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I make it to the center aisle and hold my fists over my head in celebration, taking the steps up to get my award much like that famous scene in Rocky.
Mr. Philips holds the cup out for me to take one side and I turn to stand next to him as everyone readies themselves to take pictures.
“You’re a real asshole, you know that, right?” Mr. Philips mutters out of the side of his mouth, his half-ass smile intact.
I laugh out hard because this could not be more perfect.
“Yeah, I do know,” I say, letting my gown fall to my ankles just as the cameras go off. I knew what I wanted to do the second I spotted the light-up flamingo boxers at the mall during a trip with Brooklyn. She tried in vain to talk me out of it, but I convinced her this was twenty-nine bucks well spent.
Mr. Philips groans next to me as the entire audience gets to their feet with applause. Cameras flash and I’m sure I’m trending on social by now. He endures the embarrassment for about five seconds before leaving me with the cup and exiting the stage. I milk every second, holding the bronzed cup up and kissing it as if I’ve won Wimbledon.
Eventually, my grandfather clears his throat into the microphone, the noise crackling and squealing through the speakers. I wave at him and mouth, “All right,” and then leave my gown on the stage at his feet. He can have it. He can have Welles too, for all I care. Instead of taking my seat, I weave through my classmates and take Brooklyn’s hand to pull her in for a full-mouthed, I’m-showing-off kiss then lift her up over my shoulder. There’s no reason to stick around now. I’ve got what’s important. Family. A great love. And the fucking Black Tuesday Cup.
