From a Distance: Stories in Second Person

06. Promises

For Nicole, who is perfect.

***

Some facts don’t register until it’s too late.

Your reflexes were always slow, but it isn’t until the last rehearsal in May that you actually realize. It happens arbitrarily, when the band misses the note, again, and you happen to glance out the window. And then you happen to look back, eyes blinded by the blue, and look out over your graduating class.

And you realize something—

Two days.

Forty-eight hours.

Two nights. 

You start to panic. The sweat soaks through your collar, too warm, and your eyes roam crazily around the room, searching, searching. The light from the windows are concentrated in a spotlight over the stage, but no, no, that’s not it, that’s not what you’re looking for. You swivel around, some pulse within you speeding up, pounding, and even though the visual director is staring daggers that could slice through the shiny material of your gown, you’re turning full circle now. She’s got to be here—you noticed her earlier, you’re certain. Roll call. Her voice, the only voice you’ve ever heard that mirrors the rain. Quiet, soft, but powerfully rhythmic. The undulating sea.

And then you see her.

But the swell of people are slowly tugging you away from her, down into squashed chairs marked ‘RESERVED’ in angry letters. You’re seated between the Reeses and the Robbins but you’d rather be up front in the Bs. Two days. Forty-eight hours. Two days—God, God, you’re running out of time. Procrastination is the thief of time, Holden. But it’s not laziness—it’s fear. 

Slowly, the crowd inches forward. “Single file,” someone calls. “No talking. Walk. You’ll have plenty of time to chat later.”

But, no, no, that’s not true. No time. Two days. Not enough time at all.

An earthquake fault runs through the director’s reedy voice. “Sin-gle, fi-le. Pay attention! I’ve seen better kindergarten lines. For God’s sake, do you want the audience to think that the graduating class of 2017 is composed of 232 idiots?”

231 idiots, you think.

Even the valedictorian, your old lab partner, fidgets when all 232 of you (231 idiots, one angel) are forced to line up, stock still, shoulder to shoulder with the strangers who were only ever faces in the hallway. You can’t care less about them. 

(But you do care about her.)

You search for her and smile to yourself when your eyes rest on the back of her graduation-capped head. Stalker-ish tendencies, you chastise yourself, but is it evil to look for her whenever you can? An obsession, someone inside you whispers. No, that’s not right. Not obsession. Something tells you that the panic that broke out across your skin and the urge to know where she is aren’t dirty. Infatuation? 

Does it matter?

You close your eyes while your old lab partner launches into her practice speech. Where will she be in ten years? Med school, probably. Law, maybe. But not her. She knows where she’s going, what she’s going to do. Your graduating class is a wandering herd, stumbling around until they find the right path (or the wrong path, for that matter). But not her. Something about her feels different. Parts of it are sprinkled in the way she walks (quietly, gracefully, but not over-done, not exaggerated) and the way she tilts so far back when she laughs that she seems about to fall—you can tell that she follows her own path, and she alone knows where it’ll take her.