A week or so ago, I took a call at work from my oldest friend. We've known each other since fourth grade.

"Are you going to the reunion?" he wanted to know and even as I asked "What reunion?" I realized with a flash that it would be our High School Class' 25 year reunion - one of the 'biggies'. "I didn't know about it," I replied, and this was true.

"There was an e-vite," my oldest friend said, "Didn't you get one? I'm flying in with Maggie and the kids for that weekend."

My oldest friend was Valedictorian of the class, an Ivy League-educated Wall Street Lawyer of the 80s; a dotcom Millionaire of the 90s. He is now a Bay area 'Consultant'.

"Sure," I said, and at first I meant it. It would be great to see him and the kids.

Then I changed my mind.

To say I couldn't wait for High School to end would be an understatement - by the time I was a teenager I hated the small town I lived in and couldn't wait to escape. And I escape I did - I never really lived there again except for three long months in 1989 when I was 'between careers' and I moved back in with my parents.

But to say I never 'got over' always being the Last One Chosen in gym class would be too simple. As the years went by, first the names and then the faces of tormentors faded away. When my oldest friend the Valedictorian and I would talk and he would ask "do you remember so-and-so?" I could truthfully answer that No, I did not - even when he clicked his tongue in exasperation with descriptions that ought to trigger memories, "You know, the daughter of the math teacher who was seeing so-and-so, the captain of the football team. Didn't she live down the street from you?"

And I would almost lie, "Oh yeah, that rings a bell," because then a feeling would return, a feeling like when you've eaten a rich meal in a restaurant and maybe one thing, one ingredient in one of the menu items doesn't quite agree with everything else you've just eaten.

Five years ago, when I was still living in Colorado, my sister and I flew in for this weekend - 'reunion weekend' - not knowing it was reunion weekend, for the funeral of my father's cousin who had been like his brother growing up.

"Let's go for a walk downtown," said my sister. In front of the old town hall there was the sandwich board advertising 'All Years High School Class Reunion', with dozens of half-drunk people standing about in groups holding plastic cups, wearing name tags and laughing too loud.

"Oh, let's go in - just for a second," my sister said, transforming instantly from my sister and into the breezily glamorous person that women with money and who live in L.A. are.

At first it was fine, even fun. I ran into a few people I knew and who I liked and who I hadn't seen since school. That was fine.

But then my sister, with me in tow, approached a group of women, "You look familiar," she said, introducing herself, "Were we in school together?"

"No," said one, "We went to school with your brother. Is he here?"

And I was immediately seized with panic. No matter that I was standing right there and they hadn't recognized me (which should have filled me with joy). "I'm going outside," I barked at my sister, ashamed at the strangled noise of my voice. Then I bolted away like a startled rabbit, jumping my way through clumps of people out of the room and down the steps outside. From the hall behind me, a volley of 20-year-old nasty laughter followed.

When my sister joined me a minute later, I looked at her but said nothing, feeling ashamed. My sister looked back with hollow eyes, trying to understand and not understanding, or whatever it is when you have lived in L.A. and have done a lot of drugs and everything stops just short of complete sense when you have gone cold turkey and still live in L.A.

I write my oldest friend an email. While it would have been great to see you, Maggie and the kids, I'm afraid I've made other plans and so will not be up for the weekend. We'll catch up another time.