“Next up is the perfect attendance award,” Principal Meadows says. “Of course, it’s not academic in nature, but we always think it’s fun to recognize the students who managed to make it all 180 days without a single tardy or unexcused absence. This year we’re pleased to honor Minh Pham, Savannah Bell, Pradeep Choudhary, Neil McNair, and Rowan Roth.”
That has to be a mistake.
“Rowan?” she calls again when I’m the only one who doesn’t stand up, so I scramble to retrieve the certificate with my punctual peers.
Back in our seats, I stab McNair’s leg with the edge of the paper certificate.
“I, uh, didn’t end up turning in your late slip,” he mutters. “Figured I’d let you have this one. Since it’s the last day and all.”
“So charitable of you,” I say, but I don’t actually mean the sarcasm. I’m confused, more than anything. McNair and I don’t give each other any freebies.
There’s no time to dwell on it because Principal Meadows is gesturing to us, preparing for the only honor that really matters. “It’s been stiff competition for valedictorian this year,” she says. “Never before have we had two students so equally matched in their grades, extracurriculars, and devotion to this school.”
I grip the certificate tighter. This is it. Our last battle.
“You’re already well acquainted with these two, but what’s most astounding about them is that they care not only about their own accomplishments, but so deeply about Westview High School as an institution. They’ve both done incredible work to ensure future Westview students will have the best experience here imaginable.
“Let me start with Neil. He’ll be going to NYU in the fall to study linguistics. He had a perfect SAT score and achieved all fives on the AP Spanish, French, and Latin exams. He was the creator and head of the student-faculty book club, and during his student council leadership, he established an activities fund to generate money to support club activities on campus, which I know a lot of students are going to benefit from for years to come!”
Polite applause. I join in half-heartedly. A flush and his freckles fight for control of McNair’s face.
“And then we have Rowan.” I swear, she smiles more when she says my name. “She’ll be an undecided freshman at Emerson College in Boston. Here at Westview, she’s been captain of our quiz bowl team, editor of the yearbook, taken a total of twelve AP classes, and served on student council all four years. As copresident, she campaigned for all-gender restrooms, and she was also responsible for helping the school become a little greener. We now compost and have a trash sorting system, thanks to Rowan.”
I wish she hadn’t concluded with that. My legacy: garbage.
Mentally, I consider my odds for the hundredth time over the past few months. AP classes were weighted with some complicated math, so I can’t accurately predict how his GPA compares to mine.
“Artoo,” McNair whispers as Principal Meadows goes on about prominent valedictorians in our school’s history and what they’ve accomplished, rounding out his earlier lesson.
I ignore him. Everyone can see us when we’re sitting up here. He should know by now not to talk.
Gently, he knocks my knee with his. “Artoo,” he repeats, and I’m certain he’s going to remind me of the latte stain. “I just wanted to say… it’s been a good four years. Competing with you has really kept me on my toes.”
His words are slow to sink in. When I steal a glance at him, his eyes are soft, not sharp, behind his glasses, and he’s doing something weird with his mouth. It takes me a split second to realize it’s a smile, a genuine one. I’ve grown so accustomed to his smirk that I figured it was his only expression.
I have no idea how to respond. I’m not even positive it’s a compliment. Should I thank him, or tell him “you’re welcome”? Or maybe just smile back?
At this point, I’ve been staring too long, so I direct my attention back to Principal Meadows. For four years, I’ve dreamed of this moment. Now it’ll be the one item I can cross off my list, the proof I did something right. I can practically see my name on the principal’s lips, hear it through the speakers.
“Without further ado, I’m thrilled to introduce your valedictorian: Neil McNair!”
10:08 a.m.
THE REST OF the assembly blurs by. In a symbolic gesture, McNair and I pass the microphone to next year’s student council president, Logan Perez, though I am so numb I drop it. Then it’s my turn to wince at the distorted sound.
Principal Meadows informs the underclassmen that while the seniors are done for the day, everyone else needs to be back in class by ten o’clock sharp. When she dismisses us, the auditorium turns thunderous, and I allow myself to get lost in the storm. I can’t find Kirby and Mara, but our group text fills with weeping emojis from Kirby and encouragement from Mara. The two of them are still there when I exit out of my messaging app. My phone background is a photo of the three of us last summer at Bumbershoot, a music festival we’ve gone to every year since middle school. In this photo, we’d pushed our way to the main stage; Kirby has her hands in the air, Mara’s hand is over her mouth, muffling a laugh, and I’m staring straight into the camera.
All of this is over—Seattle, my McWar, high school.
I don’t go here anymore, but I can’t bring myself to leave.
I roam the hall for a while. Seniors celebrate and teachers attempt to lasso underclassmen back into classrooms. Finally, I find a long bench in a deserted hallway near the art classrooms, crushing myself into a corner against the wall. I dig my journal out of my backpack. Kirby and Mara and I made plans to meet at our favorite Indian restaurant before Howl, but I need to collect myself first. Writing has always calmed me down.
I open my journal to the line I scribbled in the middle of the night, half hoping it’ll be some great inspiration that enables me to get through the rest of the day.
And of course, it’s not even legible.
The guide taunts me from the depths of my backpack. Perfect high school boyfriend, nope; prom, nope; valedictorian—and by extension, McNair’s destruction—nope. Every dream dashed, every plan foiled, some by time and some by circumstance and some just because I wasn’t good enough.
This was the person I wanted to be by the end of high school.
A person I am now so clearly not.
“Artoo?”
I glance up from my notebook, though of course it’s McNair, ruining my period of contemplative self-doubt, as though he hadn’t already ruined everything else. Jittery, I shove my journal into my backpack.
He stands on the opposite side of the hall, tie loosened and hair slightly mussed, maybe from so many congratulatory hugs. When he lifts one hand in a wave, I sit up straighter, hoping my eyes communicate that I would rather eat the pages of my yearbook one by one than talk to him. He heads toward me, not getting the message.
“When are they fashioning a bust of your head to appear in the entryway of the school?” I ask.
“Just got done with the measurements. I insisted on marble, not bronze. Looks classier.”
“That’s… good,” I say, slipping. Usually we keep pace with each other, but this past hour has thrown me. I’m off my game.