Fan Art

by Tregay, Sarah

  The Redneck sees me do this and snorts. I hear him exhale, an insult on his breath. I scoot my chair closer to the girl on my other side and try to concentrate on Principal Chambers.

  “It is my pleasure to be here this afternoon with all of you,” she begins. “This is my favorite part of being an educator—seeing our seniors walk across this stage on their way to bigger and better things.”

  She babbles on sentimentally and, finally, introduces Brodie.

  Which shoots the senior class to its feet. We whoop, clap, and whistle.

  “Oh,” Brodie says into the mic. “Wow.”

  Our cheers die down as he starts in on his speech about how wonderful we are and how the last three years have been a roller coaster of ratcheting expectations, amazing highs, thrilling rides, and heartbreaking lows. He mentions losing the homecoming game and being crowned prom king. And, when he’s done, we cheer for him as if he’s bursting through the paper banner and running onto the field. I wish I still had my trumpet, so I could make some major noise.

  Especially when Mason steps up to the mic.

  “Thank you, Brodie,” he says. “Superintendent Owens, Principal Chambers, family, friends.” Then in Spanish. “Gracias . . . familia, amigos.” Adding, “Lo siento por mi acento. Lo sé, es horrible.”

  My mouth drops open. It’s been years since I’ve heard him say more than a word or two in Spanish. And I wonder what it means. That he forgives his father? That he’s calling a truce? That he felt bad for the grandparents in the audience that don’t speak English?

  I can’t read his face. He has the same look that Brodie did, a pasted-on smile edged with nervousness. His black plastic glasses catch the stage lights. A crisp white collar of a dress shirt and the wedge of a red silk Windsor knot shows above his gown, and the springy ends of his curls are escaping from under his mortarboard.

  “Out in the real world,” Mason is saying, “we won’t have Coach Callahan telling us to work out and eat healthy or Ms. Maude trying to cram a little art and culture into our diet. We won’t have Principal Chambers telling us our T-shirts are offensive or Mr. Purdy telling us”—he pauses—“well, we won’t have Mr. Purdy.”

  The stadium rolls with laughter.

  “Aw,” Mason says. “Mr. Purdy, I love you, man.”

  Beside me, the Redneck laughs, but not at Mason’s speech. I get a bad feeling and inch so close to the girl on my left that I am practically sitting on her lap.

  “Nick,” Eden hisses.

  Then the Redneck hands me his program. It’s printed on letter-size paper folded in half, but it looks the size of a Post-it in his meaty, Idaho farm-boy hand.

  Eden leans forward and shakes her head as if to warn me of something.

  I take it anyway. And, not knowing what to do with it, I page through it. There’s a list of our names, and, next to them, the colleges we’re going to, or the divisions of the armed forces, and the scholarships we received.

  Taking a wild guess at why he gave me the program, I look up his name. It’s alone on the line after Eden’s. She’s going to NNU, but Nick’s line is blank: no college, no service, no scholarship. That can’t be why he gave this to me.

  I know what’s next to my name—my little marching band scholarship for when I play for the U of I Vandals. And see that Mason won several academic scholarships.

  I turn the page, and the Redneck whispers in my ear, “I love you, man.”

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  ..................................................................

  FORTY-FOUR

  I feel cold all over. My teeth practically chatter. My hands shake and the program shivers. There, in the centerfold, is the drawing.

  Eden’s drawing.

  It isn’t wrinkled like the one I pried from Challis’s fingers. It’s color-copied or was printed using a laser printer. And stapled into the program.

  It has a caption now. I Love You, Man.

  And Mason’s voice echoes it as he finishes the translated part of his speech. “Te quiero, güey.”

  Real funny, Redneck. Way to scare the bejesus out of me. Put a copy of your sister’s drawing in a program and then hand it to me.

  I look at him.

  And when I do, he snorts half a laugh.

  I look at Mason onstage. His plastic smile is firmly in place, lacking the zap that stops my heart.

  But my very next thought does that trick. The temperature in the auditorium drops another ten degrees as I imagine a copy of the drawing in every program.

  I lean forward, peer around my next-door neighbor, past Juliet Polmanski’s empty seat next to her, and down the row of students. No one looks back at me. I look the other way, around the black mass of Nick’s robe, but Eden doesn’t look at me either. Her eyes are squeezed shut as if she’s trying to turn off the flow of tears. I look over my shoulder and catch Bahti’s eye. She makes a face that seems to say, I’m sorry.

  So I look.

  And sure enough, there’s one stapled in my crunched-up program.

  And one in my neighbor’s.

  Oh. God.

  Oh. God. No.

  I look up at the rows of people surrounding us and begin to feel like an exhibit at a zoo. I feel the sting of tears forming behind my eyes. I blink and find Mason’s face behind the podium. His smile is more relaxed, more real. He obviously hasn’t seen his program. Yet.

  He’s wrapping up, “Seniors!” he shouts. “We’re outta here! ¡Hasta luego, Lincoln High!”

  Kellen is the first to jump up, clapping. And then everyone around me joins in. While everyone is cheering, whistling, and whooping, I stay seated, my face buried in my hands. Silently, I chant my new mantra to their impromptu rhythm. Oh. God. No. Oh. God. No.

  The stadium goes quiet, and an unfamiliar voice is amplified over us.

  “Good afternoon, everyone!” it says. “I’m Juliet Polmanski.”

  Part of me wants to look up, verify that it is her—since I’ve never heard her say more than “I’m sorry” and “Excuse me.” But my own personal hell seems better suited to the dark, even if it’s just the palms of my hands. Oh. God. No. Oh. God. No. Because there’s no place to hide. No desk or table to crawl under. No stuffy closet. No tomorrow.

  “As you can imagine,” Juliet says, “I’ve spent the last who-knows-how-many nights reading commencement speeches and trying to figure out what to say. This speech is supposed to be about looking forward to our future, but all I’ve been thinking about for the last three years is our past. It’s been a long road for me, for all of us who knew my brother.”

  Silence falls over the crowd, no doubt because everyone is thinking of Jordan.

  The mood turns somber, and I wonder if it was better when all she had to say was “I’m sorry” and “Excuse me.” Because right now they seem like the only words to say to Mason. I’m sorry I screwed up your life. Excuse me, I didn’t mean to make you the focus of the worst prank in the history of Lincoln High. I know this wouldn’t have happened to you if it weren’t for me. I’m sorry. Excuse me, I’ll be leaving now. I’ll get out of your life. So I won’t ruin it further. Not with my stupid, babbling mouth. Not with the way I look at you. Not with my totally-out-of-bounds friend crush on you. Not with our portrait in your graduation program. I’m sorry.

  I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry.

  “Our Lincoln High experiences were all different. Some of us saw our high school years from the stage, others from the orchestra pit, the basketball court, the field, the stands. Some of us watched it from the back of the classroom or from behind a book. . . .”

  From the closet? I wonder, my face still in my hands. But she doesn’t mention it. Probably because closets are not safe. If you don’t come out yourself, you’re dragged out, kicking and screaming.

  “No matter your vantage point,” Juliet continues, “you’ll walk out of this stadium this afternoon with more than an empty leatherette folder�
��don’t worry, you’ll get your diploma in the mail. . . .” She pauses for the obligatory laughter. “You’ll leave with a heart full of memories. Like the evening of the snowball dance when the . . .”

  Even with the microphone, Juliet’s voice fades to oblivion, getting lost in the stars that cloud my eyelids. I don’t want to think about memories. Because Mason is in every one of them, from the first day of sophomore year (the first time he had to wear glasses to school) to senior prom (the first time he kissed a girl) to today (the last time he’ll ever talk to me). I feel the sting that comes before tears. Oh. God. No. I inhale a ragged breath. I will away the urge to cry. When it’s safe, I look up from my hands.

  “I think we’ve all learned that life is short,” Juliet says.

  Not short enough.

  “So we shouldn’t waste it, but instead we should embrace the amazing opportunities before us, like college, jobs, the Peace Corps, and serving our country. We should hold on to the good things—like our friendships—and tell our friends, ‘I love you, man.’”

  My lower lip wobbles traitorously, and I bite it in order to keep it still.

  I hear Eden sniffle from Nick’s far side, and my neighbor swipes at a tear, smearing mascara across her cheek. The three of us are going to be a blubbering mess in a matter of minutes.

  “We should keep moving ahead,” Juliet says, “no matter how impossible it seems, no matter what you’ve lost.”

  Really? I ask her silently, because I’m not so sure. I feel like in losing Mason, I’ve lost everything.

  And then she wraps up her speech with, “And even after all this time, filling our brains with formulas, history, and theories, I hope that each and every one of you will follow your heart, for it is bound to lead you on an incredible, breathtaking journey.”

  I watch Juliet’s face break into a beautiful smile and feel for a moment that she is looking at me. Until the people in front of me rise, clapping and shouting. Their gowns form a curtain of privacy around me, as if to shelter me and the fragile smile she imparted on my own lips.

  Juliet lost everything. I think back to her poem in Gumshoe, about Jordan’s cross on Highway 16, and wonder how she ever managed to smile like that—not nervous, not pasted on, but a real smile. Maybe losing someone close to you isn’t the end of everything. Maybe it makes you stronger.

  When they sit down again, Juliet, Brodie, and Mason are no longer onstage. Juliet slides into the empty chair on the opposite side of the girl next to me.

  “Good job,” my neighbor whispers.

  I whip my head around to Bahti’s row, where I know Mason will also be seated.

  His back is toward me as he picks his way between the seats. He pauses by Bahti, and I watch as she takes his hand, holding it for a minute until he scoots down two seats and their arms don’t reach. He bends to pick up the program on his seat and then sits down.

  The girl next to him whispers something.

  And he opens the program.

  His tassel slides down, swings in front of his face, but I can see his lips suck in air between his teeth, almost as if he finds the picture funny. But the next second his expression changes as he clenches his jaw.

  Slowly, he closes the program and looks up.

  It takes every ounce of strength in me to fight the urge to jerk around in my seat. I hold his gaze.

  He mouths a question that ends in a swear word.

  My face crumples and my shoulders hunch. I mouth back, Sorry.

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  FORTY-FIVE

  My robe is as hot as the massive lights burning down on the stage. My shirt and tie choke me. My stomach buzzes. My new shoes pinch. The backs of my knees itch. And I will have to get my picture taken. Then I’ll have to stand up in front of every single person I know and walk across the stage. I rub my face with my hands, wish I could splash it with cold water. Closing my eyes, I try to summon my courage.

  My neighbor nudges me.

  I blink.

  “Jamie,” Juliet pleads. “Go!”

  “Huh?”

  “Go!” she says, and points to a few students lined up by the photographer’s backdrop.

  I recognize the Redneck, his robe barely brushing his knees.

  “Sorry,” I say, rushing over to join the line, but only because she wanted me to.

  From my new vantage point, I can see Mason. His row is still seated and he’s looking down, as if he reading his program. Or maybe he’s praying for this whole thing to be over.

  “Smile,” the photographer says.

  I try, and grip the roll of fake diploma too hard. It crumples in my hand.

  The flash fires and I’m momentarily blind. Then I’m in line again, shuffling toward the stage as names are being called. Iliana Maria Muñoz. Cameron Gabriel Nash. Joshua Bradley Newton.

  I give the Redneck plenty of space as we near the stairs. I look over my shoulder. Mason is standing in front of the photographer, the now-crunched fake diploma in his hand. He doesn’t smile. The camera flashes anyway.

  Ms. Maude signals it’s time for me to go, and I stumble up the stairs.

  I blink back the glare from the stage lights as Principal Chambers holds out her hand for me to shake. I take it, a handful of icicles compared to my own sweaty palm.

  A man says my name into the microphone, “James Laurence Peterson.”

  I blush even hotter, walk a little faster. Wanting nothing more than to get this over with.

  Then I hear it.

  My classmates erupting in a storm of applause, shouting my name as if I were some sort of Lincoln High superhero, instead of the kid who just ruined his best friend’s life.

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  FORTY-SIX

  We toss our caps into the air, scramble to pick them up. Then it’s over.

  Thank God.

  We file out into a courtyard, away from the blinding lights and stifling heat. I unzip my robe and loosen my tie. I’m unbuttoning the top button of my shirt when Eden rushes over.

  “I can’t believe Nick did this!” She shakes a torn program at me. “I’m so gonna kill him!”

  I nod absently and look for Mason in the crowd. I don’t know if I want to talk to him or not, but I have to know if he’s okay.

  Eden calms down a notch, seeming to understand. “Over there,” she says, and points.

  Then I see him, talking to Brodie and Kellen. He’s still standing and seems all right.

  He turns and looks right at me.

  A swarm of honeybees buzz in my stomach, and I fight the urge to turn and run.

  In slow motion Mason claps Kellen’s shoulder. Then he drifts toward Eden and me.

  The bees buzz and sting. My throat swells up. I can’t breathe.

  “Jamie!” he calls.

  With this, our classmates stop talking—the only sound is the buzzing in my ears.

  I feel Eden’s hand on my back, pushing me toward Mason.

  He hugs me and thumps my back, and I return the gesture robotically, not knowing what else to do.

  “Jamie,” Mason says again.

  I look past the glare of sun on his glasses. His eyes are bright, sparkling with energy. And he’s close. So close to me.

  “Jamie.” This time he says it at a whisper. “I’m ready. Are you?”

  I search his face for an idea of what he’s talking about. It’s inches from mine and on the verge of a smile. A smile?

  “You want to do this?”

  I don’t know what he’s talking about until his hands close around my ears, his thumbs pressed to my cheekbones, and the tips of his fingers wrap around the hot back of my neck. Then I get it. Oh my God, my scrambled brain thinks, he wants to kiss me!

  And suddenly I ca
n’t wait any longer.

  “Hell, yeah,” I reply, and reach for him. I close the gap in an instant and press my lips into his. Too hard at first, but I figure it out. I kiss him. His lips are soft and warm and vaguely sweet.

  At first the crowd is pin-drop silent.

  He kisses me back.

  My mortarboard tumbles to the pavement.

  Our lips part.

  A chorus of low oohs begins. Then a series high-pitched whistles, with one “woo-woo-woo” that sounds like Brodie.

  So we don’t stop kissing.

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  FORTY-SEVEN

  But we do stop kissing. Because a girl’s voice rings out, bouncing off the hard cement walls. “You had no right!”

  Mason and I turn to see Eden and the Redneck squaring off a few yards from us. We stand there, our arms still around each other as if we are holding the other one up.

  “Why’d you draw it,” the Redneck asks, “if you didn’t want people to see it?”

  “It was personal!” she shouts.

  “Yeah.” He laughs. “A personal moment between two fag—”

  She slaps him.

  His head jerks right, her handprint on his cheek burning as bright as a red neon sign until the rest of his face catches up.

  His hands ball into fists as big as sugar beets, and Eden’s eyes grow wide.

  Oh my God, I think, my fingers gripping Mason’s robe. He’s going to hit her.

  The Redneck’s forearm muscles tense, release, and tense again, his face glowing redder with each squeeze.

  Eden seems frozen between anger and fear.