"Vincent Hazelwood," calls the announcer.

The guy standing next to me shoves an elbow into my ribs so I'll step forward. I can't walk across this small stage with all these eyes on me. No way. I flunked subjects because I refused to get up in front of the class to give reports or participate in group activities.

But Maggie is out there. And I've let her down so much. It would be nice to make her proud with my attempt to be normal, even just this once.

Legs wobbling, I shamble to the lady at the mic and take the diploma she offers me. Even shake her hand and manage a tight-lipped smile, which I offer to the crowd. See, I can do something without screwing it up. Though I don't say thank you before hurrying off the stage because I'm about three seconds from either bursting into tears, or hurling on her nice shoes.

In the adjoining room, I claw off the scratchy gown and toss the cap aside, clutching the diploma tight. Maybe it's nothing special, maybe it's not even like a real diploma from a real high school (I never asked if they were the same) but, damn it, it's mine and I worked hard for it. All I want to do is get out of here and find Maggie and show it to her. Maybe she will take me for something nice to eat. Maybe she will even give me a hug. She doesn't do that often.

They're on the T names when I step back into the main room and start squirming my way through the tightly packed crowd. So many people for so few graduates all squeezed into a little rented auditorium like sardines. Yet even once I've made it to the far back near the double doors leading out, there's no sign of Maggie. She would've seen me get off stage and headed for the exit, right?

I wait until the rest of the graduates are called. Until the kids I know vaguely by faces but not names have joined up with their families and move past me out the doors until there are just a handful left.

A handful, me, and no Maggie.

Maybe she's running late. That's what I tell myself as I head out to the parking lot, squinting, looking around for her ugly gold minivan. As quickly as I think it, I know it's unlikely. Maggie is a lot of things—distant, crass, cranky, overbearing—but she's never late.

I fish my lock key and phone out of my pocket as I head for my bike. I've got three missed calls from a number I don't recognize, and a voicemail. I halt beside my bike, heart thumping wildly. I can feel it in my fingertips, my toes, my ears. That number doesn't have to mean anything. They're just numbers. Maybe even a wrong number. I get people calling all the time asking for someone who isn't me. Nobody calls me except Maggie. I unlock the bike and swing onto it, and let the voicemail play.