4.0

“Oh baby, baby,” he shouts. “I want you so bad.” He leans out his car window, dragging deeply on a crumpled cigarette, pressing his fingers tightly near the filter, pinching the tobacco flat. I keep driving, looking forward.

“I’m real good. I’ll make you feel so fucking good.” His lips are cracked, his hair damp and sticking to his forehead The traffic light turns red, and I’m stuck in tandem, my car next to his bronze truck, sitting side by side like little kids holding hands. He leans towards the passenger window, towards my driver side window, and nods. I stare at the plastic grocery bag on the seat next to me. It contains a white tassel, a silly hat, a polyester graduation robe, and three semi-full packs of cigarettes. It’s 9:30 on Sunday morning. I’m going to mass for the first time. I have to; I’m Valedictorian of the Catholic Women’s college.

The man follows me as I cross the bridge. His truck speeds in front of me, then pulls to the side, slows down to get behind my car. He’s dancing around me, trying to trap me. He wants to make me feel good. I wonder if I’ll make it to mass. It would be a scandal if the Valedictorian with tangerine hair and sailor tattoos doesn’t show. I wonder if he wants to screw me or kill me. Part of me hopes he’ll tie me up so I won’t have to go, so I won’t have bear witness to God or say the Invocation at graduation.

After fifteen blocks, he pulls a U-turn. He’s off to make some other lady feel good. I’m late for the line up. Women in dark robes all hold flowers by the chapel. I pull out my robe from the plastic bag and slip it on while walking in line. I’m the Valedictorian with sailor tattoos and crappy manners. I smoke in line and throw my cigarette on the chapel steps.

I shake in the chapel, press my fingers together, count to twenty at least twenty times. Three women in white gowns slip out onto the stage, the edges of their twirling skirt brushing against the priest’s knee. The balls of their bare feet are wrapped in duct tape. They spin and hurl their bodies forward. Dancing virgins for the Lord with silver feet that grip the stone church floor. Sit, stand, sing, watch people line up to eat wafers. I have to pee the whole time.

During the graduation ceremony, I’m forced to sit on stage. I sit behind the podium so no one sees my knees shake, my feet tap, my sweaty palms brushing against the sides of my gown. The polyester isn’t absorbent so the sweat just moves around in little beads. The nun in the velvet robe says my name a lot. I have to stand up and say a prayer. My intended goal is to invoke the spirit of God. I’ve never prayed standing up or sitting down. I’ve never met the spirit of God. I say some stuff about blessing and gratitude and wisdom. I say amen for the first time in my life, at least attached to the end of a prayer. I’ve secretly practiced saying it for days, lamenting over whether or not the “A” should be nasally or soft.

The cap makes my forehead look big and shiny. My hair looks like straw, scarecrow stuffing. I’m ridiculous and wonder if the man in the truck is making someone feel good. I try to imagine what that looks like. I hear his words, “Baby, oh, Baby.”

I hear my mom’s words, too. “Baby, come home.” It’s my graduation day, thirteen years earlier. I wore a gown I borrowed from a friend’s musty basement. My brother handed me a lavender rose as I processed into a stadium filled with over 700 graduates whose names and faces I swear I never saw before. It was a sea of eyes and blue caps under the sun smothered in a thick blanket of humidity. My gown stuck to my chest. My mom didn’t come. But the principal called my name anyway, shook my hand, and handed me an empty case that said my diploma would come someday. They didn’t get my name right.

I went to my boyfriend’s graduation party. Men wore ties and women wore loose dresses. They handed him crisp envelopes and gifts neatly wrapped with shiny, happy paper. He wore his graduation hat and silky tassel. I threw mine out the window on the way to the party. The phone rang and mom’s words whimper through the phone lines. “Baby, baby come home.”

I never had a party. My graduation present was a visit from the police. My decorations were smashed car glass and an axe and an angry stepfather. I watched my mother cry and say it was a misunderstanding. The police officer heard it before. He handed her a pale blue card with the number of the local battered women’s shelter. He didn’t know I just graduated.

Someone calls my name. I walk across the stage under the bright lights. My eyes feel like they’ve been burned out from staring at the sun too long. A pleasant voice speaks of my achievements, my published stories, my awards, my perfect 4.0. I’m the Valedictorian in sailor tattoos. I’m the Valedictorian who never had a graduation party, who never got a neatly wrapped gift or smooth, pressed card.

The college president, the Dean, a trustee shakes my hand and says
congratulations. The smile like they’re so fucking proud of me, flashing slick teeth that the stage lights twinkle off of. I’ve never met them before. At least they got my name right.

I sit back down while the choir sings. I hear the man’s words again. “Baby, I’ll make you feel so good.” God, I wish someone or something ever could.