Dropping the Ball

30. Senior Year, Ten Days Before Graduation

Senior Year, Ten Days Before Graduation

Kaitlyn

I stare at Mrs. Gaspard, not understanding. “I’m salutatorian?”

“It’s a remarkable achievement anywhere, Kaitlyn, but especially at Hillview. These are the only two named class ranks. You outperformed everyone.”

“Except Micah Croft.” It was that calculus test. How could everything have come down to one test? “Four years of work and none of it matters because I failed a test the day after breaking my nose?”

“You didn’t fail it, Kaitlyn. You got a C on a test in a college-level calculus class. That’s nothing to be ashamed of.”

“How can you even be sure about the ranks?” I ask. “Things could change after finals next week.”

Mrs. Gaspard gives a small sigh and rests her arms on the desk, meeting my eyes with sympathetic ones. If she’s expecting tears, she’ll be disappointed. My nose has only had four days to heal. The swelling is coming down, but crying would be so painful with the pressure and the mucus . . .

“You would have to get at least a ninety-seven on the final and Micah would need to get below a sixty-three for that to happen.”

“I can get an A!”

“I know. But do you think Micah would get anything less?” Her voice is gentle but firm.

I slump against my chair. Of course he won’t. But we wouldn’t even be having this conversation if he had listened to me last week about calling my mom. She still would have dragged me to the doctor when she saw my nose, but I could have kept it from her until after that test.

“I’m telling you now because I wanted to give you time to adjust to the idea,” Mrs. Gaspard says. “I know your expectations for yourself. I know you don’t see salutatorian as the brilliant achievement that it is. But I . . .” She sighs again. “I hoped I’d find a way to help you see it anyway.”

Am I supposed to reassure her now? No, Mrs. Gaspard, you did a great job. It’s not your fault that everything I’ve worked for crumbled around me exactly when I would have no time left to fix it. It isn’t her fault. I don’t blame her. But I’m not in the mood to cheer her up. I have a different, much bigger conversation ahead of me.

I stand and hitch my school bag over my shoulder. It has a draft of the graduation speech I won’t be needing tucked inside it. “Thank you for letting me know.”

Mrs. Gaspard stands too. “Kaitlyn, is there anything—”

“I’m fine, Mrs. Gaspard. I need to go.”

Her forehead furrows, but she nods.

Micah is sitting in the reception area when I walk out, earbuds in, staring at his outstretched legs. I know who he’s waiting for and what she’s about to tell him.

He glances up, and when he sees me, he plucks his earbuds out and stands. “Kaitlyn, how is your—”

“It’s fine.” I keep my eyes straight ahead, like I’m on my way to another very important meeting. “Congratulations,” I say as I leave the office.

“For what?”

I don’t answer, but I hear Mrs. Gaspard call his name. He’ll know soon enough.

And far too soon, I have to tell my parents that after holding the top spot for ninety-nine percent of high school, I lost it at the last minute. My stomach already hurts from imagining their reaction, and a headache is starting, making the dull throb around my nose feel like it’s extending all the way up to my scalp.

I don’t even know how to bring it up with them, but it comes out over dinner.

“How was school, sweetie?” Mom asks.

“I’m not valedictorian.”

Dad sets down his forkful of roast chicken. “What are you talking about?”

“I’m salutatorian.”

“When did this happen?” His eyebrows bunch and his cheeks turn ruddy.

“I found out today. It’s because I got a bad grade on my last calculus test.”

Mom has stopped eating too, her hand resting against her sternum in a loose fist, clutching for pearls she isn’t wearing. “The graduation announcements went out. They say you’re valedictorian.”

I stare at my plate. I know. She ordered a hundred of them. Many of those recipients will be at the ceremony next week to see their own kids or grandkids graduate. My name will still appear in the program. Just not in the spot advertised.

Dad throws down his napkin, dinner half-eaten. “Fantastic. Now all of our so-called friends can call me a liar about this too.” He pushes away from the table, not bothering to look at me.

“Gordon, please,” Mom says, but he storms out. She sighs. “That group filed another lawsuit against him this morning.”

I nod, my throat too tight to say anything.

“We really did not need this kind of negative publicity. There is no circumstance in which we can afford to look as if we’re telling people one thing when the truth is another.”

I look up, thinking I’ve missed a step. “My graduation announcement is publicity?”

“Isn’t it? You’ve just handed ammunition to everyone in our personal circle who wants to take a shot at us.”

With that, she pushes her plate away and leaves the table too.

I am left bleeding out.