STRANGER THAN FICTION: NOT ALL MEMORIES OF HIGH SCHOOL PLEASANT

Ex-Mr. Dreams, formerly The Hope of My Dreams, adores the game of basketball. If he's not writing about it for a newspaper, he's watching it at a little high school gym somewhere. To him, small-town basketball is the best.

He taught me an appreciation for the sport -- an appreciation for basketball doesn't just evolve with 6 feet of height, you know -- so we take in the occasional game together. The last one was in Bernie, where the seniors were playing their last home game of the season. The announcer said as much before the boys took the court.

The news really touched those boys. They all looked a little choked up, and one was openly weeping. I was moved. Wouldn't it be great to have such a love for high school and your friends there that you cry at the thought of leaving?

My high school experience wasn't much like that. Each time we had an event for the last time, say, our last pep rally or our last home game, several of my female classmates teared up and remarked, "We'll never get to do this again."

Meanwhile, I was off in the corner doing that little "touchdown dance" you see in professional football.

Don't cry me a river or anything, but high school isn't so easy on people who are different. If you are of average height, weight, hair color and personality, you might escape without a mental complex. Heck, you might even become popular and take the homecoming queen's crown.

If not, school can be a living hell.

My truly liberal friend Travis and I were discussing it. He graduated from Kennett High School in the early 80s -- cap, gown, the whole nine yards. I couldn't imagine him wearing a mortarboard, but apparently there are photos to prove it.

I graduated from Sikeston in 1987. Come to find out, we had some very similar experiences, except nobody called Travis "Jolly Green Giant" every day of his teen-age life.

Remember lunchtime in the cafeteria? The very coolest kids with cars could go off campus and stuff themselves with artery-hardening fast food. The rest of us had to pack it or buy school food.

Those menus boasted some pretty exciting combinations. Taco, one slice bread, turnip greens, applesauce, white or chocolate milk. Chili, crackers, carrot stick, peanut butter, white or chocolate milk. No one would ever eat these combinations at home by choice.

Then there were the Table Divisions, and Travis noted the cafeteria staff should have just put place cards at each spot. Everyone had his or her own table: the socialites, the jocks, the junkies, the powhitetrash (one word).

Then there was MY table. I guess we could call it the Weird Table, because we didn't really fit anywhere else.

My table boasted a girl who never ate, an artist, a Korean-American singer, a gay man and me. About the only thing I had in common with any of them was my age and the fact that I was ignored at every other.

My senior year was the absolute worst. I took classes I hated for half a day and worked at a law office I hated for the other half. It was the kind of job one doesn't list on one's resume, especially when one walks out midday saying, "Parting is such sweet sorrow."

No tears for this girl at graduation. I didn't throw my hat in the air in case the next Nieland to graduate, Jennifer, needed it. The ceremony ended, I hugged my family, walked to my car and kept in touch with one person from my graduating class.

Incidentally, the Weird Table Crew did pretty well for themselves. The skinny girl is an assistant college professor, the artist is working in St. Louis, the singer got a job she loved in Connecticut and the gay man is getting his master's degree in business management.

And, I get you as an audience. Not too shabby.

~Heidi Nieland is a member of the Southeast Missourian news staff.