Graduation Day.
It’s a hip-hop song. A rite of passage.
Another occasion celebrated with food.
Of course there’s cake. Usually with a cheap, plastic version of a mortarboard cap plopped in a pile of buttercream icing. Somehow every party involves cake and me saying, “Just a tiny, tiny slice, okay?” Somehow, I always end up with a ten-thousand-calorie serving that weighs down the thin paper plate it’s being served on.
This is yet another one of the ironies of being fat.
People assume you love food. And they really want to help you out with that.
In the windup to graduation, I’m actually feeling good. I’m down seventy-five pounds and I celebrate by treating myself to a Banana Republic T-shirt.
My blog is doing better than I thought it would. Carson helped me set it up so that promos of my articles get posted to Twitter and Instagram. He told me I have to go on a couple times a day and tag people with a lot of followers. I’m following his instructions and it’s working. So far this month, Roundish has gotten twenty-five hundred page views.
Tommy and I are okay. We hang out. We avoid any mention of Kennes. It’s like his life has two separate realities. The one where he’s a Monopoly-loving astro-doofus, and the other one where he’s a reanimated Dream Date Doll.
Kennes is now one of the most popular girls in school.
Yeah.
Sometimes I think high school needs a new vocabulary. One that explains how a girl nobody can stand to be around can be defined as popular. But she is. The kids who probably wouldn’t bother tossing her a life preserver if she fell off the back of a boat flock to her parties and jockey for a seat next to her at lunch.
She’s also the head of the student committee managing the graduation ceremony.
Kennes Butterfield is the head of the committee handing out and collecting the cap-and-gown order forms.
She personally delivers the forms to the vendor.
The other fact that’s important is that Grandma is running seriously low on cash. She doesn’t get her Social Security check until the twenty-fifth of the month, hasn’t had much sewing work since she finished all of the prom dresses, and I suspect that whatever extra money she’s got is going toward my graduation party.
At Donutville, Steve decides to “accidentally drop” a large bag of decaf coffee so Grandma doesn’t go bonkers without her usual daily pot. I can tell Mr. Kraken doesn’t buy it, but Steve is the best baker he’s got and the only one willing to work holidays. Kraken doesn’t say anything as I lug the big bag to my car.
The graduation ceremony is on Saturday. If it doesn’t rain, it’ll be held on the football field. It seems weird to worry about the weather in Phoenix because it’s sunny here, like, 364 days of the year. But my iPhone says 70 percent chance of scattered showers for Saturday.
On Friday, I head to the office where the caps and gowns we’ve preordered are being distributed. And this happens.
Me: “This gown is the wrong size.”
Cheerleader and Friend of Kennes: (fiddles with gown order form) “It’s what you ordered.”
Cheerbot2000: “The gown matches the form.”
Me: (checks form, finds it’s not in my handwriting) “That’s not mine. Why would I order a medium?”
Cheerbot2000: (grins) “Maybe you got a little too optimistic about your diet?”
Me: (growls, bares teeth) “I need a gown that fits.”
Cheerbot2000: (huffs, rolls eyes three times) “We have extras in each size. But you’ll have to pay for it. That’ll be $54.20.”
Me: (clenches teeth) “Fine. Refund me for the one that’s too small.”
(Several more minutes of arguing)
Enter Mrs. Vargas.
I like Mrs. Vargas. But still she says: “I’m really sorry, Cookie. You have to keep the robe you ordered. Sales are final to the school. If you need another one, you have to pay the additional fee.”
(Several more minutes of smug looks from Cheerbot2000)
I should have seen it coming.
I should have realized Kennes wouldn’t let me walk away from that fucked-up scene outside SoScottsdale unscathed. That she wouldn’t let me keep my portion of the proceeds from the war between us.
It doesn’t seem to matter to anyone that the handwriting on the yellow carbon copy doesn’t match mine or that most of the info, like phone number and address, is missing. I own that medium gown. No amount of debating will change things.
I don’t have $54.20 for another set and I don’t have anywhere I can go to get it. I won’t ask Tommy. Somehow, asking him for money feels like it would turn me into Kennes. I spend the next twenty minutes roaming the hot Mountain Vista campus looking for her. But the lawns and hallways are empty. The year is coming to a close and people are moving on.
At home, I unwrap the gown and measure it. I can fit my arms into the sleeves, but when I do they look like sausages hanging off my body. I might be able to cut the sleeves on the underside and add a couple inches of elastic.
The gown itself is the bigger problem. It needs at least eight inches of additional fabric to be able to zip up. Even more than that to drape properly.
I’m screwed.
There’s not too much I could do to fix the gown even if I wanted to. I could maybe rip out the side seams and add fabric. But what kind would I add? Where would I get it? And there’s no telling that I’d be able to get the thing back together again. The $50 gown is made of disgustingly cheap acetate. Designed for single use. Not for tailoring.
Kennes Butterfield screwed me.
I take to the internet and Google my problem. It turns out I’m not alone, which is sort of reassuring. But no one has successfully resolved the problem either. The best advice is to wear something of a similar color and leave the robe open in the front.
Great. I’ll just start searching for everything shiny and royal blue that I own.
I have to do something, so I cut the sleeves and add strips of elastic every few inches. It takes hours. The acetate bunches and gets stuck under the presser foot a billion times. But I do it. The sleeves fit, and as long as I don’t lift my arms over my head like the girls in the deodorant commercials, no one will ever know.
That leaves the gown.
I have a plan, and I stay up all night.
Around two in the morning light rain drizzles. It stops, but the morning sky is overcast, the kind of thing most people would describe as gloomy. But it’s special. Rain. Water. Weather. It means change and birth and rebirth.
The next afternoon I show up to the graduation ceremony. My history teacher, Mr. Smith, has been given the thankless job of organizing us into our rows. Like usual, I’m sandwiched in between Luke Vaughn and Chris Vonne in the line waiting to be seated. We’ve had four years of this and I know we’ll be happy not to see each other again after today.
And this happens.
Mr. Smith: “Cookie, I’ll need to ask you to zip up that gown.”
Me: (telling myself to keep a calm, even tone) “I can’t. It doesn’t fit.”
I’ve got the full attention of Vaughn and Vonne and a few other kids.
Mr. Smith: “Um. Well. The dress code says...”
Me: (feeling bad that Mr. Smith is in this position—he’s a nice guy; but no retreat, no surrender) “Kennes Butterfield deliberately changed my robe order form, forcing me to buy one that clearly wouldn’t fit. I didn’t have the money for a second one.”
Mr. Smith: “That’s a serious accusation.”
Me: (face turning red) “It’s the only explanation that makes any sense. I would never have ordered this robe. I’ve been making my own clothes since I was ten. I wouldn’t mess up my size.”
Mr. Smith: (face also turning red and lips pressing into an embarrassed white line) “You’re a good student, Cookie. But you can’t walk if you don’t conform to the graduation dress code.”
Me: (keep calm, keep calm) “Through no fault of my own, I have a gown that doesn’t fit. If you want to tell me I can’t walk, that I’m too fat to walk, then okay. Just let me get my phone out so I can get video of it for Twitter.”
Mr. Smith: (face now angry red) “You’re not too fat. You’re out of dress code. If I make an exception for you, I’d have to make one for everyone.”
Me: (iPhone in hand) “You should make an exception. For me. And everyone in the same situation as me. I’m tired of being part of a world that tells me I have to be a victim of people like Kennes Butterfield. And I’m tired of people saying they won’t help when they see something wrong. You’ve known me for four years. Have I ever lied? Have I ever accused anyone of anything? I’m telling you. Kennes changed my form so I’d either have to look or feel fat. If you don’t let me walk, you’re doing the same thing.”
Mr. Smith looks at me. Really sees me.
I get the whole thing out. The entire speech exactly as I practiced it in front of the mirror. There’s a bunch of people crowded around me. Whispers are traveling up the line. Up to the front where they will surely reach the Bs.
It gets back to the Ws even faster.
Tommy Weston is about fifteen people behind me. Staring with his mouth open. Like I’ve just punched him in the face and left his jaw inoperable. He steps out of his place in line and moves toward the front, where I’m sure Kennes is waiting.
I didn’t plan for this.
For collateral damage.
A bunch of things hit me fast. Why Grandma says to take the high road. What Father Tim meant that afternoon when he said you can’t seek vengeance.
But it’s too late. My plan is in motion.
Mr. Smith is back with a bunch of teachers and someone I think might be the vice principal. They’re murmuring and whispering and huddling.
They have a decision.
I can walk.
The world will see the T-shirt I spent all night screen-printing by hand. The one that reads, We Are All Roundish.com.
Mr. Smith straightens out our line formations and when “Pomp and Circumstance” plays, we take to the football field. The ceremony itself is unbelievably boring. Tommy’s seat, which is at the end of my row, sits empty for the whole thing.
Some mean old lady lectures about consumerism and youth culture and how everyone who graduates today needs to avoid gobbling up the world’s resources the way our parents and their parents have. Some nice old lady talks about how promising the future is. Some kid I’ve never seen before says YOLO over and over. By the end of his speech, I sort of hope the Hindus are right and that you only live once is a bunch of crap. I sort of hope we live a thousand lifetimes and that guy keeps coming back as a blob fish.
When blob fish is done, we wait. Because my last name is Vonn, I’m waiting awhile. There are awkward pauses when they read Kennes’s and Tommy’s names.
As it turns out, we’re waiting for nothing. Well, for an empty vinyl diploma holder, anyway. I smile and get a picture of myself holding a note that reads, “Your diploma will be mailed to you over the summer.”
Awesome.
But as I pass by the rows of other students who already have their empty holders, I see quite a few phones out. I see my blog loaded up on several screens. My plan is working. In the way that I intended. And a couple ways I didn’t.
I later find out, I got more than six hundred hits during the ceremony itself, and a bunch more later on. Here’s what people see:
Roundish <New Post>
Title: Independence Day
Creator: Cookie Vonn [administrator]
Today, we graduate. We’re independent of our school. Less accountable to our families. Everyone wants to talk about the future. Everyone wants to leave their failures behind and take their successes with them. Are you weird or wired? Fat or skinny? Gay or straight? Jock, emo, wannabe, loser, skater, punk, stoner, geek, loner, nerd? We need to leave those labels behind. They’re in the past. Like those old spelling bee ribbons you won’t be hanging in your dorm room. But let’s also leave behind the desire to be labelers. Let’s have more important things to do than sit around and judge each other. Happy Graduation! Here’s to us and whoever we want to become.
* * *
The ceremony ends, and the clouds that have patiently waited all day release their water onto the dry grass of the field. People root through their bags for umbrellas. AV guys run around covering and packing equipment.
I want to stand there forever. To roll into the gutter with the rainwater.
But in a way, we’re all like planets in a solar system. We’ve got certain trajectories. An emotional gravity that can’t be resisted.
Grandma’s throwing me a party right after the ceremony. At the church. Father Tim gives a sort of weird lecture on how the cap-and-gown outfit was inspired by Catholic clergy. There’s something about an increase in vocations to the church. I’m not sure what the point is. I’m not cut out to be a nun.
Tommy doesn’t show up to my party.
Shit.
We’re cleaning up and Grandma says, “Mrs. Weston called. Wanted to make sure you’re still headed over there tonight.”
“Tommy didn’t come here,” I say, desperate for any reason not to have to show my face over there.
“And I suppose you didn’t have nothin’ to do with the fact that they called his name and no one showed to take his damn diploma?”
I don’t answer and devote all my focus into wiping a school cafeteria–style table.
Grandma stuffs the remains of the cake into a white garbage bag. “You’re lettin’ that girl get the better of you, Cookie. It’s gonna cost you your friendship.”
I frown. “He’s not the same as he was.”
She pats me on the back. “Maybe you’re becomin’ something else too. Either way, you said you was gonna be at that party. You’re gonna be at that party.”
The last-ditch effort of a coward. “He said he was going to be here.”
“Cookie...” Grandma’s tone carries a warning. There’s no more arguing. I’m going to the Westons’ house.
I drive over in my old Corolla and park between two nicer sedans. Tommy’s house is one of the smaller ones in Las Sendas, the fancy community on the north side of town, but it’s still nice. It’s got the usual suburban trappings. The marble countertops. The hardwood floors.
Tommy’s mom lets me in and I stand in the foyer making small talk with her for a few minutes, my sweaty hand wrapped around the string of a gift bag containing an antique brass gyroscope. Mrs. Weston takes the gift bag and disappears into the kitchen.
The party is out by the pool, which glows with blue lights and clear, floating beach balls. I see Tommy standing on one side of his backyard, talking to Kennes. They see me. She squints and turns away, and Tommy stays focused on her.
There’s a DJ who’s probably friends with Tommy’s dad. The guy is playing the kind of stuff you hear at weddings. Sister Sledge. Kool & the Gang.
Mrs. Weston breezes by and hands me a drink. “Tommy’s party punch.”
My gaze drifts over the custom cup that has Tommy written on it in gold glitter letters and a striped paper straw sticking out.
She’s watching Tommy with a soft, unfocused smile. “He’s probably getting too old for the glitter.” Her face sharpens as she turns back to me. “But you know I love my Pinterest boards.”
Yeah, I’ve seen Mrs. Weston’s massive online collection of craft ideas.
There’s a break in the music, and Mrs. Weston shoos me toward the DJ booth. “We were hoping you could say a few words.”
I make a big show of picking at a hangnail. “Oh. Um. Me?” I stammer. “I think Tommy might rather have Kennes...”
Mrs. Weston takes me by the elbow. “You’ve known him longest, Cookie.”
And then I’m standing next to the weird DJ with a bunch of kids from school surrounding me, a cheap microphone in my hand. Kennes glares at me.
Take the high road.
If there was ever a moment to heed Grandma’s advice, this is it.
Think about it. Think about Tommy.
“Oh. Hi...” There’s feedback from the mic. A few people groan. I keep going. “I met Tommy at camp. I...uh...wish I had a bunch of hilarious camp stories to share, but the truth is, Tommy’s never done anything even remotely embarrassing.”
No. He let me take the hit at Toys“R”Us. He let me staff the PB&J table.
“Tommy’s been the best friend, the best student and the best son. Even though we’re going on to different things, I know we’ll always be there for each other. And no one’s future is brighter than Tommy’s. He’s always loved the stars, but really, he’s the one who’s out of this world.”
It’s horrible and corny.
There’s a quiet “Aww” from the small crowd. Tommy’s parents beam at me. I guess this means I have, in fact, taken the high road. Grandma failed to mention that doing this would be as unsatisfying as doing the wrong thing.
I hold the mic out to the gray-haired DJ and head through the sliding glass doors. I’m almost to my car when Tommy catches up with me.
“Thank you for that,” he says. He steps in front of me, leaning against the Corolla door. I think he wants to say something, but he’s focused on the asphalt sparkling under the yellow streetlights. “The speech,” he mumbles into his collar. “It was nice.”
“I have to go.”
Tommy puts his hand on my arm. “Cookie. Did you have to start that shit with Kennes at the ceremony today?”
I grab his chin and force him to look at me. “You know she did it. You know she screwed up my gown order, don’t you? And you don’t care. We’re supposed to be friends. Best friends.”
“Jesus, Cookie. Why does everything have to be such a fucking cartoon with you? You’re the sheep dog. That makes Kennes the wolf. And the world’s full of fucking anvils dropping from the sky and birthday cakes with dynamite inside.”
He shirks out of my hold, but his face is only inches from mine. Orange Tics Tacs. That’s what I smell as he keeps going. “I told her that thing with the gown totally sucks and she really is sorry. But you’ve dished out as much crap as you’ve taken here. Your take-this-job-and-shove-it routine caused Kennes plenty of trouble. At the office Brittany and Shelby made you their personal Norma Rae complete with a shrine of coffee mugs and Post-it pads next to the copy machine. I don’t know if she was deliberately out to ruin your graduation day. But you ruined hers. And mine.”
My defiance surges up. “It was your choice to go. It was your choice to stand by her even though you knew she did something totally shitty to me.”
His eyes plead with me. “What kind of choice did I really have? I’ve got two friends trying to rip each other apart.”
Kennes means as much to him as I do, and that really, really hurts. “Whatever. I have to go,” I say again, motioning for him to move away from my car.
He shakes his sandy hair. “This is it? You’d rather end our friendship than try to get along with Kennes? You won’t even try? Try for me?”
No.
No, I won’t.
No retreat. No surrender.
He shoves his hands into the pockets of the suit I made for him. The memory of hemming those wool pants belongs to another life. Or to another person. I want to be anywhere else but here. And I’m not going to cry.
“I’m not going to move until you answer me,” he says.
I guess I could try to yank him off the door. For a second, I have a vision of me lifting him over my head like a misshapen barbell and tossing him into his neighbor’s gravel yard. But that seems like it might be going too far, even for me. So I answer. “People like me can’t get along with people like her.”
I won’t cry.
“Cut the crap,” he says. He knows I haven’t made every fat-shaming, mean girl in school my nemesis. He knows there’s more to this than Kennes making me feel like a fat girl on a plane.
I glare at him. This is why it’s easier to fight your enemies than your friends. Friends know your weaknesses, your vulnerabilities. They know when you’re not being real. And honestly, what do I have to lose? Our friendship is gone or about to go into long-term hibernation.
I decide to go for it. “I thought...I thought...things would be different. I thought, if I lost weight, you would see that...I...I liked you. Liked everything about you. The way you always forget to tuck your shirt in on one side. The cowlick that makes your hair stick up when it gets too long. Your weird Lego robots. That you actually think ‘Backpack’ is a good song. The way you always buy Boardwalk even though I never land on it. I—”
“You liked me? Liked me?” Tommy’s voice is laced with thick, hard sarcasm. I can’t remember him speaking to me like this before. “You think I would only have liked you back if you were stick skinny? You think I’m like that? Or maybe you’re only saying this now because I’m finally with somebody.”
I’m grateful for the hot anger bubbling up in my blood. “What the hell are you talking about?”
He grabs me, placing one hand on each of my shoulders, and jerks me back and forth a couple of times. “I did everything. I took you to every school dance. Spent hours and hours watching TV with your grandma. I was there for you. I waited. And waited. And you...you...all you could do was be mad as hell at the world. And now...now you want to tell me that you liked me? Past tense? You liked me? Well, you never did one fucking thing to show it.”
I take deep breaths to keep myself calm. This would be that moment in romantic comedies when the hero says, Wait here, goes back into the party to break up with his horrible girlfriend and comes back to kiss the girl-next-door. But this is real life, my life, and this won’t end like an old episode of Friends.
We stare at each other like opponents on opposite sides of a chessboard. It’s suddenly so, so obvious that Grandma was right about everything. I started this bullshit war with Kennes, and I’m its real casualty. But it’s too late.
“And for the record,” Tommy says in the same harsh voice, “I liked you exactly as you were. As you are. Everything about you.”
I have to do something or in seconds I’ll be bawling my face off. I push myself up on my tiptoes and press my lips against his. At first, he’s motionless, frozen with closed lips. My face flushes and I sink back down.
His eyes dart back and forth as my heels hit the pavement.
I expect him to move out of the way and go back inside.
But he grabs me, swirls me around so that my back is against the car door and wraps his arms around me in a way that would have been impossible a year ago. This is the romantic scene I’ve been taught to expect. This is what the Hollywood ending looks like.
An electric energy jolts through me. His tongue is in my mouth, at first, swishing awkwardly, then moving with purpose along my lower lip.
He’s into it.
And then.
“We can’t.” He steps back.
A coolness fills the space between us.
“You know, you could have said something too.” I unlock the car. I won’t cry.
“Yeah. Well. Maybe we’ll...um...see each other on campus.” He turns to go.
“Yeah,” I whisper as his curly blond head vanishes through his front door.
I won’t cry.
They show you pictures of the heart in Biology class. A powerful mass of muscle, pumping lifeblood, in and out, all day, day after day. The human heart never rests, never takes a day off. And yet, in that instant, my heart has no volume or shape or substance. It’s like a glass ornament that has fallen from the Christmas tree. It’s been reduced to shiny, scattered pieces you could brush away with your shoe.
I drive to the yellow house and I’m beginning to think there’s no upside to this whole becoming-an-adult thing.
At home, Grandma’s waiting at the kitchen table. She pours me my own cup of decaf, pushes a regular-size envelope across the worn wood surface and gets up. She’s making a plate of food for Roscoe, the giant Labrador barking in the backyard.
It’s a strange thing. But the fact that time is passing, that things are becoming different, hits me full on. Especially about Grandma. There’s no one else who serves their dog sandwiches on a porcelain plate. Who covers their windows with aluminum foil. Who still plays with paper dolls. The lines on her face have grown thick and deep. Time is running out. She won’t be at the table forever.
She turns from the stove, where she’s flipping a grilled cheese with a spatula. “Open it,” she says with a wave at the envelope. “You’re a good girl, Cookie. You deserve something nice. To spend a nice summer with your friend.”
I open the envelope and immediately understand why we’ve been so broke.
It’s a plane ticket. To Sydney.
Australia.
I burst into tears.