Page 76 of Detour

Some mascara and nude lip gloss complete my look as I grab my cap and clutch. I pause when I hear the voice mail notification on my phone. My mother’s raspy voice fills the earpiece and I automatically recoil.

“Yeah, Ang, I just wanted to say you’re welcome. You know if it wasn’t for me having you, you wouldn’t be graduating today. You wouldn’t even be here, period. I’m sure you’ve made yourself think you got here all on your own, but it’ll do you well to stop and remember who actually carried you through. Add this to the list of things you wouldn’t have without me. That Jeep, your apartment, hell, the ratty ass shoes on your feet, you wouldn’t have any of it if it wasn’t for me.”

I glance at the pair in question, my heart racing. They’re not ratty.

“And if those thug wannabes you’re hanging around with think they can threaten me, well, they have another thing coming. I will not be intimidated, Angela. Do you hear me? Maybe if you showed a little gratitude-”

I hit the delete option before she can finish. Never one to waste an opportunity to rub my face in the great sacrifice my life was to her, I should’ve expected this. She won’t let me have anything, not even one frickin’ day to feel proud of myself. Well, too bad for her, I am proud. I’m proud I was able to do it, and not because of her, but in spite of her. I dodged her jabs, ignored her insults, countered her negativity, switched my stance to block more effectively. And I did it all by myself, watching person after person turn a blind eye to the abuse, all the while learning to never depend on anyone because at the end of the day, I’m the only one in the ring with Rianne.

She said something about being threatened though. Does she mean the boys next door? Are those the ‘thug wannabes’ she’s referring to? My neighbors definitely don’t fit that description, more like male models in street clothes, but I can’t imagine who else she’d be talking about. They threatened her?

I groan remembering the way I left that day. It wasn’t my best work, that’s for sure, but I never thought they’d continue to interfere after I left. At some point I’ll have to face them, our living situation requires it, and when I do, I can only hope the pity I saw last lining their stupidly attractive faces is missing.

With one last look in the mirror, I whisper to myself, “you got this,” wondering if maybe I don’t.

* * *

I scan the stands again, trying in vain to make out Drew’s familiar face. We couldn’t meet up beforehand but I told him after rehearsal where I’d be so he could try to snag a seat close by. Facing the valedictorian, Luciana, on stage, the word regret catches my attention and I tune back in.

“They say there are no regrets in life, only lessons learned and I truly believe that. Everything happens for a reason. However, we’ve earned a night off from lessons. Don’t you think?” I clap along with everybody else. “So, give yourself the night to reflect, to revel, to slack. A night to dine, to dance, to drink…” Thunderous cheers erupt amongst the graduates, much to the dismay of the surrounding adults. The guy sitting to my left hollers incoherently making me chuckle. Once the crowd quiets, she continues, “The saying goes ‘a night to remember’ but I suggest it be one in which you forget. And not in the way you think either. Seriously, if there’s something you’re holding onto that’s stopping you from being the best version of yourself, let tonight be the night you let it go. Let tonight be the night you get it all out…responsibly, of course.” At her exaggerated wink, noisy laughter fills the packed coliseum. “Because come tomorrow you have the option to start fresh. The opportunity to start anew. The chance to begin the journey of becoming who you’re meant to be and I, for one, am excited to see what future paths lie ahead for all of us.” Luciana pauses, letting her words sink in.

I’m reminded of my time with Coty, not just at the lookout, but since our first conversation and his constant efforts to curb the reality life has laid out for him.

“In closing, whatever you do in celebration of your accomplishments both past and future, I can’t imagine getting to do it with a better group of people. I’m proud to be a part of this graduating class and you should be, too. Now, let’s go give ‘em hell! Sorry, Mom!”

The crowd explodes into earsplitting applause as everyone jumps to their feet to give her a well-deserved standing ovation.

“Thank you, Luciana. That was truly inspiring. I’d just like to reiterate the responsible part for tonight though,” Principal Reid says, as a blushing Luciana finds her seat. “When I call your name, please come forward to accept your diploma.”

I zone out again as rows of gown-clad students make their way to the stage. The beaming faces filling the stands serve as a reminder of what’s missing from my life. Not having a supportive family has always been my norm. I couldn’t even imagine having the encouragement of others—aside from Drew, of course. Would I still be me if I had a loving, tight-knit family growing up? The kind that would fill an entire section at my high school graduation? Seeing the indifferent expressions around me, I’m guessing I’d probably take it for granted like most of my peers.

Roars of pride erupt across the arena, making it clear how loved each grad on stage is, and I can’t help the ping of jealousy the cheers create. Even if my minuscule family was here, they wouldn’t make a big deal like the others. The sad truth is they’ll never be what I want and I’ll never be what they want. The sooner we can all acknowledge that, and move on, the better. Well, for me anyway. I’m not sure my mom will ever move past her animosity toward me. Maybe it’s disappointment in herself that she’s projecting, but is too emotionally immature to realize. If that’s the case, then I honestly don’t know how to move forward. All I really want is to get on with my life without her constant insults about me not being good enough. For so long, I thought that by hiding those attachments she considers weaknesses, I was making it harder for her to strike, but the sad truth is it’s never deterred her personal attacks, only lessened the inevitable blows.

The person next to me knocks my arm, letting me know it’s our row’s turn. We shuffle in line until we reach the side of the stage. As the girl in front of me climbs the stairs, sweat starts to collect under my arms, making me grateful for this bulky gown. My slick palms grip the railing as I follow close behind. I watch, hypnotized by the sure pace of her steps, realizing I can’t remember anything we practiced last night. In slow motion she breaks away from me, walking into the spotlight to accept the rolled up mock certificate—we were all shocked to learn we wouldn’t be getting our actual diplomas today but at a later date—and I freeze. Where do I put my fucking hands again? Without a rail to hold onto, I twist them in front of me awaiting my name. That’s a normal place for hands, right? Like, people do that. Just put their hands on their stomachs. Or is that just pregnant women? Shit. At this point I couldn’t even guess how many hands I have, let alone where I’m supposed to put them. Also, why is it so hot in here?

I somehow make out my name through the pounding in my ears.

“Angela Taylor.”

The principal blurs into a faceless entity before my eyes, so I suck in a deep breath to alleviate the pressure building in my chest. Blowing it out, all I can think is maybe it’s for the best my family didn’t show after all. Somehow them witnessing my heinous impression of a mime stuck in a box of invisible water seems like the least preferred scenario.

Just when I start to wonder if I really am underwater, a bullhorn to the left startles me out of my trance and I look over my shoulder to find none other than my tall-as-a-redwood neighbor standing in the aisle with a frickin’ megaphone held above his head, blaring a variety of obnoxious sounds including nobody’s favorite—the police siren. Beside Beckett are Marc and Coty rounding out The Three Stooges Of Creekwood and my lips pull into a smile. Coty and company are making a complete spectacle of themselves. And me, of course.

“Go,” the person behind me urges. A backward glance proves I’m officially holding up the line. Great.

“Sorry,” I mutter, then stride across the stage, toward my very own fake diploma.

“Congratulations, Angela. Sounds like you’ve got an enthusiastic family out there.” My principal half smiles-half grimaces, shaking my hand as the horn sounds again.

“I, um, thanks.” I smile tightly.

The staircase at the other end of the stage feels like a torturous trek and with no one in front of me, I hesitate at the bottom, unsure which way to take. Somehow I manage to make it back okay and once seated, I spot the boys who are still planted in the aisle causing a ruckus even though other students are being called up, my turn long over.

“Way to go, Angie!” Beck yells over the speaker and I shake my head, grinning.

I mouth “thanks” to Marc as he continues clapping which is quite a feat considering he’s holding one corner of a giant handmade sign. Yes, handmade. It’s huge, and colorful, and I swear has glitter flaking off the bottom onto the people’s heads in front of them. It’s perfect.

My eyes meet Coty’s and with his fingers to his mouth he unleashes a loud whistle, then winks unabashedly. Everyone in my row looks between me and my impromptu cheer section, raising more than a few eyebrows. They finally settle back in their seats, props in hand, and it’s then that I see Drew and his dad, Robert, seated just behind the modern-day version of the Three Amigos. I can’t keep the smile from my face as I give them each a wave. Robert beams right back while Drew points to his ears, giving me a lopsided grin.