WE LINED UP IN ALPHABETICAL ORDER
Bennett put me near the beginning.
I sat in a folding chair listening to speeches about beginnings.
Future.
Possibilities.
People said:
“Your families must be so proud.”
That sentence almost broke me.
I stared straight ahead.
When the principal started calling names, cheers erupted from the bleachers.
Some embarrassing.
Some deafening.
One family had cowbells.
Another brought an actual drum.
Then:
“Sophie Bennett.”
I stood.
My legs felt strangely light.
I walked toward the stage.
For one second, I imagined Dad shouting:
THAT’S MY GIRL!
Mom telling him:
Sit down, you’re embarrassing her!
Grandma clapping from somewhere nearby.
Instead—
there was applause.
Normal.
Polite.
Enough.
I crossed the stage.
Took my diploma.
Shook the principal’s hand.
Smiled for the photographer.
Then walked down the stairs.
And that was it.
Twelve years of school.
One piece of paper.
No parents.
No Grandma.
I had done it.
I also wanted to disappear.
AFTER THE CEREMONY, I HEADED STRAIGHT FOR THE PARKING LOT
Maya caught my arm.
“Pictures.”
“You go.”
“Sophie.”
“I’m tired.”
“Come on.”
“I said go.”
She studied my face.
Then nodded.
“Text me later?”
“Yeah.”
I walked behind the gym where the crowd thinned.
I had almost reached the faculty parking lot when two hands suddenly covered my eyes.
I froze.
Every muscle in my body locked.
A deep voice spoke beside my ear.
“Guess who finally made it?”
My heart stopped.
Not metaphorically.
For one impossible second, my entire body forgot what to do.
I knew that voice.
Older.
Deeper.
But I knew it.
I pulled his hands away and turned around.
Noah.
My brother was standing behind me.
Same messy dark hair.
Same crooked smile.
A little thinner.
Older around the eyes.
Wearing the blue button-down shirt Dad gave him three Christmases earlier.
I stared.
He smiled nervously.
“Hi, Soph.”
My diploma fell from my hand.
