Did You Hear What Happened to Nicole?
Nicole was her name. She had a sweet smile enveloped in chubby cheeks, almond eyes and jet black hair which was usually tied back in a sloppy bun. Dozens of girls at our predominantly asian high school fit this description, but Nicole stood out. Her darker skin tone and skateboarder style separated her from the Abercrombie/GAP herd.
Our paths crossed twice a day. First, at debate class for zero period. I’d show up fifteen minutes late everyday… arriving at 7 AM. She’d be sitting by the doorway on the carpet floor, legs out in front, wrapped in a maroon swim team parka and reading a newspaper while drinking a can of diet coke. I’d smile, we’d exchange niceties, then I would join my crew for early morning gossip while procrastinating preparing for our next debate tournament. Five periods of classes later I would reunite with Nicole again in the swimming pool locker room.
During the school day, Nicole’s body language conveyed shyness with stooped shoulders and fleeting eye contact. When we were poolside, however, her timidness dissipated. She was fully at ease in a tight swim costume which accentuated her pear shaped body. She would joke around with our teammates as we awaited warmup instructions before jumping into the shallow end.
I liked Nicole. She never seemed to buy into the high school spectacle. Nicole went about her life impervious to the popularity contests and romantic dramadies around her. We never managed to make the leap from acquaintances to friends.
After graduation, I forgot about her existence until one afternoon when I was on the phone with our mutual friend Jeff, a former pothead Berkeley graduate who produced reality tv shows. He was one of five high school friends I managed to hang onto over the years. We were bemoaning the upcoming election when he asked, “You heard what happened to Nicole right?”
“No? Nicole who?”
“Nicole Chung.”
An image of Nicole, smiling in her black swim cap and goggles, popped into my mind.
Nobody asks “did you hear what happened?” to report good news.
“Car crash?” I asked.
“No. Brain cancer.”
“Did she die?”
“Yeah. She’s dead.”
“Oh my god. That’s horrible.” I put Jeff on speaker and googled her name. The first hit was a profile on the Hollywood Improv website for a weekly show. “She did improv?”
“Yeah. They are going to dedicate a show to her.”
“Wow. At least she lived her truth.”
I was shocked that shy Nicole had the guts to leave it all out there on the improv stage. My selfish monkey brain immediately turned to a place of self loathing as I thought of all the creative paths I never had the courage to take. I was a teenager again, judging myself and wondering how Nicole, a chubby underclassman with a penchant for Diet Coke could be so comfortable in her own skin. I’m glad she lived her life with honesty. I’m sorry she’s gone.
Photo by Reagan nicole on Unsplash
