Fan Art (27 page)

They drop me off near the stadium and then go to find a parking spot.

I join the crowd of seniors, some of whom—Brodie and Kellen—are totally pumped and bouncing around greeting people with fist bumps and high fives. Others seem bored, as if they’re thinking,
One walk across the stage and I’m gone.

“Peterson!” Brodie says.

“Hey, man.”

“Where’s Viveros?” he asks, holding out his fist.

I shrug. I don’t see Mason. “Maybe he had to go do salutatorian stuff?”

“Nah,” Brodie tells me. “We did that this morning.”

“You’re giving a speech?”

“Class president official business,” he says, pinching the lapels of his suit.

“Sounds good,” I say with an
oof
as Kellen drapes a meaty arm over my shoulders.

“Dude,” Kellen says. “So glad I don’t have to speak—that stadium’s effin’ huge.”

“Me too,” I agree, lifting my trumpet case. “I’m just playing in the band.”

“Cool,” he says, then releases me. “Brodie here’s gonna read his ‘Elegy to Lincoln High.’”

“Nah, man,” Brodie says. “Chambers says I couldn’t read it.”

“But it’s, like, a published work of art,” Kellen says.

“It doesn’t have quite the right tone for a graduation ceremony,” Brodie says in his snooty principal voice.

Kellen and I laugh.

I spy Eden and wave two fingers her direction.

Kellen follows my gaze. Then he thumps my back. “I love you, man,” he says instead of good-bye. It doesn’t mean anything—not like when I said it to Mason in government. That’s the thing. There are three ways to say
I love you, man
.

The first one is an announcement, said at full volume and often accompanied by a swear word. It’s sort of
Thank you
, sort of
You’re cool
, with a little
And damn, you make me look good
thrown in. This is how Kellen said it.

The second one is a diss, said with four and a half tons of sarcasm and most likely a reference to the father, son, or Holy Ghost. There’s no sort of about it. It means
I hate you right now.

The third one comes wrapped in caution tape. It is said quietly and on its own, without any adjectives. There’s no “sort of” to this one, either, because you mean it.

Like, well, I did.

Mrs. Templeton waves down those of us in band. She ushers us inside. We unpack our instruments and assemble them, playing random notes and getting nervous.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” Mrs. Templeton shouts over the noise. “Your music is all on your stands—and seniors, please leave it there when you join the rest of your class. You will also leave your instrument with your stand partner. Understand?”

I nod. It’s not like I want to be carrying my trumpet when I walk across the stage.

“I’ll be at school all next week so you can pick them up.”

More nodding.

“Ready?” she asks.

“Ready!” we shout.

And Ms. Templeton shows us out to the auditorium floor.

I look up at the seemingly endless rows of seats—almost all of them filled with bodies. I look around for my mom and Frank and the girls, but don’t see them.

After we play the national anthem, I join the seniors in the bank of chairs in the middle of the floor. The seats are alphabetical and a few empty ones are scattered here and there. I watch Bahti find her seat among the
R
s and calculate where mine might be.

Then I see it.
L
,
M
,
N
,
O
—Eden O’Shea. Nick O’Shea.
P
. Jamie Peterson.

I’m next to Redneck.

Too bad I’m not next to Eden. She’s on Nick’s other side, her head bent down.

I pull my Hogwarts robe close around my legs and sidestep down the row past Eden. I try to catch her eye, but she doesn’t look up. I touch her shoulder and wait for a response.

“Move it, Fagmag,” Nick mumbles.

Eden elbows him then glances up at me. There are tears in her eyes, streaks on her face.

I want to ask what’s wrong, but Nick glares at me. I’m the only band member still not seated, so I pick up my program from my chair and sit as quickly as possible, not
looking at the Redneck. As soon as I sit, I discover that I have a problem. Nick takes up a lot of space. I squeeze my arms to my sides, afraid of touching him, and press my legs together, as far away from him as I can get. I sit as still as possible and grip my rolled-up program so tight, it crushes in my hand.

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.”

UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE

HarperCollins Publishers

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

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.”