Friends and Strangers - J. Courtney Sullivan Page 0,160
make it right? What’s the point of shining a light on the truth, if the truth just sits there, unchanged. Tell me. Please. Tell me.
The president clinked a silver spoon against a glass.
The room fell to a hush.
“Good evening!” she shouted, her voice full of energy. “Welcome home!”
The alums hooted and cheered.
“We’re here tonight to celebrate you,” President Washington said. “Your generous donations helped us reach an all-time fundraising goal this year. We were able to break ground on the new engineering building; to begin talking about a state-of-the-art library. To welcome the largest class yet of our Lucretia Chesnutt fellows. Raise your hands, ladies. Don’t be shy.”
From their spots throughout the crowd, ten or twelve fellows put up their hands. They were the only black women in the room, other than the president herself. If there was something uncomfortable about that, President Washington didn’t seem to notice.
Sam saw Shannon among them. Shannon noticed her at the same time. She rolled her eyes.
Something occurred to Sam then. The president’s mansion was a place to go and draw hearts in chalk on the driveway, on her birthday, on Valentine’s Day. They all loved her, and showed their love with abandon. It felt personal. But President Washington had never shown them anything like it in return. She was playing her part, doing her job.
She works for the company, not us.
Gaby was supposed to have been here tonight. But even if she hadn’t quit, she wouldn’t be in this room. All the workers passing canapés were students. The full-time staff was hidden away in the kitchen.
* * *
—
Saturday morning, they sat in folding chairs on the quad in their black caps and gowns, under a cloudless blue sky.
Out of a class of seven hundred, Sam was graduating with the tenth-highest GPA. Some kind of magical thinking made her wonder if she might still get called for Phi Beta Kappa, handed that golden key, which had once seemed so important, and then had seemed superfluous, and now seemed like something she had earned but for one mistake. Maybe just this once, they would make an exception. But when the Phi Beta Kappa names were called, hers was not among them.
When Sam crossed the stage to get her diploma, her family cheered, louder than anyone else’s, and she was slightly horrified, but also kind of proud. She walked slowly back, searching the faces. She realized once she was in her chair that she’d been looking for Elisabeth.
That night after dinner, Sam walked to the corner of Laurel and Main, hoping she might be there. She stayed for a long time, watching cars zip past. She wondered if Elisabeth would still throw a party tomorrow, if there would be a balloon archway and champagne, all the things they’d talked about, just without her. Finally, Sam went home, the last night she and Isabella would ever spend in their room.
Music blared. She could hear Isabella and Lexi and Shannon singing from halfway down the hall.
When Sam reached the platform, Isabella nodded toward their room.
“Look what came for you.”
The door was open, exposing a vase of long-stemmed roses on Sam’s nightstand. The note read So proud of you, babe. Can’t wait to celebrate in person. Love, Clive
Sam went out to the hallway, closed the door, and turned toward her friends.
* * *
—
Before they got in the car to leave the next morning, she went to the kitchen for her last cup of coffee. It was early. Only Maria had arrived so far.
Sam started to cry.
Maria hugged her.
“No tears!” she said. “This is a happy day. We’re so proud of you.”
“I’ll miss you,” Sam said.
“We’re going to stay in touch,” Maria said.
Sam wanted to tell her that she had only wanted to help, that she was sorry.
She said, “Will you please tell Gaby goodbye for me? And tell her to call me.”
“Oh yes, she said to say congratulations,” Maria said.
Sam could tell she was lying. Probably, Maria was trying to make up for what she had taken as Gaby being rude, or less than thoughtful. She didn’t suspect Sam of having done wrong for a second. That was the worst part.
* * *
—
Later, smooshed into the back seat of her parents’ minivan between her television set and her suitcase and her siblings, Sam remembered the painting and felt a stab of regret. She had worked hard on it for weeks, tried to make it perfect, only to leave it propped on an easel, half finished, undone.