After a hectic but fantastic holiday season, travel was winding down. I was done —with one caveat: I never have enough time with my grandkiddos, Nova and Luca. I was, however, temporarily satiated, and ready to return home.
The airline terminal was packed with weary travelers. Making my way through security, I arrived at my assigned gate. I was surprised to find that there were some empty seats. I took a seat next to a 20-something woman.
She turned to me and smiled; we exchanged airport pleasantries. I learned she was on her way to visit family on Staten Island.
Surprised, I said: “I lived on Staten Island for many years.”
“Really?” she said.
Just then, a well-dressed woman of a certain age sat down on the other side of the young woman. Pointing to me, the young woman said, “Gram, my friend here, is from Staten Island too.” (Limited friendships are known to form in an airport.)
Gram and I locked eyes. We exchanged more airport pleasantries. I was surprised to discover we knew some of the same people. That’s when the benign pleasantries became serious. I introduced myself to Gram and she said her name was Georgette.
It was at this point that I heard the crackle over the loudspeaker, which could only mean our flight to New York was delayed. Uncharacteristically, I was not in a tither.
Georgette was exasperated. “Not again,” she groaned. She explained that she missed her connection and that’s how she ended up on this flight. The granddaughter introduced herself as Lilly. We settled in for the long haul.
“Celia where did you go to high school?” Georgette asked.
I told her. Her mouth flew open.
“So did I,” she said, surprised.
“When?” I asked.
It was my turn to stare at Georgette, dumbfounded. The airport sounds seemed to recede. Georgette and I locked eyes for the second time. There was a moment of vague recollection.
“Cookie?” she stammered.
“Gigi?”
Her granddaughter looked at us, stunned. “You know each other?”
Did we ever! We’d met at the small all-girls Catholic high school we’d both attended on Staten Island. In detention. We were both charged with the offense of rolling up our uniform skirts above the knees. And that was just the beginning of our misadventures and friendship. Lilly huddled in close waiting for something juicy. She was not disappointed. Our “remember when’s“ were straight out of “Laverne & Shirley” — or maybe “Mean Girls.”
“Why were you called Cookie?“ Gigi asked.
“Celia was too Italian and boring. I craved excitement,” I explained. I still do, to a lesser extent. “My dad hung up on many potential boyfriends because they asked for Cookie.”
“Same!” Gigi said. “Not the Italian part. But who wanted to be called Georgette?
Lilly chimed in. “My name is Lillian. I should find a glitzier nick-name — lilies are for funerals.”
“Lilly is perfectly fine,” Georgette told her granddaughter. “Celia, remember when we were almost caught smoking Hit Parade cigarettes in the convent basement?”
I let out a howl of laughter. “Yes, we smelled smoke. Mother Perpetua stepped out of the shadows — smoking! Remember she made that sign across her mouth — like, zip it up,” I said. We laughed at the memory. “I had Mother Perpetua for Latin. Latin was not my strong point—I barely passed. I wonder if she passed me because of our secret. Speaking of smells, remember the long-lasting smell of candles and incense? Ya think it was to cover up their smoking?”
Gigi nodded in agreement. “Who was that boy you liked?” she asked.
“Which one?”
“The one your dad didn’t like!” Gigi said, as if that would narrow it down.
“Dad didn’t approve of most of the guys I brought home,” I told her. “They were all Elvis look-alikes. Leather Jackets, slicked back hair. If they had a motorcycle, I fell in love,” I said.
“I went to the prom with the captain of the boy’s school football team. I stole him away from his snotty girlfriend — pure mean girl behavior,“ Gigi reminisced.
“Remember when we would meet the high school guys around the corner of their school?” I asked. “We got away with it for about six months. Somehow word got out. Mother Edwards came around the corner and rounded us up.”
Folks, if you never saw an angry nun in full habit barreling toward you, well, be glad.
Gigi and I were back in detention with a couple of other girls. Guess who was noticeably absent? The snotty ex-girlfriend of the captain of the football team.
“Why did you leave the school in your junior year?” Gigi asked.
“Fate and Dad,” I explained. “In study hall, Mother Josepha came around and searched our pencil cases. She found cigarettes in mine. Dad was called to school. Instead of punishing me, he had words with the principal. Dad said my rights were violated,” I remembered.
Our flight was being called. While lining up for our seat assignments. Gigi and I hurriedly exchanged a few more words. I learned she didn’t become an actor; however, she taught music and drama in a California high school.
She learned that I became a nurse, not a doctor. We exchanged phone numbers and promised to keep in touch. But you know how that goes! Last I saw of Gigi and Lilly were the backs of their heads.
Last week, I got a text.
“Hey Cookie.”
The greeting catapulted me back to high school: the nuns, candles, incense — and those long-forgotten adventures with Gigi.
The survival of local journalism depends on your support.
We are a small family-owned operation. You rely on us to stay informed, and we depend on you to make our work possible. Just a few dollars can help us continue to bring this important service to our community.
Support RiverheadLOCAL today.
