The rest of the morning flies by, for the most part, but it was definitely memorable. I don’t think I’ll soon forget sitting in front of my vanity, doing my hair and make-up under the steady, watchful gaze of Hank, who didn’t move a muscle as he sat in my chair, “reading a book” while managing to never remove his eyes from me.
We pile into Austin’s car, and Hank crawls in the back. He sweetly insists I sit up front on my big speech day. I roll down the window to get some air, feeling slightly asphyxiated by my glossophobia. We pull up to the school and Austin gives me a wink before squeezing my hand, a surprisingly kind gesture, but then he side-eyes Hank in the backseat.
Austin smirks as he goes to speak. Oh, crap balls. “Take that fine-A booty of yours in there and knock ‘em dead, Am-y.”
I hop out of the car. I’m determined to meet my fate. The next hour and a half is a blur. I spend the time lying on a bench backstage, staring up at the ceiling and looking for patterns in the dots that cover the white squares encased by black lines that run straight and true with a surety I envy. At this exact moment, I am certain of nothing. My mind runs in circles, and it gives me a terrible headache. Every muscle in my body has ceased to work, and my bones have rotted in the span of the past hour. I’m a liquified mass and all that’s left of me is my brain matter, made up of trivial questions that chase each other around. Will I make it through my graduation speech? Will I find my aunt alive? Will my Vee card remain unpunched at the end of my grand adventure with Hank, the hottest man-boy to make eyes at me? This is madness.
I glance over and spy my teacher, Mrs. D. “Get up off that bench, Amy Smith, and start reading your notecards. You didn’t bust your butt for four years to wilt like a frosted tulip. Take a deep breath and straighten your stem. Reach for the sunshine.”
I sit up like a robot, inspired by Mrs. D’s flowery words. I smile back at her. “How much did that hurt to say?”
She shakes her head and peers out at me over her signature purple reading glasses. “You have no idea.” She gets up and walks toward me in her kitten heels. She leans over to get in my face. “You will deliver your speech, young lady, and you’ll do it right. Don’t make me kick your ass.” I choke a little in disbelief as I look back at Mrs. D, who has no trace of a smile anywhere in her countenance.
I nod my head dumbly. “Yes, of course, Mrs. D.” She gives me a nod, stands back up, and spins around. She returns to her arranging of the graduating class.
She turns back to me. “Amy. Take your place with your classmates.”
The ceremony drags on and on, and just when I think I can’t hold it together any longer, and I’m going to flee, I hear my name announced. I jump up and remind myself to walk one foot in front of the other. I breathe deeply as I go along and pray with all my might a miracle will happen and everything will be fine. I stumble clumsily up the steps to the stage, earning me a stern look from Mrs. D, who sits amongst the faculty lined up on stage.
I approach the microphone and tilt it downward as I glance out at my classmates. I realize a little too late that I’ve not spoken more than a few words to the majority of them in four years of high school. Jenni, my best friend, beams up at me, even as her body language suggests otherwise. She’s already settled into her “get comfortable” slouch; obvious preparation for my historically long speeches, generally filled with a passion only I seem to understand. I gaze out into the throngs of faces. Their eyes glaze over at the thought of another long graduation speech they’ll forget as soon as their toes cross our high school threshold.
I consider the crazy journey I’m about to take. I look out in silence and search for the one face I know isn’t there. My throat tightens, and I fear I can’t do it. I’m about to let my mother down yet again as I white knuckle the sides of the podium. I focus on breathing in and out. I pray my knees don’t lock and I hit the floor. Then I see her—Lady Margaret—in the kind face of a woman sitting on the end of a row in her bright pink hat, smashing pink dress, and canary yellow purse. She calls out to me like a kindred spirit, as she beams up at me like a ray of sunshine. I take a deep breath and turn all my note cards face down as I find my voice and speak to her on the fly.
“Students, faculty, family, and friends, and last but not least, my graduating class; we did it! We survived four years of stinky locker rooms, a few days of ISS, grumpy substitute teachers, and early Monday morning lectures under the bright lights of the science room when all we really wanted was a big glass of water, two aspirin, and the dark quiet.” I pause and let my words register. I earn a few snickers and many parental frowns. “As I look back on my four years of studying, studying, and more studying so that I could be here speaking to you today, I realize something. Life is not just about a perfect GPA and academic success. Life is often about being in the moment. I had this big, long, speech prepared with many words of wisdom to impart, but as I stand here now and look out at all of you, I have just a few things to say: Life is for the Living. Be more than a spectator. Be brave. Be courageous. Be kind. Be who you are meant to be. Do not fear what your future holds for you, instead choose hope.” I pause and scan the crowd of graduating students. I stop on Jenni. I smile at her before turning back to the microphone. “In the words of one of my favorite authors, Stephen King. Fear can hold you prisoner. Hope can set you free. Thank you.”
I step away from the podium, certain I’ve set the record for the shortest and strangest graduation speech ever, in this gym, at least. I walk by a few frowning faculty members and Jenni, with her mouth agape. I wink boldly at her as I squeeze past her on the way to my seat. Someone kicks my chair from behind, and I turn and make eye contact with Cassie, our awesome homecoming queen who totally rocks because she’s the complete opposite of what a typical homecoming queen should be. Her eyes twinkle as she leans forward and whispers. “That was a kick-ass speech.”
My heart leaps in my chest as I manage to nod back coolly, mouthing silently, “Thank You.” I whip back around and search the crowd for my mother’s face. I’m embarrassed to find her sitting front and center. My eyes meet hers, and I think I see some pride in there somewhere. My gaze shifts to Austin who sits right beside her making absurd faces at me, as well as baseball hand signals from his postural chair-adapted catcher’s stance. I move down the row to Hank, the mountain man, with his impenetrable stare that draws an almost visceral response from me every time I look him in the eye. I feel like a fly caught in a spider’s web. Is Hank a spider, waiting to ensnare me? He certainly liquefies my insides. What is it about him that makes me think and feel such crazy things?
“Amy Evalina Smith.” About the time my name registers in my ears, interrupting the invisible, unbreakable, path between Hank and I, I feel a nudging in my side from the weed-loving, forever-feather-haired, stuck-in-That-70’s-show, permanently misplaced, Jay Wolfe, whose baritone voice only knows one volume. “Amy, move your ass.” I jump up, mortified, as I walk quickly to the podium to shake hands and accept my diploma.
I sit back down, thoroughly irritated, as I whisper furiously at Jay, “Why are you sitting here? We’re supposed to be in alphabetical order.”
He gives me a sideways grin. “My bad. Is that what we’re doing today?”
I look back at the crowd and catch the disapproving face of my mother. I shut up and stare straight ahead, like a child caught talking in the front row in church.