Janelle Priestly doesn’t represent me, I think. She probably doesn’t even know my name.
In her effort to “represent” me, Janelle Priestly goes on to say words I would never use and proclaim ideas that I do not believe in, and as I look around at my classmates and the school board and the faculty and the band and the parents and even the police officers gathered at the edge of the field . . .
Just sitting there, enduring the dull, antiquated ritual of a traditional high school graduation, hurts—it feels like there are flames beneath me heating up the metal chair I’m seated on, like my stupid square cardboard hat is full of fire ants, like this whole fucking over-privileged town is slowly grinding away my eyeballs with sandpaper.
But then I realize that I’m free if I want to be—no one has chained me to this folding chair.
So I simply stand and walk out.
Janelle Priestly keeps speaking and my classmates listen and parents fan themselves with programs and everything goes on just fine without me seated among the crowd.
They probably think I have to use the bathroom.
Or maybe they think nothing at all.
The world doesn’t really care too much about what you do sometimes—as long as you let certain types carry on en masse without you.
Looking perplexed and a bit terrified, my parents arrive at my Jeep only a few seconds after I do, and, by way of explanation, I say, “I just couldn’t do it.”
My dad gives me this terribly sad look that makes me feel shitty, and I sort of hate him for it, even though I realize he’s mostly just confused.
“I don’t get it, Nanette,” Mom spits. “Why leave your own graduation? Why? It’s a celebration FOR YOU. We’ve been doing everything you want. We’ve been so tolerant of your needs. Why did you do this to us?”
“I would have stayed for the whole ceremony if that were a possibility, but it just wasn’t. I know that sounds like an exaggeration, but it’s not. I’m sorry I couldn’t give you that.”
Mom’s mouth is open, but no words are coming out.
When I look at my father, I can see that he doesn’t get it, either, and right then and there, I realize that there’s a big part of me that my parents will never get no matter how many therapy sessions we attend—even if we have a million and one conversations about who I am.
“I wish I could be who you want me to be,” I say. “It would make everything so much easier.”
When Mom starts crying, Dad puts his arm around her, but no one knows what to say.
The last of Janelle Priestly’s words echo out through the green leaves and blue sky and setting sun, and then the crowd breaks out in wild applause.
The O’Hares are outside the circle now, standing in the street, just the three of us.
“Shortest graduation ceremony I’ve ever attended,” Dad says, going for humor, when our silence grows too loud. “And those things can drag on forever.”
Mom forces a laugh and then wipes away a tear, but I can tell she’s still mad. More precisely, she’s embarrassed. It was one thing to have a crazy daughter in private, but many of her professional contacts were in the crowd tonight—the insecure wives and moms with pitiful sex lives and large houses in constant need of updating.
But I can tell that Mom is conflicted, too. June has explained to her what I need, only Mom can’t always give it to me—just like I can’t always give Mom what she needs from me.
We stand by my Jeep for a few minutes not saying anything as the next speech begins, and it’s like we all know that we’ve reached the end—that things are never going to be the same again. There is something deep within all three of us that doesn’t want to let go of whatever we’ve had for the past eighteen and a half years, even though that’s exactly what we have to do.
“See you at home?” Dad finally asks.
I nod.
When they turn their backs, I open my Jeep door, and there’s a mysterious book on the driver’s seat.
A young, androgynous-looking face stares up at me from under the title: The Picture of Dorian Gray.
I look around, my eyes scanning the line of cars on the street and the sidewalks, but I don’t see anyone, so I flip through the novel.
No handwritten note inside the flap, but there is one page folded down. On it is a highlighted sentence. It glows neon yellow.
Behind every exquisite thing that existed, there was something tragic.
My mind starts racing.
Who put this book here?
What are they trying to tell me?
I read the entire novel that evening, and if you read it, too, you’ll surely see how it relates to what happened my senior year—how Alex and I became obsessed with a piece of art after seeing some part of ourselves in it and how that obsession began to destroy us and maybe even helped to kill Alex.
But what was truly tragic and what exactly was exquisite?
My parents, Mr. Graves, Shannon, Ned, Booker, Oliver—they’d all have different answers to that question. There is a price to pay for pushing beyond everyone else’s answers, and what I’m finding out is that I’m more than willing to pay it.
I like to think that Mr. Graves left Dorian Gray in my Jeep as a way of officially saying good-bye, but I bet it was Booker.
Either way, I take it for what it’s worth—an end of sorts, and a beginning.
40
Velvety as a Good Kiss
The day after graduation, I put my Jeep into drive and head for the shore. The top is down and my hair is trailing behind me. I’m listening to Los Campesinos!’s album Hold On Now, Youngster . . ., blasting my eardrums with singsongy pop punk. When I arrive, I find parking and then walk to the beach. I have no idea whether this area is where Mr. Redmer dumped Alex’s ashes, but it doesn’t matter, because this is where Alex and I went when we cut school the first day of my senior year—so it’s one last time at our place.