Goldberg: Grad night

By Tod Goldberg

It's 1989 and I'm staring out over a sea of drunken, uncomfortable teens wearing brilliant red gowns. Each of the assembled teens has a medal around his neck, a rather thin piece of metal emblazoned with the logo of our high school against some fancy gold paint. From my vantage point, I can make out the medals very well and it occurs to me that the family that threatened to sue the school if their child didn't get to wear a medal (their C-minus daughter would feel highly discriminated against if she saw the honor society students with medals around their necks and hence...) never thought of the glare it would cause for anyone standing before them. I try to find a single point of blackness to focus on, a spot not glowing in the entire room, and my eyes finally rest on the one girl I've had a crush on all through high school but never actually got the nerve to ask out. Here we are, I think, on the night of our high school graduation. Two people. Two souls.

Our eyes lock. Yes. We are one.

Except, I don't think that is actually her. No. No, it's not her. I believe I'm actually making eye contact with the girl with the most unfortunate last name in history: Spits. Her first name doesn't matter, has never mattered, and I think, right here on the stage, that she'll probably change her name on the morning of her 18th birthday.

In about 45 seconds, after the applause dies down and the beach ball is corralled, I'm supposed to deliver the keynote graduation speech for my high school. My GPA is 2.52. I am not an honor student. I am headed to Pierce Junior College. The yearbook I just edited has been banned by the school district. In four hours, along with every other graduate for 500 miles, I'll be at Disneyland for Grad Night. I understand Ready for the World is going to tear the roof off that mother sucker. Too bad Terence Trent D'Arby canceled.

Behind me, I hear the Valedictorian mutter that I shouldn't be up there, that I'll probably do something embarrassing, which is true. I think I might very well vomit. I might very well vomit on her. She was just on the stage a moment ago giving her speech and she quoted several dead English poets. She admonished us all to be ever vigilant. She moved her head from side to side when she spoke, for emphasis no doubt, something she learned for a Soroptimist debate team perhaps, but by virtue of the fact that her hair is styled in such a way that there isn't any real style, is, in fact, reminiscent of a lion's pelt dipped in hot wax and then Aqua Netted into place, I imagine that vomit might just improve her appearance. She has a 4.5 GPA and is technically already a sophomore in college, but I had sex during high school and that has to be worth something.

I'm not up here for any kind of merit other than being able to craft a speech that my peers and at least one teacher found funny and insightful, though right now the speech trembling in my hands doesn't seem to contain much of either humor or insight. In fact, it seems pretty damn trivial when I consider that last year Bob Hope was the speaker. It was like God stepped down from the heavens--or, in this case, his mushroom-shaped house in Palm Springs--and delivered a sermon. People talked about Bob's speech all year long, referred to it in casual conversation, remarked how they'd never forget a word he said since he doubtlessly had only two or three years left to live. This year, it was a class-wide competition and I won. And here I am: 2.32 GPA. I know. I said 2.52 earlier, but that was a lie. It is really 2.32. Beneath my red gown I'm wearing a suit and fur-tipped creepers. I'm so punk it's sick.

I scan the crowd again. I find my friends. There's Jim and Alex and Steve and...well, I'm sure lots of my friends are out there. I'm sure we'll be friends forever. I'm sure life after today will be just like a John Hughes movie. Except that John Hughes movies never actually show what happens after today. In fact, they always just show the stuff leading up to today, like 16th birthdays, prom and detention. Shit. I've been 16 for two years! Prom happened two months ago! I've had countless hours of detention and never once ended up doing a protracted dance number, having a serious conversation with a sage janitor or experiencing a microcosmic confluence of social (though lily-white) classes in one small space wherein we all found ourselvesÉand fell in love, too.

Mr. Hughes, you have failed me. What am I supposed to do now?

I look past Ms. Spits and into the glare of students and decide that none of this will matter and I'll likely forget it all. What lasting impression could it possibly make when I'm mere seconds from being an adult?