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“Copresident.”
He fiddles with something on his mic, sending a warped wave of feedback through the speakers. Hands clutch ears and the audience groans in unison.
“Guess that’s how everyone feels about your presidency,” I say. McNair has annoyed them, but I will win them back.
He turns crimson. “I’m sorry about that, Wolf Pack.”
“Not sure if everyone heard that. You might have permanently damaged some eardrums.”
“Moving on,” he says firmly, with a glance down at his note cards, “we’d like to start with this montage that Ms. Murakami’s film class put together to remind everyone of all the great times we had this year. The soundtrack is provided by Mr. Davidson’s band”—another squint at his notes—“the Pure Funk Project.”
Literally two people cheer. I’m pretty sure one of them is Mr. Davidson.
The lights dim, and the video is projected onto a screen behind us. We laugh along with everyone else at the ridiculous moments captured on camera, but I can’t ignore the anxiety brewing inside me. There are shots from football games and spirit assemblies and drama club productions. From prom. A few seniors in the front row of the auditorium are crying, and though I’d never admit it, I’m grateful for McNair’s pack of tissues in my pocket. Maybe I didn’t love every single one of these people, but we were a unit. No one else would understand how perfectly in sync the Kristens are, to the point where they showed up with their dates at homecoming in the same dress, or the hilarity of Javier Ramos attending every home basketball game wearing a carrot costume.
Deep breaths. Keep it together.
After McNair and I rattle off more highlights from the past year, Principal Meadows takes the microphone back. We retreat to a couple chairs on the side of the stage while she announces the departmental awards, presenting trophies with molded plastic wolves to the top students in each academic discipline. It stings when McNair wins not just for English but for French and Spanish, too, the latter of which makes me a little salty. I stopped taking Spanish junior year to make room for more English electives. I’d wanted to one day be able to talk to my mom’s side of the family, and I guess that “one day” isn’t here yet. Number five on the success guide—another goal unaccomplished.
“Next up is the perfect attendance award,” Principal Meadows says. “Of course, it’s not academic in nature, but we always think it’s fun to recognize the students who managed to make it all 180 days without a single tardy or unexcused absence. This year we’re pleased to honor Minh Pham, Savannah Bell, Pradeep Choudhary, Neil McNair, and Rowan Roth.”
That has to be a mistake.
“Rowan?” she calls again when I’m the only one who doesn’t stand up, so I scramble to retrieve the certificate with my punctual peers.
Back in our seats, I stab McNair’s leg with the edge of the paper certificate.
“I, uh, didn’t end up turning in your late slip,” he mutters. “Figured I’d let you have this one. Since it’s the last day and all.”
“So charitable of you,” I say, but I don’t actually mean the sarcasm. I’m confused, more than anything. McNair and I don’t give each other any freebies.
There’s no time to dwell on it because Principal Meadows is gesturing to us, preparing for the only honor that really matters. “It’s been stiff competition for valedictorian this year,” she says. “Never before have we had two students so equally matched in their grades, extracurriculars, and devotion to this school.”
I grip the certificate tighter. This is it. Our last battle.
“You’re already well acquainted with these two, but what’s most astounding about them is that they care not only about their own accomplishments, but so deeply about Westview High School as an institution. They’ve both done incredible work to ensure future Westview students will have the best experience here imaginable.
“Let me start with Neil. He’ll be going to NYU in the fall to study linguistics. He had a perfect SAT score and achieved all fives on the AP Spanish, French, and Latin exams. He was the creator and head of the student-faculty book club, and during his student council leadership, he established an activities fund to generate money to support club activities on campus, which I know a lot of students are going to benefit from for years to come!”
Polite applause. I join in half-heartedly. A flush and his freckles fight for control of McNair’s face.
“And then we have Rowan.” I swear, she smiles more when she says my name. “She’ll be an undecided freshman at Emerson College in Boston. Here at Westview, she’s been captain of our quiz bowl team, editor of the yearbook, taken a total of twelve AP classes, and served on student council all four years. As copresident, she campaigned for all-gender restrooms, and she was also responsible for helping the school become a little greener. We now compost and have a trash sorting system, thanks to Rowan.”
I wish she hadn’t concluded with that. My legacy: garbage.
Mentally, I consider my odds for the hundredth time over the past few months. AP classes were weighted with some complicated math, so I can’t accurately predict how his GPA compares to mine.
“Artoo,” McNair whispers as Principal Meadows goes on about prominent valedictorians in our school’s history and what they’ve accomplished, rounding out his earlier lesson.
I ignore him. Everyone can see us when we’re sitting up here. He should know by now not to talk.
Gently, he knocks my knee with his. “Artoo,” he repeats, and I’m certain he’s going to remind me of the latte stain. “I just wanted to say… it’s been a good four years. Competing with you has really kept me on my toes.”
His words are slow to sink in. When I steal a glance at him, his eyes are soft, not sharp, behind his glasses, and he’s doing something weird with his mouth. It takes me a split second to realize it’s a smile, a genuine one. I’ve grown so accustomed to his smirk that I figured it was his only expression.
I have no idea how to respond. I’m not even positive it’s a compliment. Should I thank him, or tell him “you’re welcome”? Or maybe just smile back?
At this point, I’ve been staring too long, so I direct my attention back to Principal Meadows. For four years, I’ve dreamed of this moment. Now it’ll be the one item I can cross off my list, the proof I did something right. I can practically see my name on the principal’s lips, hear it through the speakers.
