Marisha Pessl: Special Topics in Calamity Physics

With his half-a-slice-of-pineapple grin, Norvel turned the floor over to Ashleigh Goldwell, who did Weather. She announced Stockton could expect “high humidity with an eighty percent chance of rain.”

Despite this dismal forecast, as soon as I arrived at St. Gallway (after running my last few errands, Sherwig Realty, the Salvation Army), Eva Brewster made the announcement over the intercom that proud parents would still be ushered to their designated metal folding chairs on the field in front of the Bartleby Sports Center precisely at the stroke of 11:00 A.M. (Five chairs maximum were allotted per student. Any relative spillover would be relegated to the bleachers.) The ceremony would still begin at 11:30. Contrary to the circulating rumors, all events and speakers would proceed as scheduled, including the post-ceremony Garden Hour of Hors d’oeuvres (music and entertainment provided by the Jelly Roll Jazz Band and those St. Gallway Fosse Dancers who were not graduating), where parents, faculty and students alike could circle like Pallid Monkey Moths among the whisperings of Who Got In Where and the sparkling cider and the calla lilies.

“I’ve telephoned a few radio stations and the rain isn’t forecast until later this afternoon,” Eva Brewster said. “As long as all seniors line up on time we should be fine. Good luck and congratulations.”

I was late leaving Ms. Simpson’s classroom in Hanover (Soggy Ms. Simpson: “Can I just say, your presence in this classroom has been an honor. When I find a student who demonstrates such a deep understanding of the material…”) and Mr. Moats also wished to detain me when I turned in my Final Drawing Portfolio. Even though I’d been meticulous in making sure I looked and behaved exactly as I had before my abrupt hiatus from school, a total of sixteen days — dressing the same, walking the same, having the same hair (these were the clues people bloodhounded when trying to chase down Domestic Apocalypse or a Deteriorating Psyche), it still seemed Dad’s desertion had altered me in some way. It had revised me, but only very slightly — a word here, a bit of clarification there. I also felt people’s eyes on me all the time, though not in the same envious way as in my Blueblood Heyday. No, it was the adults who noticed me now, always with a brief yet baffled stare, as if they now noticed something old within me, as if they recognized themselves.

“Glad to know things are back on track,” Mr. Moats said.

“Thank you,” I said.

“We were worried. We didn’t know what had happened to you.”

“I know. Things became hectic.“

“When you finally let Eva know what’d happened, we were relieved. You must be going through a lot. How’s your father doing by the way?”

“The prognosis isn’t good,” I said. It was the scripted sentence I’d sort of relished saying to Ms. Thermopolis (who responded by reminding me they can do wonders “fixing” cancer as if it was just a bad haircut) and Ms. Gershon (who speedily changed the subject back to my Final Essay on String Theory), even Mr. Archer (who stared at the Titian poster on the wall, rendered speechless by the ruffles in the girl’s dress), but now I felt bad when it rendered Moats visibly sad and mute. He nodded at the floor. “My father died of throat cancer too,” he said softly. “It can be grueling. The loss of the voice, a failure to communicate — not easy for any man. I can’t imagine how tough it’d be for a professor. Modigliani was plagued with illness, you know. Degas. Toulouse too. Many of the greatest men and women in history.” Moats sighed. “And next year you’re at Harvard?”

I nodded.

“It’ll be hard, but you must concentrate on your studies. Your father will want it that way. And keep drawing, Blue,” he added, a statement that seemed to comfort him more than me. He sighed and touched the collar of his textured magenta shirt. “And I don’t say that to just anyone, you know. Many people should stay far, far away from the blank page. But you —you see, the drawing, the carefully considered sketch of a human being, animal, an inanimate object, is not simply a picture but a blueprint of a soul. Photography? A lazy man’s art. Drawing? The thinker, the dreamer ’s medium.”

“Thank you,” I said.

A few minutes later, I was hurrying across the Commons in my long white dress and flat white shoes. The sky had darkened to the color of bullets and parents in pastels drifted toward Bartleby field, some of them laughing, clutching their handbags or the hand of a small child, some of them fluffing their hair as if it were goose-feather pillows.

Ms. Eugenia Sturds had mandated that we “load” (we were bulls to be unleashed in a ring) in the Nathan Bly ’68 Trophy Room no later than 10:45 A.M., and when I pushed open the door and made my way into the crowded room, it seemed I was the last senior to arrive.

“No disturbances during the ceremony,” Mr. Butters was saying. “No laughter. No fidgeting—”

“No clapping until all names are called—” chimed Ms. Sturds.

“No getting up and going to the bath room—”

“Girls, if you have to pee, go now.”

Immediately, I spotted Jade and the others in the corner. Jade, wearing a suit in marshmallow white, hair slicked into a mais oui twist, reviewed her reflection in a pocket mirror, rubbing lipstick off her teeth and smacking her lips together. Lu was standing quietly with her hands together, looking down, pitching forward and backward on her heels. Charles, Milton and Nigel were discussing beer. “Budweiser tastes like fuckin’ rabbit piss,” I heard Milton remark loudly, as I skirted to the other side of the room. (I’d often wondered what they talked about now that Hannah was gone and I was sort of relieved to know it was hackneyed and had nothing to do with The Eternal Why; I wasn’t missing much.) I pushed past Point Richardson, Donnamara Chase sniffing in distress as she dabbed a wet napkin along a blue pen streak across the front of her blouse, Trucker wearing a green tie with tiny horse heads floating in it and Dee safety-pinning Dum’s crimson bra straps to her dress straps so they didn’t show.

“I all can’t fathom why you told mom eleven forty-five,” Dee said heatedly.

“What’s the big deal?”

“The procession’s the big deal.”

“Why?”

“Mom’s all not going to be able to take pictures. Because of your mal á la tête mom’s all missing our last day of childhood like a crosstown bus.”

“She said she was going to be early —”

“Well, I didn’t see her and she’s wearing that highly visible purple outfit she wears to every thing—”

“I thought you forbade her to wear the highly visible—”

“It’s starting!” squawked Little Nose, perched on the radiator at the window. “We have to go! Now! ”

“Grab the diploma with the right, shake with the left, or shake with the left, grab with the right?” asked Raging Waters.

“Zach, did you see our parents?” asked Lonny Felix.

“I gotta pee,” said Krista Jibsen.

“So this is it,” Sal Mineo said solemnly behind me. “This is the end.”

Even though the Jelly Roll Jazz Band had broken into “Pomp and Circumstance,” Ms. Sturds callously informed us No One Was Graduating Anywhere until everyone calmed down and formed the alphabetized line. We tapewormed, exactly as we’d practiced all week. Mr. Butters gave the signal and opened the door with American Bandstand flourish and Ms. Sturds, as if unveiling a solid new line of mules, arms raised, her floral skirt jitterbugging around her ankles, stepped out onto the lawn in front of us.

The sky was a massive bruise; someone had punched it in the kisser. There was an uncouth wind, too. It wouldn’t stop teasing the long blue St. Gallway banners hanging on either side of the Commencement Stage, and then, growing bored, turned its attention to the music. In spite of Mr. Johnson’s cries for the Jelly Roll Jazz Band to play louder (for a second I thought he was shouting “Sing out, Louise!” but I was wrong), the wind intercepted the notes, sprinting away with them across the field, and punted them through the goal posts, so all that was audible were a few shabby clangs and honks.