I motion to his too-short pants. “They’ve got to have something to distract from that scandalous bit of ankle you’re showing.”
“I hate it when my mom and dad fight,” Chantal says.
McNair and I whirl to face her. My mouth drops open, my expression of horror surely mirroring his. But before we can say anything, Principal Meadows continues.
“To kick things off,” she says, “please join me in welcoming your copresidents, Rowan Roth and Neil McNair!”
I relish the applause and the small but not insignificant joy of my name being uttered before his. McNair pulls back the velvet stage curtain and gestures for me to step through first. Normally I’d call him out for this—chivalry is outdated and I am not a fan—but today I just roll my eyes.
We grab wireless mics from the stands in the center of the stage. The lights are bright and the auditorium is thick with an antsy, pulsing energy, but I haven’t been nervous up here in years—it’s home.
“I know everyone’s eager to get out of here and play Howl,” McNair says, “so we’ll keep this as brief as possible.”
“But not too brief,” I add. “We want to make sure you all get the recognition you deserve.”
McNair’s brows knit together. “Right. Of course.”
Laughter ripples through the auditorium. Our classmates have come to expect this from us.
“It’s been a pleasure serving as your president this year,” McNair says.
“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.”