There is a book I open about once a year, the only book I open that triggers an emotional swelling and an immediate fight-or-flight reaction. Nevertheless, I plunge into it, delving into lingering memories and haunted pasts, all regurgitated onto glossy paper sandwiched between maudlin dedications by parents and hospital ads.

   One of the most special momentos from a potentially not-too-special time is the high school yearbook. What is yours like? Maybe yours is like a wedding album, filled with vibrant photos and careful airbrushing, or full of art or quotes. Mine is pretty standard: a red cover and a mix of black and white and color and quotes from various friends. Who were you in high school? Were you Desiree, beaming from every page in either a pep rally or senior lounge, and then saddled with a child out of wedlock at twenty-one? Or maybe you were like me, carefully tucked away in the back, only appearing for the mandatory profile shot?

Were you an overtweezed prom princess posing at formal, or a scruffy haired skateboarder sticking your tongue out at lunch? Or were you Jake? Beautiful, beautiful Jake, the one whom this book should have been dedicated to, not some retired, ratchety faculty member. Jake, whom the camera loved and photographed flawlessly, popping up as the one striking face among a sea of forgettables. 

You guessed it. It is Jake who appears under the “Handsomest Man” (yes, the grammar was that bad) superlative. Only Jake was chosen to show a striptease at a mock bachelor pageant. Jake at the dance. Jake with women in three different pictures, presumably fawning over him, none of them nearly on his level of visual appeal. Jake on the soccer field. To merely invoke his name, first and last, is to equal him with ‘hottest guy’ as ‘Megan Fox’ is with ’sexiest woman.’ It is as if even the cranky geriatric yearbook supervisor recognized his pure attractiveness and slapped him on every other page. But if you think Jake is your typical all-American hunky blond Ken doll, think again. Jake is sloe-eyed, black-haired, shorter than the average guy, and creamy-skinned, a blend of his Japanese and French parentage. And to top it off, he was nice. Well, as nice as one could be when one had the world drooling at his feet.

One photo really stands out among the dozens of him scattered throughout the photographic homage to adolescence. No, it’s not the one of him hugging the woman voted ‘loveliest lady’ or him scoring a goal on the soccer field. It is in a silly section about seniors and their cars, because one of the crowning jewels of being in your final year of high school is scoring a coveted parking spot in the senior lot. And lo and behold, there is the Handsomest Man himself, beaming from a new blue Acura. He isn’t smirking, posing beneath the weight of a ‘king’ crown, or throwing a mock-gangster sign, he is simply smiling, eyes round and right at the camera. There is no artifice, no staged aspect of his smile, he is simply happy to be alive, happy to be seventeen and in a new blue Acura.

It’s tragic to look at the yearbook sometimes. People die and have babies and grow apart. The people voted ‘class couple’ break up first semester of college. And naturally, looks fade. The former Adonises on the track team are now balding and beer-bellied. People with dreams of transforming Hollywood are now working at the local convenience store. I almost don’t want to come across Jake now. What if he’s ugly, bearded, and obese, like so many of our former classmates? Who would remain immortalized as ‘Handsomest Man’ of his small photo? But, for the sake of this pristine photo, I hope he’s as happy as he is in the picture, with the only worries of graduation and securing a spot in the high school senior parking lot.