A Year of Winter

twenty-six

❄

The auditorium was capably converted into a large-scale graduation ceremony, and looked almost too picturesque upon our entrance. It looked like a carbon copy of an old 80s film, streamers and paper banners hanging from the ceiling that read “CONGRATS, GRADS.” Noelle pointed them out as we walked in, adjusting her mortarboard.

“They went all out this year. Streamers and signs,” she laughed sarcastically.

I laughed nervously, wanting to lighten up, but feeling a pit in my stomach as well.

She looked at me with concern instantly, noticing the worry in my eyes and the hand that tightened around my speech that sunk my pocket like a weight. “Hey, Henry, don’t get anxious, okay?” She said softly, as if she’d read my mind. She pressed a hand to my arm and smiled, “You’ll be great. You always are.”

Andrew was busy preoccupying himself with finding a seat, and I continued to stare at the stage, my mind fixed on the idea of tripping over my own two feet on my way up. My mouth felt dry, and I licked my cracked lips before I could speak. “I don’t feel very good, all of a sudden.”

She smiled sadly and laughed, pulling me into a hug. Shamelessly, she rested her head against my chest and smiled against the robes. I felt startled for a moment, but allowed myself this one moment of grandeur before implications and double entendres would begin to blur my sense of judgment.

She pulled away and looked up at me, a sparkle in her eye. “I believe in you, Henry. I always have.”

I smiled meekly and nodded at her, grateful. “Thanks, Elle.”

She grinned back at me slyly, releasing my arms so she could cross her own across her chest. “Good,” she said. “Now go up there and kick some ass. It’s time to graduate.”   

❄

Andrew and Noelle had found their families amongst the couple hundred students in our class when I nervously stood behind the scenes, not yet found my seat, my thumbs twiddling anxiously. The card that I’d written my speech on sat in my hands, taunting me, wishing to be read. I tried not to think about it.

I was so busy worrying about my own possible follies that I didn’t notice it when Freddie appeared beside me. He looked as he always had, tall and lanky with unkempt curly dark hair and untreated acne. I was sure, though, that one day that acne would fade away, and he’d own an empire of his own. That’s how those things always played out.

“Hey, Henry,” he said quietly. He looked at me meekly; almost apologetic.

I looked up at him briefly before turning back to my card, eyes scanning over it in an attempt to memorize at least a few lines before I would be called up. “Hi, Freddie.”

There was silence for a bit.

“So, graduation,” he finally said, in awe.

"Yeah. Graduation.”

“Wow.”

 “Yeah, wow.”

He pursed his lips, his leg jittering nervously. “Look, Henry—I know we haven’t gotten along in the past, but I just want you to know—”

“—Freddie, I don’t care about that. It’s okay,” I told him carelessly. “It’s all okay.”

He shook his head, “No. It’s just that…” he looked at the ground, curiously thinking of how to phrase his next sentence. “…I wanted to say I’m sorry about what happened between you and Winter.”

My eyes widened, and quickly I looked up at him. “What?” I said, my tone unintentionally acidic.

He looked nervous. “I’m just…I know she meant something to you. And I don’t claim to know much about either of you guys, but word is that she’s gone,” he said, avoiding my gaze. He looked down at the ground; his shoelace was untied underneath his blue graduation robes. “And I’m sorry.”