I WIN VALEDICTORIAN.
Seated on the stage, I look out onto the football field, at my classmates sitting in sections of red and white, and past them, the friends and family gathered in the stands. Sweat dampens my forehead in the June sun. I reach up, adjusting my cap while Principal Williams speaks. I wondered if it would feel anticlimactic, like every other afternoon. It doesn’t. It feels like the end of high school.
As valedictorian, I have the honor of graduating first. Ethan, seated next to me, is second. He’s salutatorian, a fact of which I’ve never missed an opportunity to remind him. Including in my valedictory graduation speech. Where I referenced speaking instead of him. It earned me actual laughter from our classmates, which was good, given the serious subject matter of the rest of my speech. I said I wasn’t sorry I only went to one party, never skipped class, and knew a sizable portion of the audience had never met me. I only hoped they’d done high school their way.
Williams calls my name, and I walk to the podium, receive my diploma, and shake her hand.
“Congratulations, Alison,” she says. “I look forward to having a much freer calendar next year without you to contend with.”
I grin, remembering months full of meetings, rigorous email chains, Chronicle interviews, and ASG initiatives. “I’ll miss you too, Principal Williams,” I reply, and Williams’s features flicker the closest to a smile I’ve ever seen them.
I walk across the stage, flipping my tassel to the other side of my cap to the enthusiastic cheering of my parents and Jamie, who’s wearing her new Fairview staff shirt. Returning to my seat onstage, I wait while Ethan walks up and receives his diploma.
For the next half hour, we hold hands, watching the rest of our class graduate. I stand and whoop when Dylan walks on stage. We went to Berkeley together a couple weeks ago, and any heartache she had over Olivia seemed erased by the cute people on whom she kept commenting. She’s even been texting one girl she met in the art department. Texting might in fact be too insignificant a term for the constant conversation they’ve kept up, punctuated by Dylan’s smiles or laughter every time she looks down to read her phone. I can’t help smiling whenever I notice, either. I’m excited to help Dylan move in before I fly out to Boston.
When Isabel crosses the stage, Ethan whispers in my ear, “What are the odds she follows through on her class president responsibility to plan our reunion in ten years?”
“She’d better,” I reply immediately. “I’m not planning another one of those.”
“Certainly not with your co-vice president,” Ethan says.
I picture planning our own reunion with him a decade from now. Poetry might require choosing the Millard Fillmore for our venue. Ethan would want a fancy hotel, and I’d fight for nostalgia. While we cooperate well now, I can’t imagine the process without a little contention. “Certainly not,” I say, smiling.
Once everyone’s graduated and we’ve thrown our hats into the cloudless sky, Ethan draws me by the hand in the direction of the teachers’ section.
“Ethan,” I say, laughing, “I kind of have plans to see my parents.”
“In a minute,” he replies. He walks up to Pham, and I realize what he’s doing.
The only outstanding grade of our final semester is our final English essay. While Pham reported our overall class grades—A’s, of course—he never released our essay grades. Nobody else cares. Except for us. It’s our very last grade of high school.
“Mr. Pham,” Ethan starts with forceful casualness, “could you just tell us which of us submitted the stronger paper? We don’t even need the point totals.”
Pham exhales sharply. “It’s your graduation day, Mr. Molloy. Can’t you just celebrate?”
“You did read our essays, right?” I narrow my eyes on him. “I wouldn’t want to have to inform Principal Williams you didn’t grade our finals.”
“I read them,” Pham gets out, clearly disgruntled by our undimmed competitiveness.
“Tell us and you’ll never have to talk to us again,” Ethan’s voice is simultaneously sweet and sharp.
Pham considers us. “Mr. Molloy scored a point and a half higher.” Then, taking Ethan up on his offer, Pham walks off immediately.
Ethan faces me. “There. I win the final, most important contest.”
I tap my valedictorian sash. “Agree to disagree.”
He ignores me. “You owe me one final task.”
I say nothing, a little scared. Despite our new relationship, our tasks have remained as undesirable as ever. When I won valedictorian, I made Ethan man the prom ticket booth for three days straight.
“Don’t find a new rival next year.” He’s earnest, even nervous. It dissolves my apprehension. Our relationship might not last. We might grow out of it as we grow into ourselves. I won’t force it to end because high school has, though. I’m holding on to this piece of now proudly, loving it for what it could become and for the confusing, inimitable place it began.
I entwine my hand with his. “Obviously.”