by Tamara Warta

I’ll never forget Janie, a high school classmate who fluctuated between being my best friend and my biggest nemesis. Janie was heavy set with mousy brown hair and a crude vocabulary talent that could humble the most vulgar of sailors. From sharing secrets late at night to getting into a fistfight at the Winter Formal senior year, Janie was always a part of my high school experience in one way or another.
I mention Janie for one reason – she was never able to land a boyfriend for more than a few months at a time. Bouncing from one guy to the next, she was a torrent of rage and tears, punching lockers on a continual basis. This cycle continued until the last month of the 12th grade when Janie was convinced she had met the man of her dreams.
I should clarify that she hadn’t exactly met the man of her dreams, but rather she was to go on a date with him that Saturday night. She was being set up on the traditional blind date so popular in the late 1990s, only there was one catch. Janie was to sit in a neighborhood taqueria by herself near the window. Then Mr. Dreamboat would cruise on by and, if he liked what he saw, he would come in and greet Janie. If he was unimpressed, Janie would be left there to wonder what had happened – jilted on what she was hoping would be one of the greatest nights of her life.
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