Chapter 134: Last Day of Class

Friday, May 18, 1984

Here we finally were, at the last regular class day of high school for us seniors.

The second, of course, for me and Angie.

‘Last regular class day’ is, of course, arbitrary. Virtually all senior classes were done in terms of content, so perhaps some day last week — before the CLEP and AP tests — was the last real regular class day.

But this was the last day in our lives that we’d walk into high school and go in an orderly progression from class period to class period, covering all of our classes along the way. That had been the constant in our lives since fourth grade, when we moved from one or two elementary school classrooms to a class per subject. Most people had no feel for what college would really be like, simply in terms of the mechanics of things.

It was a day for celebration, and most of us were.

I’m sure some kids weren’t. An unlucky few would be back for summer school, struggling through whatever requirement they still needed to graduate. I didn’t know anyone in that boat, but there had to be some, and there would be a few more after finals as kids unexpectedly failed some class or another. Spring Branch ISD was lenient, though — a senior who needed a summer school class they would reasonably be expected to complete could graduate with their peers. They just wouldn’t receive an actual diploma until the coursework was completed.

We were deeply into ‘the end of the beginning’ territory now, and everyone knew it.

They’d messed with the finals schedule again. We would have three finals Monday, three Tuesday, and one Wednesday. Not as nice as last year, but we’d be done by Wednesday at noon, which was fine by me. The Cast Party would be on Thursday, Friday was a day to recover, and then the graduation ceremony would begin on Saturday at 3pm.

Friday would also be our big day of working with Connie, unless something changed wildly.

Yearbooks came out today, and much of our class time was filled with signing each other’s yearbooks, writing funny quotes or messages that might, hopefully, still be meaningful in a decade, or two, or three. Given Angie’s experience after graduation, I might well be the only student at Memorial who had any idea what that was like.

My understanding was vague, too. No one had signed my first-life yearbook. I hadn’t thought it important, so I hadn’t had them sign. I’d signed some of theirs, but not Dave Winton’s, and he was the only friend I’d kept.

This time? I had dozens of signatures. Some pages strained to contain them (particularly the page with the Rileys — Mel had written nearly a short essay about how important I was to her).

The ‘celebrity’ thing only increased that. Girls I didn’t know asked me to sign, and signed mine, all while asking me questions about Jess. Guys, too — a few making comments that pushed the line of taste badly, but none that I had to smack down. But it was much more the girls than the guys. I suspected nearly every girl at Memorial knew that Jess had checked my tonsils in the parking lot. Relatively few guys, though, had either gotten the news or thought it was worth talking to me about it.

Thinking about it, I’d appeared only a handful of times in that first-life yearbook. My picture, of course; a group picture of the Debaters; a picture of our State Computer Math team; a picture of the National Merit Finalists; the senior class group picture.

I was all over this one. Student Council, Drama and Debate (individual and group photos), and at least five ‘campus life’ group shots, plus everything from my first-life except Computer Math.

Angie was everywhere, too, and so were most of my friends. Jess was the champion, but there was no surprise there. Everyone knew Jess was going to be all over the yearbook. She was a highly photogenic overachiever.

Jess, Jasmine, and I were all in the photo for the musical, of course. I’m pretty sure everyone in Drama that had a yearbook had everyone in the cast sign it. I definitely did.

For each period, we’d have one more session — the final exam — and that would be it. There would be people I’d known for years who I would literally never see again after that last session — graduation was too chaotic for everyone to see everyone else.

Bittersweet, but the yearbook signing masked that and made it a very enjoyable day.

In Drama, Jess came over and quietly said, “Okay, that’s twice you’ve said ‘As you wish.’ It’s obviously a reference. Should I know? Can I know?”

“You can know,” I said. “There’s a book by William Goldman named ‘The Princess Bride’. It’s allegedly a shortening of another book. The longer book doesn’t actually exist, though, but it’s a great framing device. Anyway, the hero ... or, perhaps, one of the heroes ... often responds to the princess — the one in the title — by saying ‘As you wish.’ In a way, it’s him saying he loves her and will do whatever she wants. It’s quite a good book, and I think you’d like it.”

“Thanks!” she said. “I’ll have to check it out. It sounds good.”

“As you wish,” I said. That got a grin, which was quickly followed by a kiss.

Which was itself quickly followed by a number of people saying “Woo-hoo!” to us.

Drama was nearly the end. Steffie barely mentioned Nationals with everything else that was going on, but asked those of us who were going to head to Meg’s room once seventh period was out — or earlier, if possible. Of course, part of that was because many of us would be in Meg’s room.

Debate was, of course, The End. The last period on the last day of classes. The last regular class period of the class I’d spent more time in (by far!) than any other single class of my life. Five and a half years!

We didn’t do anything special. We would still have a ‘final’ — if a very easy one — and we would say our goodbyes there.

I meant to keep more of the debaters, and drama kids, in my life than any other group, but some would be gone. I’d never been close to either Janice or Eric. Friends, sure, but distant ones. Linda and Darla were each more of a question. I’d been close, and still was, but things might change.

Megan? I was hopeful there, but we would see.

After class, once the other Drama kids had arrived, Meg smiled and said, “Okay, everyone! Almost all of you will be eighteen at Nationals.”

She gave Angie and Jaya looks.

“I’ve already spoken with Steffie about Drama. Basically, the scoop is that we’re going to assign rooms, but you are adults, it’s not officially a school function, and we’re not going to be doing bed checks or the like, so you can shuffle around as you wish. However, it had better not affect how anyone does.”

“How’s that going to work?” Angie asked.

Meg chuckled a bit. “Well ... we’ve got a rooming plan that clearly puts us out of having to act in loco parentis. You’ll need one last parental permission slip. This one will approve the rooming arrangements and also say you’re allowed to do what you want and the school isn’t liable for your craziness. And, yes, they have to be signed by parents — except for Cammie’s. Since that’s impossible as a practical matter, you can sign your own, Cammie.”

“Yay for me!” Cammie said. Surprisingly, there wasn’t any hint of sarcasm there.

“The official rooming arrangements only work because of who our under-18s are. Steve, you’re rooming with Angie. Amit, you’re rooming with Jaya. Jasmine and Carole are together. Jess and Paige are together. Cammie, you’ve got your own room.”

Everyone nodded. That wasn’t bad, but...

“Now, as I said, no one’s doing bed checks, and you can shuffle around as you wish.”

“What about friends?” Amit said. “Sheila’s planning to come hang out, probably with a room of her own.”

“So’s Mel,” Cammie said.

She hesitated, then added, with a bit of a smirk, “I guess she won’t need a room.”

“No one’s doing bed checks, and we can get extra rooms,” Meg said. “Nationals actually provides rooms — there are no hotels near enough to Trinity, so they’re using the dorms — but we can request as many as we’re willing to pay for — they’re not expensive — and you guys get to cover them.”

Jaya stared at Amit and pretended to pout. “You mean I might have to sleep by myself? The horror!”

Everyone chuckled, except Meg, who said, “I’m going to pretend I didn’t hear that. Or, rather, that I heard what you meant: ‘Thank you, Meg, for possibly letting me have a room to myself.’”

Jaya giggled. “Yes, exactly that!”

Meg sighed. “This is much tricker than last year, given two couples — one mixed-gender — plus two people with girlfriends joining them, and then three other girls who I think don’t have that.”

“Who each might wind up in their own rooms,” I said. “If someone else were to cover just one room, anyway. Potentially.”

I gave Meg a wink.

“Well ... yes.” Meg said. “Anyway! The slip is carefully worded. Angie, you’re so close to eighteen that it’d be hard for anyone to really care. Jaya, I will be in serious trouble if you goof up, but...”

Jaya grinned. “Thanks for trusting me, Meg. You know I won’t let you down.”

“I know! There are only so many sophomores I’d trust with this,” Meg said.

“Thank you — and Steffie — from all of us,” I said.

“We want this to work, and we want to respect that you’re eighteen and have graduated. As long as we keep Memorial from getting a black eye if something does go wrong, we’re fine,” Meg said.

Everyone hugged Meg and then headed out. This was actually better than I’d hoped for. Perhaps Jess and Carole would room together, but if they didn’t want to, I’d just pick up an extra room. Tossup on that, really.

I honestly doubted anyone would do any more than kiss and snuggle. We could all go without for a few days. Not that sex was going to ‘sap our competitive juices,’ just that we would all be jealous of sleep time.

Of course, many of us did sleep better after sex...

After school, we decided to dig into a couple of long-delayed errands before our dinner with Candice and Sherry.

Our first stop was at RepublicBank. I brought enough cash to open new accounts (checking and savings) in my name. I went ahead and deposited $50,000, which (of course) triggered one of those annoying CTR (Currency Transaction Report) forms. That wasn’t a problem, since the money was absolutely legal now, but the sooner I was out of large piles of cash, the better.

RepublicBank, meanwhile, was somewhere between thrilled and suspicious about a kid my age opening an account with fifty grand, especially in cash. That I didn’t even blink at filling out the CTR seemed to make them happy.

The manager who opened my account asked me where the money came from, and I said, “Big money on college basketball.”

That got him laughing. I’m certain that he thought that I was joking. In his place, I probably would have, too. Honesty is the best policy, sometimes at least.

He gave me a form to fill out to apply for a RepublicBank-branded MasterCard, and I did. Approval was probably nearly automatic with that much in the bank, and it’d get my credit history started in earnest. Within a year or two, I would probably be happy to have a credit rating. Interest rates were about to fall, and there might be major purchases where borrowing would be smarter than tying up potential investment capital.