23
There isn’t a pause button,and I’ve been desperately looking for one for years. My grandmother always told me that the older we get, the faster life flies by, and it’s important not to take a single moment for granted. I’ve tried to live by this advice, but sometimes I stop and wonder how I’ve ended up where I am—how many different paths had to cross at just the right spot to bring me to this place I’m standing. More importantly, why did I land here in this particular spot—why am I so lucky?
It’s about eighty degrees. There isn’t a cloud in the sky, and we got third-row seats. Journey’s knees are bouncing faster than mine, but maybe it’s to keep Isla from shrieking at whatever sparks her attention. The little one likes the sound of her voice and would like everyone else to enjoy it as well. I’m almost positive she’s destined for Broadway. She’s not even two and walks around like her life is a musical.
I don’t remember if Hannah ever had days of sunshine radiating out of her eyes as if she only sees rainbows, cupcakes, and unicorns, but I know we’re past the days of everything being shitty or sucking. Thankfully.
“They were supposed to start five minutes ago. The kids are probably sweating to death up there.”
“Yeah, I wonder what’s holding them up?”
“Birds!” Isla screams, pointing into the sky.
“Shh,” Journey and I hush her. “It’s sissy’s big day. You have to keep quiet.”
“But there are birds!” she screams again.
The parents around us are stifling their laughs. It’s hard to get mad at a little girl in a flowered sundress with two fire-engine red curly pigtails.
“You’re nervous,” Journey mutters to me.
“No, I’m not. There’s nothing to be nervous about,” I reply.
“I can see it in your face,” she continues. “She’s not going to trip and fall.”
“Oh my God, I’m so sorry we’re late,” Brett says, climbing over my legs.
“I’ll move,” I tell him. We were able to save the row, thankfully.
“It’s fine, don’t get up,” he says, being obnoxious.
Once Brett has moved by us, I stand up to let Melody, the kids, and Mom and Dad by. I get four kisses on the cheek and a slap on the back. “I’m proud of you, son. Look what you did?” Dad says.
“I didn’t do this. She did,” I reply.
Dad isn’t concerned with blocking anyone’s view behind us, especially since nothing has started yet, but he grabs me by the shoulders. “Look at me, Brody,” he says. “You … you did this. Be proud of yourself and her. I’m damn proud of you, son.”
I’m trying to keep my emotions in check. God help me if I leak a tear today. Hannah will not talk to me for a year. Thank goodness for sunglasses. That child has torn away my ability to turn my emotions off since the day she was born.
Just as we’re all seated, the principal makes his way to the podium to announce this graduating class. I’m about to have a high school graduate. It doesn’t seem possible. It feels like only yesterday, I was standing where she is now.
The principal goes on and on about the unique qualities of Hannah’s graduating class, dragging out the ceremony just long enough to make my heart start racing. It’s bad enough our last name begins with a P, and I have to wait until three-quarters of the alphabet is finished before it’s Hannah’s turn.“I’d like to introduce this year's valedictorian. With a straight-A grade average and the leader of several community projects and secretary of this graduating class, I would like to introduce to you, Hannah Pearson—a young woman who has shown continued growth in all paths of her high school career. We couldn’t be prouder of Hannah as she sets off for Brown University in the fall to begin her journey toward a degree in child psychology. At the risk of repeating myself, Hannah, keep reaching for the stars.”
I’m not sure if my heart has stopped, I’m hearing things, or I’ve lost my mind, but Hannah never mentioned a word about being this year’s valedictorian. I’m baffled, shocked, star-struck if that’s the right way to describe my feelings.
“What?”
“Why didn’t she tell us?”
“Hannah?”
“Oh my God.”
The row of my family members clearly feel the same way as they mutter the same questions and thoughts going through my head. My Hannah is the valedictorian.
“You did this,” I hear Dad mutter again.
Hannah elegantly walks up onto the platform, her long caramel waves bouncing against the navy blue gown. Her eyes are bright—happy, and her teeth are glowing white from the pink shade of lipstick she chose. Hannah reaches the podium and shakes the principal’s hand before adjusting the microphone. She stares directly at me because she knows I’m in shock, and I believe she’s enjoying this moment by the smirk on her face.
