The construction leader goes over our day’s schedule, plus safety information. Hannah and I both scribble down notes about protocol, hazards, and expectations. I left this volunteer opportunity for last because it really seemed as if you should build up to it—no pun intended. Still, I’m practically a high school graduate now, but I doubt that makes me ready to construct a home.
I decide to choose the task that’ll have the fewest implications for the structural integrity of the house and start carrying materials over from the supply trailer to the lot. As I haul over bags of concrete, I think about my own home and the empty lot it must have been once. Obviously, that was long before Mom and Dad bought it—it was built in 1923—but I have to imagine that everyone goes in with relatively the same hopes and dreams.
“McCall, I’m over there actually hammering boards together,” Hannah says, walking alongside me. “You should join me.”
“I’m good here,” I say, and I realize I am. There’s a sense of your own strength in watching this huge stack of items disappear in one place and then reappear in another, thanks in part to your own arms, back, legs. It doesn’t necessarily feel like building a house, but it feels like something.
We break for lunch, and I sit next to Hannah while we eat sub sandwiches.
“I’ve never seen you eat carbs before,” I tell her, and she laughs.
“I never turn down a free sandwich,” she says. “Did you have fun last night?”
The party jolts back into my head, and I see Kat perched on the back of that couch, gesturing with her stupid cup.
“Not really,” I say. “I ran into Logan this morning, though.”
“Oh, did you?” she asks, and I register that I actually said it aloud. Whoops.
I shrug and try to figure out what to say, because I hadn’t really meant to bring him up. It’s easier not bringing anything up. I’m still convinced that if one detail comes out, it all might. And Hannah seems to like me and want to be my friend. If I unloaded about my entire year, who knows.
“Yeah, I . . .” I let myself trail off.
“Mmmhmmm.”
I laugh even though I absolutely didn’t want to. “Stop.”
“Can I ask?” Her tone is delicate. “What happened with you guys? You were always sort of my, you know.” Hannah shrugs. “My hashtag goals.”
I take a few bites of my sandwich. “I don’t know. It started to feel silly to me, the more I thought about it.”
I don’t mention that had been over the course of one afternoon.
“You and Logan?”
I shrug. “Forever starting now. I’m not sure anyone can plan as much as I’d thought you could. I feel ridiculous now. Look at UCLA.”
Hannah makes a big show of looking in the direction of Westwood.
“Stop.” I do my best to hold back a smile. “Nothing this year went as I thought it would. I’m not sure why I thought I could make it work forever with a boy I met when I was a freshman.”
She nods. “That makes sense to me.”
I find that I’m waiting for her to jump in with a story of her own, but she doesn’t. The moment gets to breathe.
After lunch, Hannah convinces me to join the construction crew, even though I still find it mind-boggling that regular people like us are just allowed to do this. Hammering nails into wood feels powerful, though, and unlike my previous volunteer assignments, I think I’m eager to do this again, and keep doing it. Using materials to help someone have a home is so far perhaps the biggest thing I’ve ever done. Originally, it didn’t feel like work if I also enjoyed it, but as I watch the skeleton of a house actually being formed, I wonder how someone couldn’t enjoy this. Doing good doesn’t have to feel . . . well, bad. Is it silly that I’m just understanding that now?
The day passes more quickly than I expect, and Hannah and I discuss how long we should allot for driving back to Burbank, getting ready, and arriving at graduation. I see a team walk by us toward the stack of insulation and notice that one guy isn’t wearing a mask. This morning the leader warned us not to work with insulation without one, and I almost say something. But I’m brand-new to this, and I’m sure there’s a good reason he’s doing what he’s doing. And I’m not the person who’ll shout across a crowd of people. I doubt there’s anything I’d notice that’s worth calling out.
I focus back on hammering nails, but before too long, I hear someone yell from across the yard. There’s a flurry of commotion as people begin clustering around the area. The crew leaders make their way over with authority, which sends a chill through me. There’s something about a forced calm demeanor that strikes so much more fear in me than loud chaos. I exchange glances with the crew members around me, as if someone’s expression will set me at ease. None do, though.
As the commotion continues, most of us end up putting down our tools and running over to see what’s going on. The same guy I saw without a mask earlier is now sitting on the lawn taking deep gulping breaths, and I move in closer without even thinking about it.
“He’s fine,” the construction leader tells me, as first aid swoops in.
“I’m so sorry,” I find myself saying. “I saw him walk by without a mask, but . . . I thought it must be OK if no one else said anything.”
“James,” she says, looking at my nametag, “communication is key.”
Sometimes a moment feels bigger than what it actually is.
As people stumble into seats on graduation night, I feel like a jerk for having assumed our rehearsal yesterday was unnecessary. Apparently walking in a procession and taking an orderly seat is way out of the ability levels of a lot of graduating Magnolia Park seniors.
I glance up at Kat as the ceremony begins. Her green eyes are fixed on the stage, so it feels like the wrong time to make fun of our less coordinated classmates. It might be the wrong time even if she wasn’t paying such rapt attention. I have no idea what Kat’s thinking.
I’m called up for my diploma before she is, because it’s alphabetical, and I feel silly at how relieved I am that she cheers so loudly at the sound of my name. I’m still crossing the stage and moving my tassel over when the principal calls Quinn Morgan, and I force myself not to measure Kat’s cheer in comparison to hers for me. And I cheer my heart out when Kat’s name is called, because, no matter what, we did it. We got through four years of high school, and we’re all off to see what the rest of the world holds.
Mom and Dad want to take a million photos of me afterward, and I have my second fear of pettiness when I realize how relieved I am that Todd isn’t here. I know being a high school graduate isn’t actually being an adult, but I’d love to magically feel more mature now that my tassel is on the left side.
“Where’s Kat?” Mom asks, as though now she suddenly gives a shit about Kat. “We can’t have photos without her.”
I shrug. “Attending to her legions of fans. And you don’t even like her, so does it matter?”
Mom raises an eyebrow. “Everything all right, James? It’s strange not seeing you two joined at the hip.”
As if on cue, Kat appears with her dad and Diane. I’m glad that Mom can’t keep talking about Kat’s absence while Kat’s there, but I’m also relieved there are already a million photos on my parents’ phones of me alone. It feels possible I’ll never want to look at myself standing arm in arm with Kat again.