I first noticed that Penrose's doors were wide open, which was a safety and/or health hazard, depending on who the person was. I then noticed that the place looked deserted.
I was picking up my diploma, since I missed my graduation last Friday so that I could be there when my mom got married. Which she didn't end up doing, and while it wasn't her fault, I still missed my high school graduation. I only get to do that once.
Oh, well.
If I had the chance to do it all over again, I still would've gone to Belgium.
+ + + + + +
The Penrose School was not a big one. Classes consisted of 14-15 people at most. And it was a selective school. Not so selective that you have to be Ivy League school-bound, but you had to have a decorative portfolio before applying. As in, plenty of high grades and hard classes.
11th grade was my best year to date. I had A's in all my classes, except gym (weird, huh?). I had a strong, solid B+. So when we moved across the country, I was a shoo-in for this school. However, maybe it was the climate change, or maybe it was just that I had the wrong shoes on, but I didn't feel like putting in the effort this year. Colleges look at senior year too, but at the time, it wasn't a priority. Wipe that judging look off your face, I still tried.
Just didn't try hard enough.
I walked into the main office, where the dean's and vice dean's offices were. The vice dean glanced at me warily, and stood up as my butt hit his desk. "Morning, Hansson.", I smiled.
We don't exactly like each other.
"Good morning, Miss Benson. What can I do for you?", he replied, obviously annoyed. I'm leaving Boston in a month. He should be ecstatic.
"I'm here for my diploma. I wasn't at the graduation, as you recall. I was in Paris, for-"
"Right, Miss Benson. Follow me."
He waltzed into Dean Osterholm's office, and pulled a cabinet out. He leafed through the B's until he found my name. He pulled out a cream-colored paper, with a giant gold circle in the top right corner. Everything was in script or calligraphy, whathaveyou, and embellished in gold. It was the ticket to the rest of my life. And Mr. Hansson had it. I held out my hand for it, but he swatted it away.
"It needs to be sent by mail."
Wha-what?
"But I'm right here. You can just give it to me.", I pointed out. He shook his head.
"School's rule. If a student should miss his/her graduation, therefore missing the handing out of their diploma, the administration of the school is not permitted to give the said document to the student by hand. They must send the diploma upon request, by mail, within 1-2 weeks to the student's address, where they will then receive it. Sorry."
He was enjoying every last minute if this.
"One to two weeks? This is ridiculous. Can't you just give it to me?", I asked again.
He ignored my question. "Coffee?", he asked instead, and walked over to the Keurig on his desk.
"No."
+ + + + +
20 minutes later, Hansson finally made the packaging label. Now, he was on the phone with USPS about a pickup. Why was I still here? Trying to convince the asshole to just give me it.
"Hansson, please. Dean Osterholm isn't here. There are no security guards, or even police here. No one is going to kill you if you just hand me the damn diploma."
आप पढ़ रहे हैं
The Hipsters
किशोर उपन्यासBeatrix Benson was a outsider who didn't fit in at her conformist school. She'd begun to accept a life of loneliness, until the day she met Silas Ingram, the new kid from England.
