Chapter Twenty-Nine
Bea’s phone was propped up against a water bottle, showing the soft blur of her mother’s video feed as the camera jostled through a crowd of proud parents. The ceremony started at 2 p.m. Toronto time, early morning in the UR.
Bea sat curled on the couch in Mayfield Hall, legs tucked under a blanket, winter fogging the edges of the windows.
“Umma, tilt it down. No, the other way! I can see a guy’s bald spot and half the stage.”
Her umma whispered, “Sorry, sorry,” in Korean before the frame finally steadied. A sweeping view of Convocation Hall came into focus. She glimpsed its domed ceiling, its sandstone arches, the wooden stage draped in U of T blue. Rows of students in navy gowns lined the floor, edged in white, faces flushed with summer heat and pride.
Bea squinted. “Is that her?”
“I think so,” her papa said, his voice close to the mic now. “Third row. You see the red heels?”
“Of course she wore red heels. Who else would match their shoes to their lipstick under a graduation robe?”
The central heating made the air warm around her. Her coffee had gone cold. Her exam started in less than two hours. She hadn’t even brushed her hair.
But Claire was graduating. After five years of dragging herself through structural engineering, she was about to walk the stage with First Class Honors and a triumphant grin.
Bea wouldn’t miss it for the world.
They watched as names were called, one by one, the class size small enough—maybe two hundred total—that the emcee didn’t need to rush. The Dean of Engineering handed out the degrees.
When Claire’s name echoed through the hall, Bea’s heart jumped.
“Claire Park.”
Her umma zoomed in just in time to catch Claire striding across the stage, confident and feisty in her scarlet heels, the gown swishing at her calves. Her dark hair was swept into a glossy knot. She looked like someone who didn’t believe in nerves.
She shook the Dean’s hand, winked at someone offstage, and gave the crowd a small, theatrical nod before turning the tassel.
Bea felt a sudden lump rise in her throat. She hadn’t realized how much she’d needed to see this.
Her papa turned the camera toward them. He was grinning. “She did the wink.”
Bea’s chest was tight in the best kind of way. “She came out of the womb winking.”
The camera jostled again as Umma panned across the row beside her.
“Claire’s family are here,” she narrated, as if Bea didn’t already know every face. “Auntie Mindy, fanning herself. Uncle Minho. Blake, Ryan, Matthew are right there—look at Blake’s boys, so big now.”
Bea watched through the applause, the speeches, the ceremonial anthem. When it was done, her umma turned the camera back to them.
“We’ll call you when we find her outside,” her umma promised. “Go get ready first.”
Bea blew a kiss. “Tell her I’m proud.”
Ten minutes later, after the world’s quickest shower, hair damp, hoodie on, her phone buzzed.
Incoming video call: Claire Bear
Bea swiped right, and there she was in red lipstick, sunglasses, holding a single sunflower and a glass of something bubbly.
“Dean’s list, Beya Slaya.” Claire grinned. “Did you see it?”
“I saw it.” Bea laughed. “You were magnificent. The wink was illegal.”
Claire spun once. “Not bad for a girl who cried through every second of sophomore year.”
