, thinking back to high school, you were my class president, and even then you were the best, the prettiest one of us. All these years later, you're still the best of us all."
"Exactly. Someone that good is the best wherever she goes—school, the real world, doesn't matter. You'll always be my class president, and no one could ever take your place."
"Once my class president, always my class president. Here's to you."
The fawning I could let slide.
But for some reason I couldn't figure out, a girl named Myrtle Chavez, someone I barely knew, suddenly turned the whole thing on me:
"Say, Ada, don't you even know to raise a glass to the class president?"
"Every reunion, she goes out of her way for you. Seats you right next to her, drives you all the way home herself."
"She treats you like a real sister. She's good to you, gives without asking for anything back. You can't just take all of that for granted!"
The others nodded along:
"That's right, Myrtle's got a point this time. There's really nothing bad you can say about how the class president's treated you. Remember senior year?"
"That summer, a few of us who got into the same college went on a trip together, and you didn't have a cent on you. She paid for all your food and drinks the whole way, and you never said one word of thanks."
The crowd kept nodding along.
Some looked at me with envy and spite.
Others just shook their heads at me.
Like I didn't know how to read a room.
Like I was ungrateful, even.
But the reason I had no money on that trip that summer was that Teresa had borrowed every cent I had.
Money she still hasn't paid back to this day.
And the reason she drove me home after every reunion?
It wasn't that she was looking out for me.
It was that the car was mine to begin with!
Faced with all their pointless accusations, I gripped my glass tight and was about to defend myself when Teresa stood, taking it on herself to raise a glass to me:
"Everybody, stop it. We're all classmates. Ada and I even roomed together in high school and college. We're closer than anyone, so what's the point of keeping score like this?"
"Come on, Ada, this one's for you."
I looked around at the ring of sour faces, then back at Teresa, and there was nothing to do but lift my glass.
I drank.
Across the table, a girl muttered, put out:
"No class, no manners, no sense of decency. The class president was so good to her, even stood up to toast her first, and look at her—she didn't even get to her feet."
The people beside her shook their heads too, contempt in every glance.
When the meal finally wound down.
That girl Myrtle spoke up again:
"Oh, come on, the class president foots the bill every single time. That won't do. Why don't we split it this time?"
The others chimed in at once that yes, that sounded good.
But at the same time there was a flicker of hope in their eyes, and they kept glancing at Teresa.
Teresa waved it all away and took charge:
"Split it? I already said it's on me, I'm paying. You all just enjoy yourselves."
Myrtle said:
"Oh, we couldn't. You pay every time."
Teresa laughed:
"If you feel that bad about it, then just don't pretend you don't know me the day I run into trouble and come to you for help."
Myrtle waved both hands:
"Never. I can't speak for everyone else, but the second you need something, Teresa, I'm the first one stepping up."
The others nodded and pledged along:
"Don't you worry, Teresa. You just say the word, and if it's within my power, I'll be there without a second thought!"
Carried along by the mood, everyone rose with their glasses raised, swearing themselves to Teresa.
Only I stayed put in my seat, the odd one out.
And I didn't love being the odd one out, standing there so out of step with the rest.
But they were all just talk.
Or writing checks that would never clear.
Which, of course, didn't matter.
Because when Teresa actually came to me for help—and she'd done it more times than I could count!
