Breakable
Page 83
As valedictorian, Pearl gave the expected speech about opportunities and choices and making the world a better place – she actually used that phrase: make the world a better place. As one of the ‘top ten per cent’ of our class – four people – she’d earned automatic admittance into the state university of her choice, while I’d scraped up a probationary admittance to the same campus she chose. I liked Pearl more than I liked the majority of people sitting around me, and I had no doubt that she knew how to work hard. I just hoped she wasn’t betting on improving the world.
On the second page of the commencement programme, my name was listed at the bottom of the first column. My last name was the alphabetical midpoint of my class – student number twenty-two of forty-three. The placement was fitting. As far as almost everyone here was concerned, I was average. Mediocre. Not exceptional, but not a total fail, though some – like Principal Ingram, believed that remained to be seen.
When my name was called, I crossed the worn oak floor in front of the band, staring over my principal’s shoulder at the giant fish – our renowned mascot – depicted in painstaking detail on the far wall. In mascot form, its expression was supposed to look aggressive, intent on winning, but it seriously just looked like a stupid, pissed-off fish.
I’d been determined to cross the stage staring down the bitch who’d made my life hell for almost four years. To show her she hadn’t broken me, whether or not that was true.
Then, above the obligatory applause and crowd noise, I heard Cole’s screamo roar of, ‘LANDOOON,’ Carlie’s chirpy squeal and Caleb’s piercing whistle.
‘He’s f**king practised that all week, dude,’ Cole told me this morning when Caleb demonstrated his new earsplitting skill less than five minutes after the Hellers arrived. ‘The only reason Mom hasn’t gagged him is ’cause he’s a little kid. If it was me, I’d be toast.’
My principal’s reign over me was done. After this moment, she couldn’t touch me.
I reached for the rolled diploma with one hand and shook her cold hand with the other, as we’d been instructed to do. I stared into the camera, ignoring the photographer’s appeal to smile. One blinding flash later, I dropped her hand, walking away without ever making eye contact.
She no longer mattered.
As I dropped back into the metal folding seat between Brittney Loper and PK Miller, I took one furtive glance at my classmates. Out of the forty-three of us, thirty-one would be leaving for college in three months. Some would try out for baseball or track or cheerleading and find they weren’t even good enough for some shit college’s second string. Some imagined themselves in student government on campuses where they’d arrive as one of thousands of nobodies. They’d be one of hundreds of freshmen during rush week, desperate for a defined peer group.
Some would figure it out and learn to survive. Some would fail out, and a few would return to this town with their tails between their legs.
I sure as hell wouldn’t be one of those.
Twelve of my fellow graduates planned to remain here, taking or keeping jobs in fishing or retail or tourism or drugs. They would get married and pregnant – preferably in that order, but not necessarily.
Their spawn would attend the schools that turned them out into adulthood after thirteen years with nothing to show for it but a near-worthless diploma. Ten years from now, maybe five, some of them would ask themselves what the f**k they went to school for – why they laboured through algebra, gym, literature and band. They’d want an answer, but there wasn’t one.
‘Maxfield.’ Boyce Wynn tossed me a can from the cooler, wet from melting ice. His was the last name called this afternoon, the last diploma Ingram resentfully presented. He’d be staying here, pretending this gulf was the ocean, this town his kingdom. Working for his dad at the garage, partying on the beach or driving into the city for the occasional change of pace … Not much would change for Boyce.
‘Hey, Wynn.’
He clasped my hand and we leaned forward until our shoulders bumped – a ritual hello and a far cry from the day we’d beat the unholy shit out of each other – and then become friends. My cheek still bore a scar from the solid thud of his fist, and he carried its twin at the corner of his eye from mine.
‘We’re out, dude.’ He raised his can skywards, as if he was a running back with a pigskin, saluting God for a miracle touchdown. He lowered it and took a long swallow. ‘We’re free. Fuck that school. Fuck Ingram. Fuck that fish.’
Laughter rose from a few bystanders – younger guys with another year or two to go. One of them repeated, ‘Fuck that fish,’ and snickered. I tried not to imagine the possible graffiti.
Boyce glanced down the beach to the outer edge of the circle. ‘And f**k bitches, man,’ he added, more quietly. I knew the direction his gaze was aimed, and on who. He was one of a few people who knew the real story of Landon Maxfield and Melody Dover.
Time can be a selective dick about how fast it heals. Two years ago, I felt the sting of humiliation whenever I heard her name or looked at her. I hadn’t forgiven, and I damn sure hadn’t forgotten, but by the time Clark Richards dumped her for good – the night before he left town for college nine months ago – I no longer gave a shit.
‘Shit.’ Boyce echoed my last thought and cussed the sand beneath our feet, just loud enough for me to hear. ‘Pearl and Melody, headin’ this way.’ Pearl Frank was Boyce’s own personal demon, still.
I nodded once, thankful for the heads-up.
‘Hey, Landon.’ Melody’s spun-sugar drawl and the fingernail drawn down my bare arm made me flinch. How could those two things have ever felt like air in my lungs?
Glancing to the side, I downed half the beer before answering. ‘Miss Dover.’
She laughed and laid a small, soft hand on my forearm, as if my words were coy instead of contemptuous, as if she was encouraging me to continue. I wondered if she’d forgotten what continuing with me meant. I stared down into her pale green eyes, and she returned my gaze through thick lashes, sliding her hand away slowly.
Hugging herself even though it was warm out, her position invited closer inspection. She wore a black string bikini with a see-through cover-up posing as a sundress. Her blonde hair spilled with calculated imperfection from the salon-created twist she’d worn at graduation. The gold hoops in her ears and gold charm bracelet on her wrist flashed tiny diamond messages of how far out of my league she was.
On the second page of the commencement programme, my name was listed at the bottom of the first column. My last name was the alphabetical midpoint of my class – student number twenty-two of forty-three. The placement was fitting. As far as almost everyone here was concerned, I was average. Mediocre. Not exceptional, but not a total fail, though some – like Principal Ingram, believed that remained to be seen.
When my name was called, I crossed the worn oak floor in front of the band, staring over my principal’s shoulder at the giant fish – our renowned mascot – depicted in painstaking detail on the far wall. In mascot form, its expression was supposed to look aggressive, intent on winning, but it seriously just looked like a stupid, pissed-off fish.
I’d been determined to cross the stage staring down the bitch who’d made my life hell for almost four years. To show her she hadn’t broken me, whether or not that was true.
Then, above the obligatory applause and crowd noise, I heard Cole’s screamo roar of, ‘LANDOOON,’ Carlie’s chirpy squeal and Caleb’s piercing whistle.
‘He’s f**king practised that all week, dude,’ Cole told me this morning when Caleb demonstrated his new earsplitting skill less than five minutes after the Hellers arrived. ‘The only reason Mom hasn’t gagged him is ’cause he’s a little kid. If it was me, I’d be toast.’
My principal’s reign over me was done. After this moment, she couldn’t touch me.
I reached for the rolled diploma with one hand and shook her cold hand with the other, as we’d been instructed to do. I stared into the camera, ignoring the photographer’s appeal to smile. One blinding flash later, I dropped her hand, walking away without ever making eye contact.
She no longer mattered.
As I dropped back into the metal folding seat between Brittney Loper and PK Miller, I took one furtive glance at my classmates. Out of the forty-three of us, thirty-one would be leaving for college in three months. Some would try out for baseball or track or cheerleading and find they weren’t even good enough for some shit college’s second string. Some imagined themselves in student government on campuses where they’d arrive as one of thousands of nobodies. They’d be one of hundreds of freshmen during rush week, desperate for a defined peer group.
Some would figure it out and learn to survive. Some would fail out, and a few would return to this town with their tails between their legs.
I sure as hell wouldn’t be one of those.
Twelve of my fellow graduates planned to remain here, taking or keeping jobs in fishing or retail or tourism or drugs. They would get married and pregnant – preferably in that order, but not necessarily.
Their spawn would attend the schools that turned them out into adulthood after thirteen years with nothing to show for it but a near-worthless diploma. Ten years from now, maybe five, some of them would ask themselves what the f**k they went to school for – why they laboured through algebra, gym, literature and band. They’d want an answer, but there wasn’t one.
‘Maxfield.’ Boyce Wynn tossed me a can from the cooler, wet from melting ice. His was the last name called this afternoon, the last diploma Ingram resentfully presented. He’d be staying here, pretending this gulf was the ocean, this town his kingdom. Working for his dad at the garage, partying on the beach or driving into the city for the occasional change of pace … Not much would change for Boyce.
‘Hey, Wynn.’
He clasped my hand and we leaned forward until our shoulders bumped – a ritual hello and a far cry from the day we’d beat the unholy shit out of each other – and then become friends. My cheek still bore a scar from the solid thud of his fist, and he carried its twin at the corner of his eye from mine.
‘We’re out, dude.’ He raised his can skywards, as if he was a running back with a pigskin, saluting God for a miracle touchdown. He lowered it and took a long swallow. ‘We’re free. Fuck that school. Fuck Ingram. Fuck that fish.’
Laughter rose from a few bystanders – younger guys with another year or two to go. One of them repeated, ‘Fuck that fish,’ and snickered. I tried not to imagine the possible graffiti.
Boyce glanced down the beach to the outer edge of the circle. ‘And f**k bitches, man,’ he added, more quietly. I knew the direction his gaze was aimed, and on who. He was one of a few people who knew the real story of Landon Maxfield and Melody Dover.
Time can be a selective dick about how fast it heals. Two years ago, I felt the sting of humiliation whenever I heard her name or looked at her. I hadn’t forgiven, and I damn sure hadn’t forgotten, but by the time Clark Richards dumped her for good – the night before he left town for college nine months ago – I no longer gave a shit.
‘Shit.’ Boyce echoed my last thought and cussed the sand beneath our feet, just loud enough for me to hear. ‘Pearl and Melody, headin’ this way.’ Pearl Frank was Boyce’s own personal demon, still.
I nodded once, thankful for the heads-up.
‘Hey, Landon.’ Melody’s spun-sugar drawl and the fingernail drawn down my bare arm made me flinch. How could those two things have ever felt like air in my lungs?
Glancing to the side, I downed half the beer before answering. ‘Miss Dover.’
She laughed and laid a small, soft hand on my forearm, as if my words were coy instead of contemptuous, as if she was encouraging me to continue. I wondered if she’d forgotten what continuing with me meant. I stared down into her pale green eyes, and she returned my gaze through thick lashes, sliding her hand away slowly.
Hugging herself even though it was warm out, her position invited closer inspection. She wore a black string bikini with a see-through cover-up posing as a sundress. Her blonde hair spilled with calculated imperfection from the salon-created twist she’d worn at graduation. The gold hoops in her ears and gold charm bracelet on her wrist flashed tiny diamond messages of how far out of my league she was.
