Shannon Breen lived in a different world. When we attended middle school, 1970s sitcoms hooked her. Stretched across her single bed, she raptly gazed at "Brady Bunch" or "Three's Company" reruns. I laughed with her, but she took the era too seriously.

Suddenly, Shannon arrived at school wearing bellbottom jeans and a paisley polyester blouse. She adorned her straight blonde hair with a folded scarf as a headband. Then, she began using old slang words.

"Jeepers creepers, Cassie," my friend squealed, grasping my arm. We were in the cafeteria, and Wilson Montgomery squished an entire hotdog into his gaping mouth.

I squirmed uncomfortably at the loud ejaculation. Angelica nudged Harper, and together, they lifted their trays and moved to an empty table. Wilson, his mouth full of hotdog, swallowed painfully.

Shannon's friends disappeared like rats fleeing a sinking ship. However, recalling our pinkie swear to remain BFFs, I stuck by her. I managed to wade through middle and high school without tarnishing my image. Shannon did not fare so well. Her clothes and hairstyle became more retro than ever, and her slang more incomprehensible.

Twelfth grade finalized our long-standing friendship. Shannon attended our small community college, and I spent two years studying abroad in Rome. I interned at NYC's Metropolitan Opera House at Lincoln Center when I returned to the States. My school days and friends were long in my rearview mirror.

By strange chance, I bumped into Shannon Breen outside Macy's Department Store. It was a snowy December day, with the holidays only a week away. My old school chum took me aback. She was even more retro than I remembered. Nevertheless, she squealed with delight at encountering her middle school BFF.

"Come home with me," Shannon invited, grinning from ear to ear. "My apartment isn't far from here." Without a yes or no answer, she fisted my shopping bags. I trudged behind her, then followed her into the subway.

'Not far' ended at a Brooklyn brownstone. I stepped inside the overly warm residence and stopped, dumbfounded. We entered a time warp. Beaded curtains hung from the doorways, and paisley flowers stared from the wallpaper. Shannon invited me into the living room and indicated the two beanbag chairs facing a portable TV. I squinted at the 12-inch square screen.

"How about some Kool-Aid?" my companion offered.

"Sure," I gulped, remembering the overly-sweetened drink from grade school.

Patiently, I waited for the unwanted drink. Shannon chatted happily from the kitchen. Then, I jumped from my skin when a phone rang. Although I didn't recognize the tone, I glanced at my cell. Then, I noticed the old rotary phone. Surreptitiously, I lifted the sizeable plastic receiver and said a tentative 'hello.'

"Shan?" a male voice queried.

Before I could respond, my old-time friend grabbed the receiver. Plunking down in a purple beanbag, she mouthed the name 'Keith.' The conversation dragged on, leaving me out altogether. Finally, I rose and departed Shannon Breen's strange world.