“Okay?”
“Okay. I’ll go.”
She smiled like I’d handed her the moon. “Good girl.”
The night before graduation, I ironed my gown alone in the living room. The iron hissed. The TV played some game show neither of us was watching.
I practiced smiling in the hallway mirror, but it looked wrong. My smile seemed more like a mask that didn’t fit.
“You’ll do great tomorrow,” Nana called from her chair.
“Yeah.”
“I mean it.”
“I know you do.”
I zipped the gown halfway and stared at the girl in the glass.
One last day. Then I disappear into the rest of my life.
The next day, the auditorium lights felt too bright. I sat in row G with the gown sticking to my back, listening to families three rows over whisper-cheering before the ceremony even started.
A girl beside me turned and smiled.
“Is your family here? I think I saw a huge group near the front holding a banner with someone’s name.”
“No,” I said. “It’s just me today.”
“Oh.” Her smile flickered. “Well… good luck up there.”
“Thanks. You too.”
She turned back to wave at her parents. I pressed my palms flat against my thighs and tried to breathe.
The principal began calling names. One by one, my classmates stood, walked the stage, and the room exploded.
“THAT’S MY BABY!”
“WE LOVE YOU, JASON!”
“GO, MIA, GO!”
I closed my eyes and whispered, “Mom. Dad. I’m doing it. I’m here.”
Then I heard my name being called.
“Emily.”
My legs moved before my brain did. The stage felt longer than I remembered from rehearsal.
I shook the principal’s hand, took the diploma, turned toward the crowd, and waited for the polite, three-second applause reserved for the girl nobody knew.
It came, but it was light and distant. Exactly the way kind strangers would clap for a girl they didn’t know.
I forced a smile.
