April's Fool Extended
Copyright© 2024 by P. Tango
Chapter 4
The final bell of the year hit the hallway like both a starting gun and a fire alarm. Doors flew open. Kids spilled out, shouting, laughing, dragging backpacks that thumped along the floor. Someone hurled a notebook into the air like confetti.
Robert walked at a normal pace, backpack slung over one shoulder, a folded study guide still sticking out of the pocket like an afterthought. For everybody else, the year was done. For him, it felt more like the clock had started on something bigger.
“Grades are up in the main hall!” someone yelled.
The crowd shifted in that direction. He thought about just going home. He already knew what his grades would look like: A’s, maybe an annoying A-minus in PE, which he would mentally blame on dodgeball.
Curiosity tugged anyway. He let himself be carried along until he ended up near the glass trophy case, where lists were taped behind the glass.
HONOR ROLL – SENIORS.
His eyes skimmed down. There: MERCER, ROBERT – 4.0 A small note typed beside it: Valedictorian.
He stared at the word a second longer than he meant to. It wasn’t a shock. It still landed with a weird weight, like a label that didn’t quite fit yet.
“Congratulations, Mercer,” came a voice at his elbow.
Mr. Peters. Of course he’d be lurking here.
“Thank you, sir,” Robert said.
“You’ll do great at MIT,” the teacher said, giving his shoulder a quick squeeze. “Just remember to see daylight every now and then.”
“I’ll try,” Robert said, and this time the smile wasn’t entirely polite.
Across the hall, Mary elbowed her way toward the sophomore list. Her stomach was in her throat. She found her last name and scanned sideways.
MERCER, MARY – Passed.
No bold. No honors. Just that one word. Passed.
Her knees went a little weak. She stepped back, sucking in a breath that came out broken.
Okay. Not a complete disaster. She could live with “passed.”
She spun and nearly smacked into someone.
“Sorry,” she muttered.
“It’s okay,” April said.
They stood side by side for a few seconds, both pretending to study the sheets like there was a hidden message written in the margins.
April found her name: LOZANO, APRIL. A row of grades that all hovered around “decent, but not impressive” stared back at her. No special symbols. No little stars. Just numbers that said, plainly: you’ve been coasting and it caught up with you.
Her fingers tightened on the edge of the program she was holding.
“Well?” Mary asked, voice low.
“I didn’t fail,” April said. “So ... I guess that’s the headline.”
Mary huffed a tiny laugh. “Could be worse.”
“Yeah,” April said. “Trust me, I’ve already covered ‘worse’ this year.”
They didn’t hug or do some heartfelt goodbye. They just drifted in different directions, pulled apart by the hallway current.
Graduation rearranged the football field into something that tried very hard to look important. Rows of white folding chairs faced a low stage. There were flowers and banners and a cheap sound system that crackled every time someone tapped the mic. The air smelled like cut grass, sunscreen and anticipation.
Samantha tugged at the shoulders of Robert’s gown for the third time.
“Mom,” he said, not really protesting, just observing.
“Let me fix you,” she insisted. “I don’t get to do this twice.”
“You can iron my lab coat someday,” he said.
She laughed, eyes shiny. “Deal. My son, the valedictorian,” she added, mostly to herself.
Mary stood nearby, holding a small gift bag behind her back like she was sneaking contraband. Her outfit was fine—nice jeans, a decent top—but she still felt like she’d shown up underdressed to a really important scene in someone else’s movie.
“Break a leg, nerd,” she said when he turned toward her.
He raised an eyebrow. For half a second she panicked she’d screwed it up again.
Then he nodded. “Thanks.”
Not warm. Not cold. Just ... flat. It hit harder than an actual insult would have.
Seniors were herded into lines. Caps straightened, tassels poked at, names checked. The whole snake of blue gowns began to move toward the stage in a slow, shuffling procession.
April sat somewhere in the middle of the bleachers, one leg crossed over the other at the ankle, program fluttering lazily in her hand. From up here, the graduates were just a moving patch of blue.
Beside her, Jorge adjusted his sunglasses and leaned forward, scanning the front rows.
“Isn’t that the boy?” he asked, nodding toward the stage where staff were fiddling with microphones.
“Robert,” April said. Saying his name out loud still felt weird. “Yeah. That’s him.”
“The one who forgave you,” Jorge said quietly.
“The one I made a public idiot out of,” she muttered. “And yeah. He forgave me.”
He didn’t answer. He didn’t have to. She could feel the disappointment sitting between them like a third person.
The ceremony started. Principal. Superintendent. Some school board guy who said “educational excellence” so many times it lost all meaning. If it had been last year, April would’ve been whispering jokes and rolling her eyes. Now she just sat there feeling like somebody had turned down the saturation on her whole life.
“And now, it is my honor to present this year’s valedictorian: Robert Mercer,” Mrs. Pollard said.
Polite applause. A whistle or two. From the far side she heard Marla’s unmistakable yell: “Go, Mercer!”
Robert walked to the podium, cap tucked under his arm. He adjusted the mic like he’d done it a thousand times. He looked calm, which for some reason annoyed her a little. He was supposed to be nervous. Valedictorians were supposed to be awkward and sweaty.
Her brain’s old reflex came up automatically: Look at him, nerd in a fancy dress.
It fizzled before it finished forming. That image of him in the cafeteria, rose on the floor, tear on his cheek, slammed in right after.
“Good afternoon,” he started. His voice carried better than she expected. “When I started high school, I figured it would be four years of survival mode. Just get through it. Endure the jokes, the labels, the cliques, and hope it all mattered less someday.”
A few scattered laughs. The kind where people recognized themselves and didn’t entirely like it.
April slouched a little, ready for the standard “we did it, follow your dreams” speech.
“High school isn’t always kind,” he went on. “It gives you nicknames you never picked. Reputations you didn’t sign up for. It teaches you how loud a cafeteria can get ... and how quiet it can feel when you’re the one on the wrong end of the joke.”
The back of her neck went hot.
He’s not going to say my name, she thought. He’d never do that. But it still felt like someone had moved a spotlight and left it shining right on her.
“We’ve all messed up,” Robert said. “We’ve laughed when we shouldn’t have. Stayed quiet when we should’ve said something. Looked away when it would have cost us nothing to look someone in the eye.”
Her fingers crumpled the corner of the program. The instinctive excuses lined up in her head: It was just supposed to be funny. Everyone does stuff like that. I said I was sorry. None of them sounded good from this angle.
On the bench in front of her, two former squadmates shifted like their seats had suddenly gotten uncomfortable. Good, she thought automatically, then blinked at herself. Since when was she glad to see them squirm?
“I don’t stand here as someone who had a perfect high school experience,” he said. “I stand here as someone who survived it, thanks to teachers who pushed me, a mom who believed in me, and ... some lessons I never wanted but probably needed.”
Yeah, I’m one of those, she thought, and for once it didn’t feel like something to shrug off.
“As we leave this field and go in a hundred different directions,” he said, “I hope we remember something simple. Being smart is good. Getting into good schools is great. But honestly? People are going to remember how we treated them way longer than they’ll remember our test scores.”
The line landed quietly. It wasn’t neat enough to be a quote for the yearbook, but it punched a little lower in the gut.
“Congratulations, Class of 2019,” he finished. “We made it.”
The applause came up again, louder this time. Some kids clapped because that’s what you do at the end of a speech. Some clapped because they actually heard him. It was hard to tell which was which.
April clapped too. Her hands stung, but not from the force. Every sentence felt like it had hit some place she’d been carefully not looking at for months.
“Good speech,” Jorge said beside her.
“Yeah,” she said. “It was.”
She didn’t say the other thought banging around in her head: I would’ve made fun of that speech a year ago. And I’m probably the one who needed it most.
After the diplomas were handed out and the caps got tossed into the air (one almost landed in the principal’s hair, which would have been the highlight on a normal day), the field turned into a chaotic maze of hugs and photos and people yelling each other’s names.
Samantha grabbed Robert first, wrapping him in a hug that nearly knocked his cap off for real.
“I am so proud of you,” she said into his shoulder, voice shaking.