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The people I’ve known all my life show up at my mom’s graduation. We take up a whole row of seats in the Hamilton Heights Community College auditorium. Next to me is Steve, then Stacy, then my mom’s best friend May, and May’s kids, Dayton and Norma, and some other people from the real estate office where my mom worked until just this week, when she started work at the hospital.
Even my grandma from Florida is here. She’s going to stay three weeks, through my graduation, then go back home.
This will be the first summer since I was five that I won’t visit my grandma in Florida. I’m going to work full-time at the Club, overtime if I can, and try to save a lot of money, so maybe I can get by without working extra hours my first semester at Brooker University. Even though my scholarship will pay for a lot, I’ll still have a bunch of general expenses, like for my car and clothes. I’m still not thinking about what Mrs. Gould told me, about being legally responsible for child support.
I can tell by the way my grandmother looks at me that my mom’s told her about Christy being pregnant. Every time I walk into a room where just Grandma is sitting, I’m afraid she’s going to start asking a bunch of questions. I know she will, sooner or later.
Right now, a man in a purple robe with some kind of a long scarf around his neck is talking about the importance of nursing all through history. I try to concentrate, but he’s speaking in a monotone—not really speaking either, mostly reading. He could stand a little coaching from Mr. Rogers. This guy wouldn’t make it to the second round at a debate tournament.
There are thirty-two nursing graduates sitting on the stage, facing us. Five of them are men. Several of the women are gray haired, but some look like they’re about my age. One sort of reminds me of Christy. That’s all I need to be distracted from Dr. What’s-his-name’s droning speech.
I don’t admit this to anyone, but sometimes I miss Christy very much. I see a lot more of Jeremy and Benny, like I wanted to, but to tell the truth, I get sort of tired of playing pool and horsing around. It’s hard to talk seriously with guys. With Christy, I could tell her anything and know she’d understand, but with Jeremy and Benny, I end up hiding my feelings, laughing, and pretending nothing is important to me.
And, to tell the truth, I miss Christy loving me. I miss the feel of her in my arms, and the look in her eyes when we would start getting sexy. I miss her midnight phone calls, and her laugh. I miss her laugh a lot. Not that I want to get back with her—so much has changed.
And I don’t miss having to always be bolstering her spirits, or comforting her because of some big fight at home. But sometimes, late at night, when everything’s quiet, I remember how things used to be with Christy, and I feel all empty inside.
I took that girl, Kelly, from my English class, out to a movie last Friday night. After, we walked around Old Town for a while, we stopped at Johnny Rockets for a giant serving of onion rings. It was okay. Kelly’s a nice person and she’s sort of cute. But her hand felt strange in mine. I kissed her goodnight when I took her home, hoping to feel something. All I felt was wrong.
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“Karen Browning,” the voice calls over the microphone.
I’m so busy thinking about myself, I practically miss seeing my mom walk across the stage. Everyone in my row jumps up when they call Mom’s name. We clap and whistle—Stacy whistles the loudest of all.
We watch Mom move her tassle from the left to the right side, then sit back down. Most of the graduates have their own cheering section, and I feel sorry for the guy who only gets light, polite applause from the audience.
After the diplomas are handed out, the head of the nursing department, Dr. Mendoza, walks back up to the microphone. I hope she doesn’t talk long. We’re all going out for Thai food after this and I’m starving.
Dr. Mendoza is saying how proud she is to present this award, blah, blah, blah, and I’m thinking hurry up, hurry up, when she says, “. . . to Karen Browning, for academic achievement and practical expertise in the pursuit of nursing, the Dr. Eleanor Bunche Award for Excellence.”
We’re all on our feet now, whistling and yelling. Steve lifts Grandma up and kisses her. I can’t believe it! I’m still standing, clapping, when Stacy tugs at my jacket and pulls me down in my seat.
My mom is standing next to Dr. Mendoza, who is saying, “. . . this woman had a dream of being a nurse. As often happens, life changed her mind for a while. She worked in a business capacity for many years, supporting herself and her young son, and then, as he approached adulthood, she entered the nursing school here at Hamilton Heights Community College. She was an excellent student from the beginning. But when she started her hospital internship, it became obvious what truly fine nursing material she was . . .”
Dr. Mendoza goes on and on about my mom. It’s funny, I knew she’d wanted to be a nurse from the beginning, but I’d never thought much one way or the other about any of that stuff. She was just my mom, always there to pick me up after school, arranging her real estate hours around my schedule.
When I was younger and she had to show houses on weekends, she saw to it that I had something fun to do, with Steve and Janie, or with May. She watched over my homework every night and went to all of the parent conferences and did the Little League and AYSO thing. She was a mom.
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Steve’s reserved the big round table near the back of the room at Flavors of Bangkok. People have brought cards and presents for my mom. Steve orders champagne and practically everyone proposes toasts. My mom is the absolute center of attention.
One of the men from Mom’s graduating class, Douglas, has joined us for dinner. He’s telling a story about how mom confronted this old, stubborn doctor who was about to release a diabetic patient with a very bad foot infection— something that needed extensive hospital treatment. She’d told the doctor that the infection was worse, not better. He’d insisted it was better, said that was obvious from the blood tests, and essentially told her to butt out.
“Karen waited in the patient’s room until the doctor made his rounds. When he got there, she lifted the sheet and exposed this terribly infected foot and asked him how that compared with the blood tests. He called her out of the room, fuming!”
“I thought I was going to be kicked out of the program, then and there,” Mom says.
“But it all worked out,” Douglas continues. “The patient got the treatment he needed, and Karen actually won the respect of that crusty old doctor.”
Mom and Douglas clink glasses and laugh. What . . . ?
What is in that look? As I said before, my mom is just my mom to me. I don’t think she has much of a private life. But, maybe?
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In comparison to my mom’s graduation, mine is dull. Seven hundred and twelve seniors in red and white caps and gowns sitting on risers out on the football field behind the superintendent of schools, who could also benefit from some coaching from Mr. Rogers.
Then the dean stands up and honors scholarship winners. Dashan’s name is called three times and so is Jeremy’s. I’m happy with my one mention, for the scholarship to Brooker University. When my name is called, I hear Mom, Steve, and my grandma cheering above the other voices.
Finally, after talking about what a wonderful education Hamilton High offers the youth of our community, etc., etc., etc., Mr. Hill, the principal, begins calling names. We walk forward, one after the other, just the way we practiced earlier in the day. But there are so many of us it’s like a parade with interchangeable people. We don’t even get handed our real diplomas—it’s all just pretend. Finally it’s over and we pour off the risers to find family and friends in the audience. After hugs and kisses, I get my picture taken with my mom and Grandma and Steve.
My grandma leaves for Florida first thing in the morning. She hugs me tight.
“I’m so proud of you, Jeff,” she says. “Don’t forget our little talk.”
“I won’t, Grandma,” I say. Really, our little talk consisted of her telling me how she had a friend in high school who committed suicide because the boy who got her pregnant wouldn’t marry her. I don’t know exactly why she told me that, but I listened because she’s my grandma.
“Have a good trip,” I tell her, hugging her again. Then I hurry over to the place where I turn in my rented cap and gown. From there I go out to the parking lot where the buses for Grad Night at Disneyland sit waiting.
The graduating debaters, Jeremy, Dashan, Trin, Patrick, Cassie and all the rest, will ride on the first bus together. We’ve got it all planned. Whoever gets there first will save a section of seats for the whole group, then we’ll all hang out together at Disneyland. It’s probably the last time we’ll all be together. Jeremy and Trin and I are going to the national tournament in New Orleans nine days from now. Cool. I’ve already got my ticket packed in my book bag at home. But that’s just the three of us, not the whole group of debate seniors who’ve been together these past four years.
All of those trips to tournaments, urging each other on, cheering each other up when we’ve just missed a trophy—over. It seems impossible that my time at Hamilton High has ended.
Jeremy is already in line at the first bus. As I make my way through the crowd, I’m surprised to see Christy’s dad drop her off at the other end of the parking lot. Only grads and their dates get to attend Grad Night, and Christy’s not a grad. Then I see Dashan walking to meet her. He takes her by the hand and walks over toward where the first bus is parked. I can’t believe it! She’s eight months pregnant and on a date? I turn and walk away, back toward the fourth bus in line. No way do I want to end up on the same bus with them.
Now I wish I’d invited Kelly to be my date. She’d kind of hinted around, but I didn’t take the hint. I wanted to be on my own with my friends. I didn’t want to have to be there with just one person. But I guess I won’t be hanging out with the debaters now. I sneak a look back to the line at the first bus. Dashan has his arm around Christy. I don’t get it!
I see Stacy standing by the music building and walk to meet her, but just then Frankie shows up and throws a big, passionate kiss on her, so I turn away from them, too. I’m feeling like the total Lone Ranger when I hear Benny calling to me.
“Hey! J.B.! Over here!”
What a relief. I hate standing around alone, staring at my kneecaps and doing a great imitation of a nerd. I walk over to Benny’s car and greet him. Three other guys, John, Mark and Raymond, are standing by Benny’s car.
“How’s it going?” Mark says, extending his hand. I hardly recognize these guys, I’m so used to seeing them all dressed out in baggies. But Disneyland has a strict dress code and we’ve all paid big bucks for this night. No one wants to be turned away at the gate.
I don’t have a problem with these guys, and I think my mom’s sort of paranoid for telling me to stay away from them. I guess John is kind of hard core—he’s on probation for something, but I don’t hold that against him. Mark and Raymond and I played AYSO together. They’re all pretty smart guys, but not in a way that any teacher would ever notice.
“Thirsty?” Benny says, reaching into a little Playmate ice chest on the floor of his car. He pulls out a can of beer and slips it into a plastic container that makes it look like a can of Seven-Up.
“No thanks, Benny,” I say.
Mark, who’s standing next to me, says, “You better take it, Homes. It’s going to be a long time between brews.”
“I can last,” I say.
“More for me,” Benny says, taking a long swig from the can he’s just offered me.
“Hey, didja see Christy?” Ben asks.
I look at him carefully, wondering how much he’s had to drink. He’s sort of weaving back and forth, and his eyes look kind of glassy.
“Yeah, I saw her,” I say.
“She’s with that black scholarship guy,” he says, laughing. “She’s big bellied with your baby and she’s holding hands with a nigger.”
“She’s with Dashan,” I say, feeling my face grow hot. I hate that nigger talk. Once, just before Christmas, Dashan and I went to the mall to get something for our moms. We’re in this fancy department store, and I notice there’s this security-type person sort of following us around. It made me feel really self-conscious but Dashan said he was used to it. You get used to that stuff if you’re a black guy, he said. I don’t understand why people think the way they do.
Benny says, “Want to fuck the nigger up?”
Now I know he’s drunk. Benny says some really stupid things sometimes, but he’s not racist, or mean. At least, not when he’s sober.
“Don’t be stupid, Ben,” I say.
“Well, then, want us to fuck him up for you?” he says, gesturing toward the others.
“God, Benny. Stop talking crazy,” I say.
“Come on,” he says, taking off in the direction of Dashan and Christy. Mark and I run after him and grab him.
“Calm down,” Mark says.
Benny pulls away from Mark but I manage to grab his other arm and hold on tight.
“Lemme go,” he says, trying to squirm away.
“No. Benny. Stop acting crazy. Look,” I say, “now you’ve got the narcs watching us.”
It’s true, Joe and Rochelle are leaning against the back of the last bus, walkie-talkies in hand, looking in our direction. Mark and I get Benny turned around and walk him back to his car. We try to be all casual about it. John and Raymond, always cool, are leaning against the car, watching us as if we were on TV instead of part of their lives.
I can tell by Benny’s jerking movements as he tries to get free of my grip that he is totally bombed. I see a couple of teachers standing by the first bus, writing names on a clipboard and checking student IDs as they let the kids board. I hope no one looks very closely at Benny when it’s his turn to get on a bus. I guess Mark must be thinking the same thing, because he tells Ben, “Cool it, or they won’t even let your ass on the bus.”
“I don’t care!” Ben says. “I don’t care about this phony-ass grad night shit anyway. I didn’t even graduate so why should I give a shit! Damn Garner, anyway!”
Now I get it. Garner’s Benny’s history teacher.
“Hey, don’t sweat it,” John says. “There’s always summer school. That’s what I’m doing.”
“Yeah, but I turned my work in and everything. Just ’cause it’s late . . .”
Benny leans back against the car. We stand around for a while, talking of nothing, then notice that they’re boarding the last bus.
“Come on, Ben,” I say.
We all walk toward the bus, Benny between me and John. The two teachers who are checking people on don’t seem to notice that Benny’s not quite with it.
I’m the last in line, right behind Benny. Mark is in front of him and when he finds a seat he motions to Benny to take it. John and Mark and Raymond find seats near the back of the bus, but there’s nothing left for me. I sit in the aisle at the back, next to Mark, but after the bus driver checks things out and counts heads, he turns to the teacher with the clipboard.
“We’ve got one too many kids on this bus.”
“Does it matter?” she asks.
‘Yep. It’s the law. We don’t move until one kid gets off this bus. Who was last on?”
She checks her clipboard and calls my name. God, I hate this. No one can get in unless they arrive on an official grad night bus. It’s like being in elementary school again, all crowded together and being bossed around by a bus driver. I get up and walk to the front.
The bus driver is involved in conversation on his two-way radio.
“Nope. One too many. You got any room left? . . . How about Bob?”
He turns to me. “Don’t worry, one of these buses has an empty seat or two.”
“Doreen? Hey, listen, you got room for one more on your bus? . . . Okay. Thanks.”
He looks at me again. “Okay, kid. There’s room on the number one bus. Run on up there so we can get this show on the road.”
Just my luck. The bus I most want to avoid is the one I end up on. Not only that, but the vacant seat is in front of Trin and Patrick, across from Christy and Dashan.
Patrick pats me on the back.
“We wondered where you were,” he says.
“Yeah. We almost sent out a search party,” Trin says.
Dashan reaches across the aisle to shake hands. “Congratulations on your scholarship,” he says, smiling.
I shake his hand. “You too, you scored big,” I say, immediately regretting my choice of words. I don’t look at Christy.