Tide Changer

One

Welcome to the story of Rys and Lyra!
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***

Lyra is pronounced /leer-uh/

One

According to my mother, my adulthood started today.

Not when I turned eighteen. Or even when I turned twenty-one. Today, because of my graduation from Northcaster University. She said the fun was over as if four years of hard work infused with crushing doubts regarding my professional future were the definition of a good time.

I blew out a breath and shifted in my chair. The black fabric of my toga clung to the backs of my thighs the same way long strands of my hair stuck to my nape. An hour spent with a flat iron went to waste — I didn't need a mirror to know my hair wasn't straight anymore.

"Lyra."

My gaze traveled over the rows of seats in front of the stage, looking for the owner of the voice. Brock gave me a half-amused, half-reproachful grin. Our four-year relationship took care of him knowing I zoned out.

He was the next to be called. I waved at him, smiling.

"Brock Coleman."

It felt as if the whole stadium erupted in cheers. "Bro! Bro! Bro!" his friends chanted as he jumped off the chair and strutted to the stage. He stopped midway and turned, giving a thumbs-up to those watching.

I glanced at the row where our families sat over my shoulder. Their focus was on Brock when he lifted the diploma and fist-pumped the air as if it was a Ph.D. and not a Bachelor's degree in Administration.

My dad said something to Brock's father, nodding toward the stage. A proud grin was plastered on Mr. Coleman's face. He was surely counting the days until his son started helping him with their hotel business. My father probably envied him since his only child, me, chose to be a design-loving black sheep instead of learning to manage the chain of beach resorts our family owned.

Brock descended the steps and sauntered back toward his chair. It took him a while to get there as his friends swarmed him with congratulatory pats on the back.

"Congratulations," I mouthed when he swiveled his head, and his eyes paused on me.

He winked. I tried to refocus on the ceremony, but the beads of sweat rolling down my back made it hard. Who decided black togas were appropriate for this heat? And why couldn't my last name start with D? I'd still have had to sit through the rest of the commencement ceremony, but I wouldn't be so nervous.

Having all the attention on me was the worst. Worse than burning the tip of my ear with the flat iron and hitting my pinky toe on the edge of the dresser in my rush to get ready while Mom yelled that everyone would be late because of me.

***

"Lyra Walton."

I wish I could say I waltzed to the stage, but I shuffled. My stomach hurt from not having anything in it, my toes ached from the pointed nude stilettos Mom insisted I wear, and my heart thudded painfully at the prospect of having eyes — lots of tired of the endless ceremony eyes — scrutinizing me.

On the last step, I tripped. My heart lurched as several people chuckled, Brock included. My clumsiness was notorious. It never failed to give people something to laugh at, but this time, I was too tired to laugh it off the way I always did.