F is for – Five Words
…
I’d heard about the show, one with a funny title that when people asked, they couldn’t quite get it exactly right, but close enough to “This was your life”.
I thought it was about dead people, odd, because I knew it was impossible to interview dead people, though those days, someone told me, anything was possible on television.
Then I thought it was about people almost at the end of their life, as a celebration of a celebrity, or someone famous.
It was a surprise to learn it was about ordinary people.
Like me. You couldn’t find anyone more ordinary, or as several people told me, utterly forgettable.
That hurt, but in a sense, they were right.
Which made me wonder just how it was that I received a letter in the mail telling me I had been selected for an episode.
Of course, I thought someone was playing a hoax, and rang them, expecting to be laughed at, but no. I was being asked to go on the show.
I have no idea why I agreed.
…
When I arrived at the studio, I was taken to an office where the executive producer told me what was going to happen: sign some papers to say I was not going to divulge details of the show before it was broadcast, and what my five words were.
They were different for each participant.
Today, they were recording five episodes. I was going to be the last.
…
My words were Good, Afraid, Trouble, Look and Quiet. I had plenty of time to think about them in relation to my story.
And that was the odd thing … I actually had a story.
“So,” the host said, in that mesmerising voice of hers that had both the audience and the participants entranced, “Tell us what the word Good means to you.”
Of course, it wasn’t just the word good, it was a better word that meant the same thing.
“It wasn’t just a good day, it was a fantastic, unbelievable day.”
I remembered it well, that last day of high school, when it was, in a lot of cases, the last time I would see my fellow classmates.
Most of them I never wanted to see again, because that final year had been marked by more lows than highs, culminating in my date for the Prom falling ill, and so I didn’t go. Then I discovered she lied, went with my so-called best friend, and made last week unbearable.
So much so, I headed straight for the railway station and intended to hide at my grandmother’s house on the other side of the country.
The day started badly, arguing with my parents, arguing with my siblings, getting into three separate scuffles at school, then coming home and throwing a few things into a backpack and leaving before I saw anyone at home.
Every step from the house to the railway depot was a reminder of each betrayal, so by the time I sat in the waiting room, an hour before the train was due, I was mentally and physically exhausted.
I expected someone from home would come and try to persuade me to stay.
They didn’t.
Perhaps that was the final betrayal. The fact that not one of my own family cared whether I stayed or left.
Very few people took the train. Most people leaving town went to the airport and got a plane. There was a bus, but it took forever to get anywhere, and the train was an acceptable alternative.
I was the only one leaving town by train.
Until I wasn’t.
Five students in that final year shared my disposition, in that we preferred to study, get good grades and then go to college. The other three left a week before, gaining admission to an Ivy League university.
I hadn’t applied.
The other person was Alison Breton.
She was one of those people who no one gave a second look at, or so much as a first. She was clever, and all the boys didn’t like girls who were smarter than they.
She was also plain, or so it appeared, which caused most of the boys to point out her faults, such as how she presented herself. Unlike the other girls who dressed to impress, wore make-up and looked stunning, even if it was an objectifying description, she preferred to be different.
I thought she was brave.
We barely spoke, though we were in the same study group with the three Ivy Leaguers. Two of them were keen on her, but she was not the dating sort. Or so they said.
Ten minutes before the train arrived, another person came and sat in the waiting room.
Alison Breton.
I ignored her for five whole minutes. I mean, what could I say to her?
It was when the host mentioned the second word, “afraid.”
It was part of the truth and summed up how I felt about her. I was afraid of her. Afraid, or more to the point, literally terrified.
I had imagined many times what I would say to her, fabricating long, I thought, interesting conversations.
And if I let my imagination stretch a little further, I might have to admit I liked her, perhaps more than I should, but could and would never admit it. One humiliation by a girl in a lifetime was enough, and my completely shattered ego couldn’t take another rejection.
Five whole minutes before she said, “So you’re leaving this dump too?”
It was obvious I was, though the dump was harsh.
And then words came out that were not my own. “What’s your excuse?”
I knew the moment I tried to speak to her that it would be over. Maryanne, the betrayer, was different. I could speak to her, and because of that, I thought she was the one.
She smiled. “Probably the same as yours. James told me he loved me, but he didn’t. Apparently, I’m the subject of a bet.”
I’d heard a rumour and couldn’t believe it. Or perhaps I could. Small town, small-minded boys, one ambition, to have what they couldn’t.
“Best get out of town then.” My solution to the problem wasn’t a one-size-fits-all all.
But it was a response to the host dropping the word trouble. And then looked and was quiet. It seemed they were all intertwining in the narrative that was unfolding.
“That doesn’t explain your desire to leave, other than the Maryanne humiliation. I guess a month away from here might make it go away.”
“It won’t. I have brothers who will never let me forget. You grow up in this place, no one forgets the trouble, or more appropriately, your legacy.”
“It’s always us quiet kids, eh, the ones who don’t make a fuss, who are studious and respectful, who don’t want to be noticed. No matter how we look or feel. I tried to be invisible.”
“It made you stand out more than the Maryannes. I was just fodder for girls like her, pandering to the mores of the football team, and you know what they were like.”
Being smart didn’t make us immune to being hurt or hoping against hope that we had a chance.
We both heard the sound of the horn in the distance, a warning that the train was approaching the railway crossing, about two or three miles outside of town.
The train, like always, was running late.
She stood. “Where are you going?”
“San Francisco. My grandmother. She has a large house and many unusual friends. She was an actress once, when Hollywood was going through its black and white phase.”
“I’m going there too. My mother’s sister, though I suspect she isn’t. Maybe we can pretend we’re brother and sister, to be safe.”
I shrugged. Why not? Once we got there, I’d probably never see her again.
…
“Except,” Alison said, holding my hand, and talking to the host with that whimsical expression she had when telling others the story of how we met, “we talked and talked and fell in love, got married, have five amazing children, twelve equally amazing grandchildren, and just lived our lives. Nothing special, and yet to us, very, very special.”
And then, surprisingly, our time was up. I had expected it would take half the time allotted. Instead, it was two hours later, and no one, not any of us, had noticed.
…
© Charles Heath 2025-2026
Thrills, Spills, and just a dash of Romance 