Anthony was 21 when he received his high school diploma before a standing ovation.  He was a spirited member of the class of '81­­my graduating class.

The story goes that when Anthony was in his early teens, joyriding with his friends was cut short when a train slammed into them.  As a result, Anthony had to relearn the basic mechanics of life and spend the rest of his schooling days in special ed.

"J-Jen-uh-fer," he stuttered to me one day in our senior year.  He was breathless with excitement.  "I-I'm h-having a birthday party!  W-will you come to my p-party?"

 I glanced at his birthday invitation.  A clown danced on the face of it, and pencil-smudged letters were scrawled child­like on the reverse side.  The party was scheduled during the deepest part of summer, well after graduation.

I hoped that my smile camouflaged the doubt taking root.  I couldn't say no to him, as he went on, beaming,  "I-I'm having lots of f-food and soda pop and-and a dis-co-teque!"

"That sounds great, Anthony!" I replied.   "Sure, I'll come", I assured him, mustering up as much enthusiasm as I could portray.  "Tell me what you would like for your birthday."

He named an album by a popular rock group and handed me another invitation to give to my girlfriend.  That night I slipped his invitation under a magnet on our refrigerator door.

For weeks thereafter, all the way up until graduation night, Anthony reminded me of his impending birthday party.  But when summer tempted me with other plans, I must admit that the invitation soon sunk to the bottom of my priorities.  However, my conscience begged me to do otherwise.  I couldn't forget Anthony's face when he implored me to come to his party.

My friend Lexie and I went Dutch on the album that Anthony requested, and on that hot, dry mid summer day, we landed on the doorstep of his tiny house, which was strangely quiet.  Our knocking summoned, surprise of surprises, the homecoming queen from our high school.  She appeared relieved at the sight of us, since she had been the first to arrive.

The house did not exactly look ready for the party of the century.  It was dark from drawn curtains and a floor fan oscillating fruitlessly in the withering heat.  The size of the living room made me wonder if the DJ was going to set up the discotheque in the back yard.  It was then I noticed an old turntable with albums stacked next to it.  This was to be our "discotheque."

On the coffee table was the homecoming queen's gift to Anthony ­­ obviously an album.  I set ours on top of hers.  The dining room table boasted two plastic bottles of warm soda, and between plates of towering, triangular-cut sandwiches was a homemade layered cake.  No one had bothered to inscribe a birthday wish in the chocolate icing.  Anthony's mother had left town for the weekend.

Anthony appeared out of the gloom with his trademark crooked smile, dressed in his best casual suit and platform shoes, which boosted his height to well over six feet.  Another knock at the door.  A popular cheerleader stood there with some uncertainty, a gift-wrapped album under her arm.

A pattern soon emerged with each subsequent knock at the door.  Before long, the house overflowed with beautiful girls, piling albums on the coffee table.  We shook our heads in amusement.  Anthony would have been the envy of every guy in our high school.

We flung open the curtains and windows to release stale air and shed light on the party.  The sandwiches, left out overnight by Anthony, were supplemented, through a quick stop at the store from volunteers, with chips and dips, more sodas, and a chest full of ice.  Twenty-two candles were erected in the icing of the birthday cake.

Someone cranked up the "discotheque," and at the birthday boy's request, each of us lined up to take turns slow dancing with him.  When it was my turn, I tapped the girl on the shoulder and said, "Hey, you're hogging him up!"  Anthony was clearly tickled by this.

While in his stiff embrace, my hands clasped behind his neck, I smiled broadly at my partner, who was a million miles away.  I was tempted to offer him a penny for his thoughts.  But glancing at the long line behind me, I figured I better not get him rambling.  As the others had done before me, I planted a firm kiss on his cheek before giving him up.

I will never forget the faraway expression on Anthony's face that summer day of 1981, his cheeks smeared with frosted shades of lipstick from birthday kisses.  When he paused before blowing out the candles, his dazed eyes reflected the fervent wish of every teenager.  He had experienced the immeasurable joy of fitting in.  On this day, he was one of the popular kids at school.

While attending college, I received sporadic phone calls from Anthony, who had moved with his mother to Reno and found a job at Circus­Circus.  On our last conversation, he asked if it was all right to send me a letter.  I said, sure.

Two days later, I opened an oversized Fedex envelope and groped around inside it until I found a piece of ruled paper folded into a square.  His familiar handwriting read:

Dear Jenifer,

How are you?  I am fine.  I like working at circus circus.  Can I send you
a stufed animal for your birthday?  I hope you are well.  When is your
birthday?  Please write me.

Your frend,
Anthony

I wrote him back but never heard from him again.  I have often wondered since then about whether he found someone to love, and a girl to love him, whether the joy of that day carried him forward in life.  I often replay
the dance I had with him, when gazing into his distracted, clear eyes I felt a kinship there.  Our minds may have not been on the same level to a degree.  But our hearts were.