“Exactly.” Ruoxi takes a step closer, casting a dirty look over her shoulder as some lax bro jostles her from behind. “So, here’s a thing that happened,” she says, lowering her voice. “I was sitting next to Paul Haberman during the ceremony, right?”
“Can I ask you a question?” I blurt out, thinking back on my midspeech meltdown. Paul Haberman writes for the Westfield Courier and got a ton of followers on Snapchat by posting these weirdly artful photos of his cafeteria lunch every single day for a year; as far as the socioeconomic ladder of popularity goes, I’d call him solidly middle class. “Did he have any idea who I was? Like, when I got up there, I mean?”
“What?” Ruoxi looks at me oddly. “I don’t know. I didn’t ask him. Why wouldn’t he?”
“Forget it.” I shake my head. Best friends or not, I spent the last four years purposely cultivating total anonymity and this morning I started worrying that might have been a strategic misstep is not a conversation for this particular moment. “Sorry. Continue.”
“Okaaaay?” Ruoxi isn’t convinced, but she doesn’t push it. “Anyway, Paul asked what I was doing tonight and when I said probably hanging out with you, he said Bethany’s doing a thing at her house and we should come.”
I bark a laugh in the moment before I realize she isn’t kidding. “Wait,” I protest, “really?” Bethany has been dating Clayton on and off since sophomore year; the back of her house is directly across a narrow creek from the back of mine, which means I’ve had a front-row view of their various breakups and makeups—and, okay, makeouts—for just about that long. Not that I make a habit of spying on them or anything, but I have eyeballs, and a conveniently located bedroom window, and honestly I am in my pajamas by eleven p.m. most Saturday nights. Things happen. “You want to go?”
“Not with that tone in your voice I don’t,” Ruoxi says pointedly. Then she shrugs. “But yeah, kind of. I don’t know. It could be fun, right?”
“I mean, if you want to get your stomach pumped and catch HPV, yeah, it sounds like a blast.”
“Oh, come on, Rach.” Ruoxi frowns. “Do you honestly think it’s like that?”
“Yes,” I say flatly. I may not be a connoisseur of high school parties, but I’ve crept on enough people’s social media—and seen enough Friday Night Lights—to know exactly what we’d be getting into if we went over to Bethany’s tonight. I can stand awkwardly alone in a corner in the comfort of my own home, thank you. I don’t need to put on eyeliner and go do it in public. “I think it is exactly like that.”
“Well, fine,” Ruoxi says, apparently unbothered. “Maybe it really is like that. But I leave for Interlochen tomorrow, you know? And it’s going to be so intense and high pressure and…I don’t know. Don’t you ever get curious? About, like…” She trails off.
“Being a normal person?” I supply.
“Kind of!” Ruoxi laughs a little, though I don’t think either one of us actually finds it particularly funny. “School’s over, you know? We did it. And it’s only one night.”
She’s serious, I realize, feeling a tiny pang of guilt for how bitchily I dismissed the idea. After all, it’s not like I don’t understand her impulse. Wasn’t I literally just having a fairly major freak-out about this exact thing? “You’re right,” I tell her, mustering a smile. “You should totally go.”
“And you should come with me,” she says immediately. “You know who will be there, right?” She smirks. “That was a very slick and organic soccer team shout-out in your speech today, PS.”
“Thank you.” For one truly bonkers moment, I actually consider it: obsessing over my outfit and wasting an hour in front of a YouTube tutorial trying unsuccessfully to figure out how to make my hair look like Bethany’s, drinking enough beer to forget myself for a little while. But in the end, just like always, I shake my head. “I actually really can’t,” I lie. “I’m on the schedule at the restaurant tonight.”
“Oh, nice try.” Ruoxi purses her bright red lips. “You’re telling me your parents are honestly going to make you spend graduation night slinging pizzas?”
Of course they’re not. In fact, they’d probably fall over dead of happiness if I said I wanted to go to an actual party, to socialize with my actual peers. Hell, they’d probably offer to pay for a keg. “Yeeees?” I try.
Ruoxi rolls her eyes. “You have your entire life to work,” she reminds me, swatting me gently on the arm with her graduation cap. “This summer you should try to play. Just a little.”
I make a face. “Oh, okay, Ms. I’m-going-to-fancy-pants-camp-where-I’ll-be-practicing-piano-twenty-four-hours-a-day.”
“And wearing knee socks with shorts.” Ruoxi groans. “Don’t forget about the knee socks with shorts.” She’s smiling, though. I know she’s actually thrilled about her summer prospects, ugly uniform and all. “To be fair, I think it’s only like twenty-three hours and fifteen minutes of the day. There are breaks to eat wholesome food and use the bathroom.”
“Assuming you go quickly and don’t talk to anyone while you’re in there.”
“Exactly.” Ruoxi smiles. “Text me if you change your mind about tonight, okay?”
That…is definitely not going to happen, but it doesn’t feel like it’s worth it to say so. Over Ruoxi’s shoulder, I can see my family waiting by the auditorium doors, my parents with identical goofy smiles and my little brother Jackson playing a game on his phone. Nonna waves both arms, bracelets jangling like she’s trying to land a 747.
“I will,” I promise, and hug Ruoxi one more time. I edge through a row of red velvet seats toward the exit, swearing under my breath as my plasticky robe snags on a scarred wooden armrest. I’ve just pulled myself free when someone says my name.
“Hmm?” I look up and freeze where I am, like I’ve stepped in a giant wad of gum: Standing in the row of seats directly behind me is Clayton Carville himself, his robe unzipped to reveal navy blue khakis and a starchy white dress shirt. He’s undone the top button and loosened his tie so I can see the hollow of his throat beneath his Adam’s apple, where the skin is thin and vulnerable-looking. “Nice speech today,” he says.
Holy crap. “You too!” I say automatically, then wince. “I mean…um…Congratulations. On…graduating.” Real smooth, Rachel. Truly, brilliant work.
“Thanks,” Clayton says, ducking his head almost shyly, scrubbing a hand through his close-cropped hair. “Anyway. I’ll see you around, I guess?”