Midnight Sun(2)

Still, it’s graduation. A defining moment in most people’s lives. Not sure it symbolizes anything more than the same old same old in my case, though. Come the fall, I’ll still be sitting here in my room, taking classes online, endlessly avoiding the sun instead of heading off to some fabulous university. Sigh. Somehow I’m feeling nostalgic nonetheless.

Names are called, and kids stream onstage to shake the principal’s hand. They leave clutching a newly minted diploma. Morgan heads for the camera instead of the stairs after getting hers, then strikes a pose and mouths, Yeah, bitches! She’s quickly redirected back into line, but not before I laugh so hard I snort. I wasn’t sure she’d actually go through with it—but when have I ever known Morgan to back down from one of my dares?

I impatiently wait for them to get to the Rs. Wow, there are a lot of Ps in this class (minus this one, of course). And a Q? What are the odds? (Ooh, poor girl. I assume Quackenbush was not a high-school-friendly last name.) They’re finally calling Charlie’s name. I can’t wait to see how dignified and handsome he looks in his graduation gown, how melty fabulous those eyes are under his cap. Just as Charlie steps into the frame, my dad bursts into my room.

“Katie Price!” he booms.

He’s standing there with a goofy grin on his face and a rolled-up piece of paper in his hand. At this point, most girls would probably yell something like “UGH! Would you PLEASE get out of here.” But I know he’s only trying to make me happy and feel included, so I close my laptop and laugh instead. He has, of course, put in the extra effort; why not let him feel good about it? It’s not his fault I’m sitting on my bed right now instead of walking across that stage with the rest of my class.

Wait, I take that back. It kind of is his fault. Make that half his fault and half my mom’s. Both needed to contribute a mutated recessive gene to give me XP. Whatever. He didn’t mean to, obviously.

“What are you wearing?”

“The faculty and staff always wear a cap and gown, and so do the students,” he replies, holding out the hat part of the getup.

I take it from him and put it on. He hands me the hand-printed diploma that states I am now an official homeschooled high school graduate. There’s a little footnote that acknowledges I already have twenty-four college credits to my name. I smile up at my dad and shake his hand. Mostly, and especially at times like this, I like how well he knows me. He understands how much value I place on my academic accomplishments, since learning is one of the few things in life the sun can’t screw up for me. Dad understands I’d rather stand out for my brains than for inheriting a disease that affects only one in a million.

“So, as valedictorian, I assume you have a speech prepared?” he asks.

I adjust my cap and think about what I can say to commemorate this really-not-all-that-special day. “Well, I would definitely like to offer a great thanks to my headmaster,” I begin.

“Ah, well, you’re welcome,” my dad says, his eyes twinkling.

“And my Spanish teacher—”

“De nada.” He tips an imaginary hat.

“And my English teacher—”

My dad gives a little bow here. “It was my pleasure!”

“And state again for the record that my gym teacher had no idea what he was doing.”

Dad throws a hand over his heart. “Oh, that’s a low blow,” he exclaims. “I was going to give you this card, but now…”

He dangles it close to me, then snatches it back when I try to grab it. I shrug like I don’t care. He admits defeat and drops it gently in my lap, then plops himself down on the edge of my bed.

I reach into the oversize envelope and pull out a card. It is cartoony and corny, and features a smiling star wearing a graduation cap. Emblazoned across the front in cheeseball Comic Sans font it says: ConGRADuation, Superstar!

I roll my eyes. “This is the dorkiest card I’ve ever seen.”

“I know,” he says with a grave nod. “I went to three stores to find a card that lame. All right, are you ready for your present?”

“Present?” I wasn’t expecting a gift. “What present?”

My dad jumps up and hustles out into the hallway. He comes back a few seconds later carrying a weathered guitar case with a single red bow on it.

I already know that inside is the most gorgeous instrument I’ve ever seen, with a cool tortoise-colored sunburst body and inlaid mother-of-pearl frets. I pick it up gently and run my hand along its smooth surface until a tiny set of grooves stops me. I look down at the spot where my fingers have come to rest and see the initials TJP. My mom’s initials.

I look up at my dad, and before I can say thank you, he says, “You’ve outgrown that kids’ guitar,” gesturing to the one in the corner of my room. “But I know this one is old, so if you want a newer one—”

I shake my head to cut him off before he can even finish the crazy thought. Having Mom’s guitar is like having a small part of her with me always. The thought fills a tiny bit of the gaping hole in my heart she left behind, the one that will never fully heal. “I love it. So much.”

I stand up to hug him. He hugs me back, holding on tightly. We’re probably both about to burst into tears. I let go to try to regroup. Awkward silence ensues.

“All right, well… try to get some sleep,” he finally says, giving me a kiss on the head. “I’m proud of you, Peanut.”