The Memory Book(41)

It’s funny that I’m thinking about Coop again, but I can’t get what he said the other day in the hallway out of my head: “Sometimes it’s just about timing.”

Speak of the devil, someone just peeked his head in here and yelled, “Samantha Agatha McCoy! You better get your butt out here!”

Yeah, that had to be Coop.

Here goes nothing.





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For a minute, everything about Nationals seemed to repeat itself in a terrifying display of one-upmanship. Nationals: The Sequel. Nationals 2: The Return of Dementia. Rows and rows of fluorescent gym lights replaced the stage lights, and the audience multiplied from a few disinterested high schoolers and their families into a country of faces, my classmates into huddled blue boulders, punctuated by the flashes of hundreds of cameras, all silent and waiting.

I was in the wings.

Mrs. Townsend walked across the stage, her heels echoing, and took her place behind the podium, a scholarly maroon ribbon now around her shoulders.

“Ladies, gentlemen, families, graduating class,” she said, and she paused for the screams and whoops of the seniors. “Your valedictorian, Samantha McCoy.”

I walked—no, skated—no, floated. To steady myself, I put my elbows on the podium, and clasped my hands.

To the blurs that were everyone’s important people, I called out, “Oliver Goldsmith once said, ‘The greatest glory in living lies not in never falling, but in rising every time we fall.’”

Then my brain turned off, but in a different way than it had done before. It turned off any other words or feelings or thoughts besides the ones coming out of my mouth. It was as if it knew that this was not the place to question, and told me, Okay, we’re here now. I’ll take it from here.

As I spoke, instead of thinking, I saw. I saw many random things, Future Sam. Stuart’s eyes under dark lashes across the table from me at the restaurant, looking at his milk shake and laughing, and Mrs. Townsend’s relaxed face as she typed at her computer, and the blue glow of the aquarium in the doctor’s office on Davy’s face as she watched the betta swim.

Ten minutes later, I was saying, “So when it all gets to be too much, it’s all right that you might ask yourself where you have fallen, why you have fallen, and to tell yourself that you will never fall the same way again. That’s how our education, both in life and at school, will serve us. But the work isn’t over. Use the knowledge that you will rise for the purpose of joy, and goddamnit—” The crowd laughed.

I hadn’t planned that part, but it just came out. I looked back at the teachers, some of them tittering, some of them shaking their heads.

“Goddamnit,” I continued, unable to contain a laugh myself. “Get back up.”

My classmates’ faces came into focus. “Thank you,” I said, and they cheered.

But the real reward was after. Like, right now. Well, not right now.

Right now I’m in the car. But right after the ceremony.

Okay, you know how sad and pissed I was about how unfair it is that thirty seconds could change four years of work? It turns out I spoke too soon, because it works the other way, too.

When we cheered for the last time as high schoolers together, and our caps floated down, it was like the senior class at Hanover had been this Jenga tower of blocks that immediately fell.

Lynn Nguyen turned to me and hugged me as if we’d known each other all our lives, and we both high-fived Will Madison, and people who I only knew by name and the backs of their heads came up to me, telling me “good job,” but that’s not the best part: The best part was that suddenly I remembered what was great about them, too, as if I’d been soaking it up all this time without realizing it, and I wanted to tell them everything, and know everything about them. But not, like, their deepest desires or how they felt about income inequality, but just how they were. What they were up to.

“Lynn, will you be sticking around the Upper Valley? I heard you were going for an internship at that magazine.”

“Elena, your solo was amazing. Where did you get those tennis shoes with the heels? I didn’t even know tennis shoes could have heels!”

“Will, are you going to play soccer at the University of Vermont next year?”

Future Sam, I was small-talking.

And pretty soon we were all making plans to hang out at Ross Nervig’s tonight (not that I was invited, specifically, but they didn’t exclude me—I mean, they said I should come, but anyway), and I actually want to go.

Not to mention, Maddie will be there. She had woven through a couple of rows of chairs, and when she got close enough to me to say something, she didn’t speak at all, she just hugged me, and I hugged her back, hard.

“I’m sorry,” I said into her exposed ear, the buzzed part of her hair dyed a deep maroon to match Hanover’s colors. Along with the rest of the members of the Queer Union, her robe was draped in cords of every color of the rainbow.

“Sorry for what?” she said back, and we let go.

“If I used you.”

She smiled a sad smile, “I’m sorry, too. I was going through some shit.”

“There was some truth to it, I think.”

“But now…” She gestured around to the buzz of happy people in the bright gym. “It’s actually no big deal now. We’re graduated. High school is no longer a big deal. Especially for you.”