Hate List (36 page)

“Possible,” he said. “You had good reason to be angry.”

I jumped up again. “Don’t you see? I wasn’t faking it. Not entirely.” I turned and looked out the window. Mist was settling
down on the cars in the parking lot. “At least I wasn’t a poser,” I said, staring at the water beading on the hoods of the
cars. “At least I wasn’t that.”

“Yeah,” he said, “But can you do a killer back handspring?”

“No, still can’t do that.”

“Really? I can.”

“You cannot. You’re such a liar.”

“But I’m good at it,” he’d said. “And I’m proud of you, Val. I’m not lying about that.” And we’d moved over to the chess board,
like always. He beat me, like always.

“I know you don’t want me to get excited,” said Mrs. Tate. A doughnut sat, half-eaten, on the desk in front of her. Her coffee
cup steamed. It smelled good in Tate’s office first thing in the morning. It smelled like waking up was supposed to smell—rich and bright and comforting. “But I can’t help it, you know. This is exciting news.”

“It’s not news,” I said sleepily from the chair across from her desk. “I’m just saying I want those catalogs now. For later.”

She nodded enthusiastically. “Of course! Of course, for later! Absolutely. Who would blame you? Later’s a good thing. How
much later?”

I shrugged. “I don’t know. However long it takes. I need some time to think things over. But you’re right, college was always
part of my plans before and I shouldn’t just let go of who I am.” Now that I knew who I wasn’t, I was determined to remember
who I was. Who I would become.

Mrs. Tate opened a file cabinet and pulled out several thick catalogs. “I can’t tell you, Valerie, how proud I am to hear
that,” she said, beaming. “Here you go. Lots to choose from. You know you can call me if you ever have any questions or need
help deciding.”

She handed the books to me and I leaned over to take them. They felt heavy in my palms. I liked the feeling of it. For once
the future seemed heavier than the past.

“Alas, how shall this bloody
deed be answer’d?”

—
SHAKESPEARE

I can’t say the TV cameras
didn’t make me a little bit nervous. There were so many of them. We’d expected some—were banking on it, really—but this
many? I felt my throat go dry and scratchy when I tried to talk.

It was hot for May and the gown was sticking to my legs when the wind blew. Graduation was, as it had always been, held outside,
on the vast lawn on the school’s east side. Someday, administration had always warned, graduation would be moved to a big
auditorium to accommodate school expansion and unpredictable Midwest weather. But not today. Today we were following tradition.
At least we could do that, this troubled class of 2009. Tradition felt good to us.

I could see my family—Frankie sitting between Mom and Dad, off to the side, near the back. Briley sat on the other side
of Dad.

Mom had a grim set to her face and kept shooting hostile glances at the cameramen. I was suddenly struck with gratefulness
that she’d somehow managed to keep the cameras mostly away from me throughout all of this. The only reporter I’d even spoken
to was Angela Dash, when I’d made the trip to her office. It made me realize, with something akin to shock, that despite all
of the accusatory things said and the mistrust placed over the past year, Mom didn’t just work to protect the rest of the
world from me; she also protected me from the world. Beneath the struggle there would always be that basic love, that safe
place to come home to.

Dad looked fairly miserable, caught between Mom and Briley, but whenever our eyes would catch, a glint of relief would flash
across his face. And that relief was real, I could tell. In his eyes I saw hopefulness and knew, with some amount of certainty,
that despite what we might have said to one another we would both eventually forgive each other. Even if we could never forget.
All it would take was time.

Every so often, Briley would lean in and whisper something in his ear and he would smile. And I was glad that he was getting
a reason to smile. A part of me wished Mel had come with Mom. That way she could have a reason to smile, too.

Frankie looked bored, but I suspected this was a planted look. Next year would be Frankie’s turn to test the corridors of
Garvin High. His turn to scurry under the watchful eye of Mr. Angerson. His turn to sit in Mrs. Tate’s office, shocked and
comforted by the unruliness. I had a feeling Frankie would do all right. Despite everything, he’d be okay.

Dr. Hieler was there, too. Sitting in the row behind Mom and Dad. He had his arm curled around his wife. She looked nothing
like I’d expected her to look. Neither beautiful nor glamorous. She didn’t have a Madonna-like set of unending patience and
grace to her face, either. She checked her watch often and squinted against the sun and once barked something into her cell
phone. I liked my version of her better. I really wanted to believe families like the one I’d imagined for Dr. Hieler existed.
Especially for him.

Behind Dr. Hieler was a splash of purple. Bea, her hair ratted up high and adorned with so many purple baubles she jingled
when she moved, sat there. She wore a gauzy purple suit and clutched in front of her a purple handbag the size of a small
suitcase. She grinned up at me, her face serene and beautiful, like a painting.

Angerson stood and shushed the ceremony to a start. He gave a short speech about perseverance, but he seemed not to know exactly
what to say about this class. All of the old standbys just didn’t work here. What could he say about a future to those parents
who couldn’t let go of the past, who could do nothing but watch their hopes for their children’s futures fade away, their
children gone for more than a year now and never coming back? What could he say to the rest of us, so marred by what happened
within those hallowed halls of education we knew and once loved? There would be no sweet memories—those would be forever
eclipsed. There would be no reunions—those would be traumatic.

Soon he turned things over to Jessica, who rose confidently and climbed the steps to the podium. She spoke in an even, soothing
voice about college and academia—bland stuff that would elicit no tears. And then she hesitated, her head bent toward the
sheaf of papers in her hand.

She paused so long people began coughing and shuffling, a wave of awkwardness. It almost looked as if she were praying, and,
I don’t know, maybe she was. Angerson looked flustered and a couple of times wavered slightly toward her, as if he were going
to prod her along or usher her off stage. When she finally looked up again, her face had changed. Softened, somehow, from
the resolute Student Council president to the girl who patted my arm as Christy Bruter’s dad talked about forgiveness.

“Our class,” Jessica began, “will forever be defined by a date on the calendar. May second, 2008. Not a member of this class
will pass that date without remembering someone he or she loved, who is now gone. Remembering the sights and sounds of that
morning. Remembering pain and loss and grief and confusion. Remembering forgiveness. Just remembering. We, the class of 2009
Student Council, are gifting Garvin High a memorial to remember…” her voice cracked on the word and she paused, her head bent
again, to compose herself. When she looked up again, her nose was very red and her voice quavered. “… Remembering the victims
of that day. Those we will never forget.”

Meghan stood from her chair and walked to a mound in the grass near the stage. It was covered by a sheet. She grabbed the
edge of the sheet and pulled it off. A concrete bench, almost blinding in its white-grayness, sat above a hole in the ground
about the size of a television set. Next to the hole was a pile of fresh dirt and a metal box, the time capsule, its lid open.
From my chair I could see that the box was mostly full of various items—pompom strands, fuzzy dice, photographs.

Jessica nodded at me and I stood. My legs felt like rubber as I climbed the steps to the podium. Jessica moved to the side
as I came toward her, but lunged toward me and wrapped me in her arms as I stepped closer. I let her cling to me, feeling
the heat of her absorbing into my gown, making it stick to me even more. But I didn’t care.

I remembered her walking toward me in the hall the day I tried to quit the Student Council project. Her eyes had been wet,
desperate, her hand on her heart, her voice full and thick.
I lived and that made everything different
, she’d said. At the time I’d told her she was crazy, but now, clinging to her on the stage of our graduation, our project
complete, I knew what she meant, and knew that she was right. That day did change everything. We’d become friends not because
we’d wanted to, but because somehow we’d had to. And call me crazy, but it almost felt like we’d become friends because we
were
supposed
to.

Distantly, I could feel, rather than see, camera flashes popping. I could hear the murmur of reporters in the background.
When Jessica and I parted I stepped up to the podium and cleared my throat.

I saw all my old friends: Stacey, Duce, David, and Mason. I saw Josh and Meghan and even Troy, sitting in the back with Meghan’s
parents. I saw everyone, a shifting sea of discomfort and sadness, each person carrying his own pain, each telling her own
stories, no story more or less tragic or triumphant than any other. In a way, Nick had been right: We all got to be winners
sometimes. But what he didn’t understand was that we all had to be losers, too. Because you can’t have one without the other.

Mrs. Tate gnawed at a fingernail as she watched me. Mom sat with her eyes closed. She looked like she wasn’t breathing. It
occurred to me, only briefly, that maybe I should go with my first instinct after all and use this time to apologize. Formally.
To the world. Maybe, more than what I was about to give them, an apology was what I owed them.

But I felt Jessica’s hand slip into mine, her shoulder rub up against mine, and at the same time I saw Angela Dash dip her
head down to a notebook and begin writing. I glanced at my speech.

“At Garvin High we were dealt a hard dose of reality this year. People hate. That’s our reality. People hate and are hated
and carry grudges and want punishments.” I glanced at Mr. Angerson, who seemed to be perched on the edge of his chair, ready
to jump up and stop me should I go too far. I felt myself shudder, falter a little. Jessica’s hand tightened around mine just
slightly. I went on. “The news tells us that hate is no longer our reality.”

Angela Dash shifted back against her chair. Her arms were crossed, her reporter’s notebook and pen forgotten. She glared at
me with pursed, ugly lips. I blinked, swallowed, willed myself to go on.

“I don’t know if it’s possible to take hate away from people. Not even people like us, who’ve seen firsthand what hate can
do. We’re all hurting. We’re all going to be hurting for a long time. And we, probably more than anyone else out there, will
be searching for a new reality every day. A better one.” I looked back, past my parents, toward Dr. Hieler. His arms were
crossed over his chest, his forefinger rubbing his bottom lip. He nodded at me ever so slightly, almost not a nod at all.

I shuffled a half step to the side. Jessica leaned in to the microphone, still grasping my hand.

“We do know that it’s possible to change reality,” she said. “It’s hard, and most people won’t bother to try, but it’s possible.
You can change a reality of hate by opening up to a friend. By saving an enemy.” Jessica looked at me. She smiled. I smiled
back, sadly. I wondered if we would go on to be friends after this. If we would even see one another again after today.

“But in order to change reality you have to be willing to listen and to learn. And to hear. To actually hear.

“As president of the senior class of 2009, I am asking all of you to remember the victims of the May second shooting and hear
the reality of who those people were.”

I cleared my throat.

“Many of the people who died, did so because the shooter…” I trailed off. I couldn’t even look up at Dr. Hieler, who I knew
would be wiping his eyes and nodding encouragement to me. “… my boyfriend, Nick Levil, and I thought they were bad people.
We only saw what we wanted to see and we…” I swiped at one eye. Jessica let go of my hand and began instead rubbing my back.
“Um… we didn’t… Nick and I didn’t… we didn’t know… the reality of who these people were.”

Jessica leaned forward again.

“Abby Dempsey,” she said, “was an avid horseback rider. She had her own horse named Nietzsche, and she rode Nietzsche every
Saturday morning. She was scheduled to perform next summer in the Knofton Junior Rodeo. She was so excited about it. She was
also my best friend,” she added huskily. “We’ve put a lock of Nietzsche’s mane into the time capsule on Abby’s behalf.”

She stepped back and I stepped forward again. My fingers were shaking around the note cards I was holding and I still couldn’t
look up. But it was getting easier as I remembered the faces of all the parents Jessica and I had talked to. All the parents
I had finally personally apologized to. All the parents who accepted my apology—some who forgave me. Some who didn’t. Some
who said I never owed them one. We’d cried together and they’d been thrilled to share stories of their children with us. Most
of them were out in the audience right now, I suspected.