Made You Up(102)

“Before we end the ceremony, there are a few more parting words. The first are from your salutatorian, Tucker Beaumont.” A round of lukewarm applause ran through the theater. Tucker, face red, moved to stand at the podium.

I felt a rush of pride. Mr. Soggy Potato Salad, who’d decided to break into McCoy’s house, jumped into the brawl at Finnegan’s, and helped bring Miles home. Who’d forgiven me for everything I’d done, and then some. I didn’t know if I deserved a friend like him, but I was glad I had him.

He spent a moment adjusting the microphone and smoothing his twisted speech, then he cleared his throat and looked around at everyone.

“I guess I’ll start with a bit of a cliché,” he said. “We made it!” The auditorium erupted with shouts of excitement and victory.

Tucker smiled. “Okay, now that that’s out of the way—I think we can all safely say that this was the craziest year of school any of us has ever experienced.” He glanced back at Miles, who only quirked an eyebrow. “Even if you weren’t there every moment, you heard about it. You were still a part of it. You survived it. And really, if you can survive pythons coming out of the woodwork, you can survive almost anything.”

Laughter. Tucker repositioned his glasses and took a deep breath.

“People say teenagers think they’re immortal, and I agree with that. But I think there’s a difference between thinking you’re immortal and knowing you can survive. Thinking you’re immortal leads to arrogance, thinking you deserve the best. Surviving means having the worst thrown at you and being able to continue on despite that. It means striving for what you want most, even when it seems out of your reach, even when everything is working against you.

“And then, after you’ve survived, you get over it. And you live.”

Tucker took another deep breath and leaned against the podium, looking around at everyone. He smiled.

“We’re survivors. So now let’s live.”

The auditorium erupted again and Tucker could barely hide his grin as he walked back to his seat, twirling his silver salutatorian tassels. I couldn’t help but smile, too. Survivors. What better word for people who made it out of this place alive?

Mr. Gunthrie waited for the applause and cheering to die down, and then said, “Ladies and gentlemen, your valedictorian, Miles Richter.”

The sudden silence in the auditorium was even more pronounced because of the deafening noise that had preceded it. No one clapped. I couldn’t tell if it was because they were scared, angry, or surprised.

Miles stood and looked around much like Tucker had, but he didn’t fidget while he did it. His fingers rapped against the wooden top of the podium. Tap, tap, tap, tap. Mr. Gunthrie cleared his throat loudly, but Miles was silent.

Then Miles looked toward where I stood in the doorway. He smiled.

“I know that most of you don’t want to hear anything I have to say,” he began. “And I know the rest of you really do. And I also know that these two things mean that all of you are listening attentively. That’s exactly what I want.

“James Baldwin said, ‘The most dangerous creation of any society is the man who has nothing to lose.’” Miles sighed and swept the graduation cap off his head. He glared at it for a moment, then threw it to the side of the stage. Behind him, Mr. Gunthrie’s face turned a mottled hue of purple.

“I always thought those things looked ridiculous,” Miles grumbled into the microphone. A few hesitant chuckles came from the crowd, like they weren’t sure if he was joking or not. Then he said, “For a long time, I had nothing to lose. I was that dangerous creation. I know most of you probably think I’m a jerk”—he glanced at me again—“and you’re right, I am. Not the kind that vandalizes cars and kills pets, but I am an arrogant, pretentious jerk. I do think I’m better than all of you, because I’m smarter. I’m smarter and I’m more determined to do what I set out to do.”

I wasn’t sure what guidelines Miles had been given for his speech, but if the shade of Mr. Gunthrie’s face was anything to go by, he had wildly ignored them.

“I used to think all of that, anyway,” he continued. “I still do, kind of. I’m learning to . . . not to change, because in all honesty I like the way I am. Not what I do, but who I am. No, I’m learning to . . . keep it bottled up? Displace it? Control my frustration? Whatever it is, it’s working. I don’t feel like that dangerous creation anymore. I no longer have any motivation to do the things I did here.