“We’re survivors. So now let’s live.”
The auditorium erupted again and Tucker could barely hide his grin as he walked back to his seat, twirling his silver salutatorian tassels. I couldn’t help but smile, too. Survivors. What better word for people who made it out of this place alive?
Mr. Gunthrie waited for the applause and cheering to die down, and then said, “Ladies and gentlemen, your valedictorian, Miles Richter.”
The sudden silence in the auditorium was even more pronounced because of the deafening noise that had preceded it. No one clapped. I couldn’t tell if it was because they were scared, angry, or surprised.
Miles stood and looked around much like Tucker had, but he didn’t fidget while he did it. His fingers rapped against the wooden top of the podium. Tap, tap, tap, tap. Mr. Gunthrie cleared his throat loudly, but Miles was silent.
Then Miles looked toward where I stood in the doorway. He smiled.
“I know that most of you don’t want to hear anything I have to say,” he began. “And I know the rest of you really do. And I also know that these two things mean that all of you are listening attentively. That’s exactly what I want.
“James Baldwin said, ‘The most dangerous creation of any society is the man who has nothing to lose.’” Miles sighed and swept the graduation cap off his head. He glared at it for a moment, then threw it to the side of the stage. Behind him, Mr. Gunthrie’s face turned a mottled hue of purple.
“I always thought those things looked ridiculous,” Miles grumbled into the microphone. A few hesitant chuckles came from the crowd, like they weren’t sure if he was joking or not. Then he said, “For a long time, I had nothing to lose. I was that dangerous creation. I know most of you probably think I’m a jerk”—he glanced at me again—“and you’re right, I am. Not the kind that vandalizes cars and kills pets, but I am an arrogant, pretentious jerk. I do think I’m better than all of you, because I’m smarter. I’m smarter and I’m more determined to do what I set out to do.”
I wasn’t sure what guidelines Miles had been given for his speech, but if the shade of Mr. Gunthrie’s face was anything to go by, he had wildly ignored them.
“I used to think all of that, anyway,” he continued. “I still do, kind of. I’m learning to . . . not to change, because in all honesty I like the way I am. Not what I do, but who I am. No, I’m learning to . . . keep it bottled up? Displace it? Control my frustration? Whatever it is, it’s working. I don’t feel like that dangerous creation anymore. I no longer have any motivation to do the things I did here.
“For anyone I’ve wronged—I’m sorry. Whatever I did and for whatever reason I did it, I’m sorry. Meine Mutter”—I pictured Cliff squirming in his seat—“always taught me that apologizing is the polite thing to do.”
I could imagine the radiant smile stretching across June’s face.
“I want to say a few more things. The first is to our wonderful salutatorian.” He turned and addressed Tucker. “I didn’t mean what I said to you. You were my best friend, and I screwed that up. You deserved better.
“The second is to the East Shoal High School Recreational Athletics Support Club. I think if it hadn’t been for you, I would have killed myself a long time ago.”
We were probably the only ones who realized how serious he was.
“The third is to all of you. I used to be scared of you all. It’s true. I used to care what you thought and I used to care that you might try to hurt me. Well, not anymore. So, to the latter, see how far you get in a fistfight. And to the former, try this on for size—I am in love with Alexandra Ridgemont, and I don’t care what you think about it.”
He looked up at me again, and the world solidified under my feet.
“I feel like there’s something else, but I can’t quite remember. . . .” His fingers tapped against the podium. He shrugged and began to walk back to his seat . . . then he clapped his hands together with an “Oh, right!” and whipped back around, yanking the microphone to his face in time to say, “Fickt euch!”
From somewhere in the middle of the sea of students, Jetta’s hands shot into the air and she cried out a triumphant, “Mein Chef!”
I couldn’t tell why everyone else began cheering—the realization that what Miles had said was probably very vulgar?—but their voices shook the floor.
Mr. Gunthrie stood, perhaps to haul Miles off the stage, but Miles slipped away at the last second and made his way down the aisle. My orderlies pulled me back, into the hallway. I heard the auditorium doors swing open again, but we were outside, standing in the crisp night air, before Miles caught up with us.
“Wait!”
“I just want to talk to him!” I said, glancing over my shoulder at Miles. “Please. I won’t try anything.”
The orderlies looked at each other, then at me. “Two minutes,” one of them said. “We have to leave before everyone else gets out here.”
“Fine. Got it.”