Lara’s graduation was today. All this time since I left co-op I’ve been thinking, “What will it be like?” To see all those old faces. To be near old crushes; friends. New rivals. New worlds. I can’t say I was anticipating it, but certainly expecting it with apprehension. For years graduation has been something to look forward to -- a mysterious miracle that allows losers like us to move on with our lives. Lara and I have watched as acquaintances are immortalized on stage, receiving their diploma, giving their speeches that - i swear - all come from the same library book on public speaking.

Gosh, I still remember the year Joel Blain graduated. And Shelly. And Jeremy Hall. All of our old and envied idols who took on graduation with such a cool indifference that we labeled them all the more formidable. There are some things about graduation that never change; they aren’t suppose to. They’re the trademark comedies that so subtly reflect our own futures.

Graduation is ALWAYS held at ORU. It doesn’t matter when, it just matters where. The big building that looks like a gilded turtle with interior that is slightly reminiscent of packing material and the eighties all in one. The building is small, but intimate. We squeeze in finding it impossible not to accidentally bump into the most popular girl, or the biggest bitch, or, of course, the cutest guy. The ceremony starts. It’s always cold. Naturally, we’ve forgotten sweaters - intentionally. What girl wants to cape her brazen shoulders in a bulk of insulation? (Well, except for me. My contribution to bettering the world is the consistent concealment of my albino skin.) So after we’ve all found a stylish seat in the back, we settle in and wait with dread for the first speaker. The speech that inevitably mentions God, the future, dreams, and probably some cute metaphor just for sentimental kicks like bunnies with flowers entwined in their fur. Someone always sings at graduation. It’s the worst part. Some KXOJ cover. We find the appropriate shoulder to sleep on during the main speaker. We snore into skin to mask our audible apathy. Each year we have a “video.” Since the graduating class is so small it’s possible to do a memory video, in which pictures of each graduate (young to old) are accompanied by cheesy charismatic music and voiceovers of their parents quoting scriptures. When the popular girl comes on an influx of screaming floods into everyone’s ear. Other snapshots manage to secure arbitrary “Awwwws.”

More charismatic music that is probably on loan from one of the mother’s cd collections. It’s great. God, we love it. We sigh and we moan and we act like we just want it all to be over so we can engage in awkward conversation.... but deep down, it’s all anyone remembers. Even if it is boring. After the technicalities of the ceremony are complete and the audience manages to revive themselves, everyone walks over for the reception. Our archenemy’s mom serves us cookies. We socialize with a gauche quality characteristic of obligatory events or just plain immaturity. Carefully, we sneak out to roam the sacred grounds of nocturnal ORU.

Adventure A: The earliest of my graduation recollections. My first semi boyfriend and I sneak out to stand closely together among the bushes. I’m scared of kissing. Heck, I’m scared of boys. They’re so . . . . stupid. We walk around while I endeavor to spark some small amount of profound conversation. He talks about skateboarding and Nirvana. We hug. I feel sexy because my seventh grade skirt as a slit up the leg. It’s a good feeling but I’d freak if anyone actually TOUCHED my leg. Our parents come out forty-five minutes later. I’m officially grounded. But only after my mom gives the two cutest boys at school a ride home. Bliss. I seriously reconsider the act of kissing.

Adventure B: I’m 15. I’m immature. I have a group of five insanely close friends called the AFA. We do everything together. We make fun of graduation together. We sneak outside to partake in the official roaming of the campus together. There’s a fountain nearby and I commence to hike up my skirt and jump in. Others follow. The camera chronicles the entire thing. Years later I still reference the picture of me feigning a cupid pose to affirm my dorkiness. So the night progresses and we dry off. Sadly relinquishing the wetness of our skin that feels like raindrops. That night I love them more than words are capable of properly conveying. Around 10 we spot a go kart. We considering driving it. All in favor? Six girls speed down the hill screaming inside jokes and feeding the wind with laughter. The next breeze to hit our faces is nothing more than an echo of ourselves.

Adventure C: Graduation rehearsal. Thursday night. Just before the sun sets. My first real boyfriend. I’m not quite 16, but I feel ancient. He lives within walking distance of ORU. I call him. He drives over, parks. We start walking. This is the first time I will see his house. Sit on his porch swing, realize that I don’t need a slit in my skirt for him to touch my leg. It’s the start of summer. Of THE summer. My first kiss. My sweet 16. My choices that ruin everything. The end of my friends. My roots. My school. But in the lazy rhythm of the swing, I’m just a girl writing poetry. Walking barefoot. I still sing in the shower and take naps with my cat. We sit together on the swing and it is as if the orbit of the universe pulls me away from my past and into my future, but despite the suddenness of change, I am always moving in a circle.

Adventure D: Last year. The aftermath of losing my best friends has already come and gone, but graduation puts all our mistakes into perspective. Lara and I rest upon each other and vie for the attention of our mutual crush. Too bad he is sitting with his girlfriend. Inside her bag is her brother’s gameboy. I look at it with affectionate longing. The speaker this year is ten times worse than last. And, God save us, he’s making jokes. About religion. Next year that will be us. I’m at my new school by now ant the whole scenario is unfolding like a poorly written Babysitter’s Club book - if you could pick only one that is “poorly written.” We hold each others hands and talk through a succession of squeezes. Both of us fully aware that next year I will be here, and her there, yet both us arriving at the same destination. Outside I continue the ritual of the fountains. It’s cold but I’m already over the bars and into the water. She wears the look of maturity on her face. Her current love interest has met up with us. It’s two against one. I start to shiver alone in the water, and slowly emerge to shake off the water and miss the past.

This year was the most incongruous graduation ever. It wasn’t graduation, it was some impostor trying to steal away my best friend’s youth and do it without any regard for tradition. Instead of nighttime and ORU it was held during the day at this hideous rotunda style church. Everyone was quiet during the video. No one yelled for the most popular girl, retaining her unparalleled beauty throughout four years of education. Maybe I was wrong, maybe she wasn’t popular anymore. No one even whispered when her smile flashed across the screen. The faces we looked forward to seeing every year were absent. There was not a single crush, no reason to compete for eye contact. Rather we avoided the gazes of the undesirables. My old best friends tried to greet me. I think the sum of our polite attempts was thirty seconds. The next time I heard from them was when they asked me to move out of their picture. Each of the graduates make “memory boards.” Basically, they all have tables to house cardboard triptychs plastered in pictures of their high school lives. I saw my face staring back at me from a few of the boards. Outdated. Expired. I was honestly surprised they hadn’t cut me out of the pictures. It was so much like a museum. Like attending your own funeral Huck Finn style. Of course, it’s a little sad, but I’ve changed so much. I could never go back. I don’t want to. But a part of me can never return and when it tries, I have to lock the doors, bar the gates, say a prayer. I walked around some more, said hi to various parents. Outside, bright light pursued the clouds. There was no fountain to splash in. No nocturnal campus to ritually roam. No cookies served by the mother’s of the antichrist. Just a line in the middle of a big room. An informal vacancy still empty even when occupied.

I’m not a part of this old life. I’ve shed it many times. And perhaps that is why the concept of something new is foreign. I’m so proud of Lara, though. I’m so happy that she’s graduated and ready to start something else. I love her and I will always respect her choices, even when she doubts the validity of my words. I hope she knows that when things are awkward, it’s not her that is the problem, but the constant reminder of who I used to be. During this time of an anticipated “future,” I’ve adamantly concluded, that the “future” is always outdated.