Smile and look pretty, take your pictures. Keep your memories tucked close to your heart. It’s all fake, every last bit of it.

But I don’t care anymore.

I step up to the podium, clear my throat.

But we all know I can’t say any of that.

My knees are wobbling, but a general sense of nervousness and anxiety is to be expected when one is speaking in front of such a large audience. I stare out at the sea of faces, blurring together into one giant collage. I’ve practiced this speech so many times I could probably recite it by heart, but it is there, typed out in front of me, double-spaced, sixteen-point Garamond, approved by the principal and vice principal ahead of time and sent to the school newspaper so those plebeians don’t have to transcribe it for next week’s collector’s edition.

The sun is sautéing us in our dark purple robes. My hair is sweaty under the cap, and the bobby pins I used to keep it in place dig into my skull. Whose bright idea was it to have graduation in the middle of a synthetic field, in the broiling heat? Traditions are like that. They keep going, year after year, even when they become idiotic. It’s easier to do things the same way, I guess, than work through how to make them better.

“Woodard High friends, family, teachers. My fellow classmates, distinguished board members, honored members of the community. Today is a celebration. It’s a day to reflect on who we’ve become and look toward our future.”

My voice is amplified through the speaker system, louder than it ever has been before. It gives me a sense of power. How much could I say before they cut off the sound? Before someone pushed me away from the microphone?

How much damage could I do?

“I stand here, proud of all we’ve accomplished. Knowing we have done and will go on to do great things. We have our whole lives ahead of us.”

To the right, beyond the football field, a lone car turns into the parking lot. A bright red convertible, gleaming like a lollipop. It skips the rows of cars and takes a circuitous route along the edge, stopping along the curb closest to the field.

“I think we can all agree that high school wasn’t always easy.” The audience murmurs. To the right of the stage, on the end of a row, I catch sight of Lexie Granger, who has tears streaming down her face and is wiping her nose with the sleeve of her gown. Many of the girls are already crying over the end of high school and all the good times they had. Except this might actually be the best it will ever get for them.