The Dean invites family members to make some noise for their graduate. When Caoimhe’s name is called before me, her mother absolutely howls for her.
The Dean glances at his lectern. ‘The following graduate was ranked a top one hundred student of the university, and is the recipient of the Dean’s Prize for the highest weighted average mark …’
Oh yeah. I forgot I got that. Nice, I guess.
The Dean peers at my name on his script. ‘Zee-kay Ger-o-ca-lo!’
There is literally no way you could fuck up pronouncing my name more.
To make it worse, there’s no cheering from my parents – just the barest smattering of restrained, tired applause from the audience before a dead hush.
My face burns as my shoes squeak and echo into the cold silence of the Riverside Theatre. I shake hands with the pruney chancellor, who looks mere days from being a corpse, take my certificates, and get the hell off stage.
I want to die.
I reach the edge of the stage and consider leaping off like a lemming into the abyss beneath me. But a staffer steers me to the steps, where I creep gratefully out of sight.
Xia Chen’s name is called, and her family makes a massive, roaring ruckus for her.
She is so loved.
Post-graduation drinks and canapes are served in a swish space beside the theatre called the BelleVue Ballroom. The walls are covered with thick gold-and-cream drapes, the waitstaff wear bow ties, and the food is served from polished silver trays.
I end up standing in the world’s most awkward circle. On my left, Sabrina, and on my right, my parents.
‘And she kept bragging about her daughter being on the Dean’s List, as if it was impossible my son was smart, too,’ my mother says, continuing her rant about the bitch she hated beside her in the theatre. ‘I looked right at her when they announced your award and said, “That’s my son. Top hundred! Ha!”’
I roll a samosa in sweet chilli sauce and wonder if I could choke myself on it.
‘Top hundred of how many, but?’ Dad booms, chewing a mini sausage roll ostentatiously. He doesn’t possess an indoors voice. ‘If there’s only two hundred students, not much to write home about, is it?’
‘There are twenty-thousand students at the university – it’s a huge achievement,’ Sabrina tells them, fixing me with a warm smile and rubbing my shoulder. ‘And the Dean’s Prize goes to the top student in the entire school. I’m sure you’re very proud of Zeke. I know I am.’
My mother peers at Sabrina like she’s an errant crumb on a tablecloth. ‘What do you mean? I’m proud ofbothmy boys. I just don’t think there’s a place for snobbery. All these people talking about academia as if they’re better than those of us whoonlyfinished high school!’ She clicks her tongue dismissively. ‘You’ve met Robbie, Sabrina. He chose a different path, but I’m as proud of him as I am of Zeke. University isn’t the be all and end all. Robbie has a stable job, a house, a beautiful wife, Natalie, and a little girl, Bianca.’
‘We’re very proud of Robbie,’ Dad says staunchly.
It’s as if Sabrina’s comment was a rocket-propelled grenade aimed at my mother’s photo cabinet.
‘Yes, of course,’ Sabrina says, cautiously. My parents usually dote on her – we’re pretty sure they hold out hope for me to get back with her one day – but she knows my mother can be prickly. ‘But today isZeke’sgraduation – you must be proud of him, too?’
‘Oh, Zeke! Zeke’s always beenvery goodwith books, very intelligent!’ my mother says, booping me on the nose so nobody except me notices her not answering the question. ‘I read to him when he was a baby. I breastfed him until he was two, which makes a difference to the brain.’
I reach for the samosa tray, but they’re all gone. Dammit. Nothing to choke myself on.
‘Fine to be book-smart, but you need street smarts to get a job,’ Dad says. ‘Found one yet, bud?’
Thankfully, the Dean comes over and interrupts us, shaking my hand and congratulating me on my accolades.
‘Well done, Zee-kay,’ he says. My mother stifles a giggle; Dad doesn’t and literally guffaws. ‘You must be so proud?’ he asks my parents.
‘Top one hundred!’ my mother gushes. ‘Always knew he was special.’
Once the Dean shuffles off, Dad guffaws again. ‘Bloke looks like the Professor of Wanky Dresses at Hogwarts. Gay-arse hat, isn’t it?’
Sabrina bristles like a cold wind just blew through the room. If I could telepathically tell her to shut up, I would, but even as I bulge my eyes warningly at her, she’s in full flight.
‘I’m surprised to hear you say that, given your own son is gay!’ Sabrina says.
