One by one, they stood before their classmates as if it was 12th-grade English all over again.

The assignment: What did you do for the last 30 years?

The venue for everyone there, myself included: Our high school reunion. Hail, hail Kailua High, class of '76.

On the balmy night we graduated long ago, each of us wearing a baby blue cap and gown, we sang "We May Never Pass This Way Again."

Got that one right.

Here we were, trying to recognize each other's faces — and name cards — in the dim light of a banquet room.

Turns out, time is as mean as a 100-watt bulb is bright. We were graying travelers at a way station. Strangers as much as friends.

I'm not much of a reunion person. Inferiority complex, I guess. But when my best friend said he'd be flying in from the Mainland with his family, I knew there would be no escaping the ritual.

Curiosity got the better of me, too. I wanted to see what the years had done to us.

As the reunion day drew closer, I dug out my old yearbook and searched the pages for friends. I mouthed the names of people I had barely seen since graduation with the hopes of remembering them at the reunion.

It was like cramming for an exam.

Did I remember people because of a friendship or because I simply knew of them?

What good was "Friends forever" if I had forgotten someone after only 30 years?

Who were these people?

I was getting worried about the whole thing.

Mrs. G. refused to attend — she went to Kaiser — so I was on my own. She bought me a new shirt and slacks and asked me not to drink too much beer.

At the reunion, faces, waistlines and hair — styles, color and lack thereof — had changed so much, I was lost.

When a woman shouted my name as she put her hands over her mouth, eyes widening in some internalized shock, I concluded that I had changed just as much as everyone else.

Funny, isn't it, how you can feel youthful — mentally locked in time — until you look in the mirror or see a picture of yourself. Or share stories with someone you knew in elementary school.

Still, the evening wasn't all bad.

I shared stories with a friend who could give Dorian Gray a run for his money.

I got to hug a woman I once had a crush on.

And I tried to be nice to the sad kid who always sat alone in the cafeteria at lunch in high school because he was still sitting by himself, a yearbook at his side.

I shook his hand. But I didn't know his name in high school, and I don't know it now.

Even though I did well in 12th-grade English, the life- story assignment was too intimidating for me. As my classmates spoke about what they had accomplished, I retreated to the bar and drank too much beer.

Reach Mike Gordon at mgordon@honoluluadvertiser.com.