Chapter 2
CHAPTER TWO
Bea drove the way she did everything—with enthusiasm and an incomplete understanding of the rules.
“That was a yellow,” Stella said, gripping the door handle as they sailed through the light at Broadway.
“It was lime green.” Bea adjusted the rearview mirror, which she used primarily to check her hair. “Yellow is a suggestion.”
“Lime green.” Stella braced a sneaker against the floor mat as the light went behind them.
“It had a green quality.” Bea took the curve without slowing down.
“Yellow is a warning.”
“Agree to disagree.”
They were in Anna’s car—a twelve-year-old Civic with a temperamental air conditioner and a passenger-side window that only went down three-quarters of the way.
Bea had commandeered it after lunch, claiming that picking up caps and gowns was a milestone event that required independent transportation and a ceremonial coffee stop.
“Coffee,” Bea said, turned onto Forest without signaling, and decided which coffee place she wanted. “We’ll be late.”
“We’re not late. Pickup’s open all afternoon,” Stella said. “You drive like you just learned last year. We’ll be lucky to get there at all.”
“I did learn last year. That’s a perfectly normal amount of driving experience.” Bea turned into the drive-through lane and nearly took out a sandwich board. “What do you want?”
“Iced coffee. Large.”
“Boring.”
“But reliable.”
Bea ordered herself something with oat milk and lavender and a name that took fifteen seconds to say. Stella’s iced coffee came in a plain cup. They took Forest back up toward school with the windows cracked, the June air warm and sweet with jasmine from somebody’s yard.
The high school parking lot was busier than Stella expected.
Graduation was still three weeks out, but the lot was full of seniors—in small groups, leaning against cars, sitting on the low wall by the gym.
The energy was different from a regular school day.
Louder. More electric. Everyone performing their own version of Almost Done.
Bea found a spot at the far end and they walked across the blacktop toward the gym, where a hand-lettered sign taped to the door read CAP & GOWN PICKUP—SENIORS ONLY.
Mr. Reeves was holding the gym door open with his hip when they came through it—dress shirt untucked, coffee in hand, the frazzled look of a teacher in the last three weeks of school. “Walsh. You’ve got your cap and gown. Where’s my proposal?”
“It’s coming.”
“It’s been coming for two weeks,” he said, one eyebrow cocked.
“It’s coming faster now.”
He pointed at her with his coffee cup and sloshed it. “This week, Stella.” And then he was gone, already calling after someone else down the hallway.
The line inside the gym stretched from the folding tables at the far wall back to the bleachers.
Two women Stella didn’t recognize checked names off lists and handed out plastic-wrapped bundles—navy blue gown, matching cap, a tassel still in its cellophane sleeve.
Lindsey was behind them at a third table, surrounded by stacks of paper and looking like she hadn’t sat down in six hours.
She caught Stella’s eye across the gym and mouthed something that might have been “help” or might have been “hi.” Hard to tell.
Her phone rang and she turned away, pen in one hand, clipboard in the other, already talking to whoever was in the line about a stage setup that was apparently behind schedule.
Bea spotted some of her friends almost immediately—three girls near the front of the line who squealed when they saw her and closed ranks around her like a warm, chattering wall.
“Bea! Did you get your orientation packet?”
“Yes. My roommate’s name is Sage.”
“That’s the most CalArts name I’ve ever heard.”
“She does ceramics!” Bea said, and got the reaction she was after.
“She would.”
They pulled Bea into the circle and the conversation folded over itself—CalArts and housing and whether Sage would be cool or weird-cool or just weird.
Then someone said they’d heard the Valencia campus had a pool, and someone else said no, that was the other school.
And Bea was in the middle of all of it, bright and easy, her hands moving while she talked.
One of them—Hailey, tall, field hockey, going to UC Davis—turned and smiled at Stella. “Hey! Are you going back to Australia after graduation?”
“No, I’m staying here.”
“Oh, cool! Where are you going?”
The question was friendly. Perfectly normal. Everyone asked everyone right now—sharing plans like sharing your name.
“Still figuring it out,” Stella said. “Probably community college for a bit until I know what I want to do.”
“Smart,” Hailey said, already turning back to the group.
She was nice about it, but everybody in that line had an answer that fit them like their own name. Stella’s fit like something bought to grow into, and she was still waiting.
The line moved. Stella and Bea shuffled forward together, Bea still half-turned toward her friends, catching pieces of three conversations at once.
A boy Stella vaguely recognized told everyone he’d gotten into Stanford and the whole section of the line erupted.
Someone else was going to nursing school.
A tall girl was taking a gap year to hike the Pacific Crest Trail, which Stella thought was just a more expensive version of not knowing what you wanted to do, except with better gear.
They reached the table. The woman with the list found their names—Walsh, Beatrice. Walsh, Stella.—and handed them each a plastic-wrapped bundle.
“Sisters?” she asked.
“Basically,” Bea said and she smiled at Stella.
“Well, congratulations.”
Bea had hers open before they were ten feet from the table. She pulled the gown over her head right there in the gym, arms through the sleeves, the navy fabric pooling around her sneakers. She set the cap on her head and turned to Stella.
“Well?”
She looked ridiculous. The gown was too long. The cap sat at an angle that suggested a strong breeze would take it. The tassel hung in her face.
She also looked exactly right. Like someone who was ready for whatever came next and couldn’t wait to get there.
“Historic,” Stella said.
“I told you.” Bea adjusted the cap and struck a pose that made two girls walking past actually stop and clap. “Thank you, thank you. Hold your applause.”
Stella kept hers in the plastic.
Lindsey caught them on the way out, phone tucked between her ear and shoulder, one hand raised in a “wait” gesture while she finished a call. She hung up and blew a strand of hair out of her face.
“I see you have your gown.” Lindsey looked past her. “Stella?”
“Got it,” Stella said, and held up the bag.
“Good.” She said this to Stella, then squeezed her arm and dropped her voice. “You doing okay?”
“I’m great.”
“Yeah?” Lindsey studied her for half a second—guidance counselor eyes, quick and practiced—and then her phone buzzed again. “Okay.”
They walked back across the parking lot in the late afternoon sun, Bea still wearing her gown over her clothes, the cap balanced on her head, her tassel swinging. She looked like a very festive bat.
“You didn’t try yours on,” Bea said.
“I’ll try it on at home.”
“You won’t.”
“I might.”
Bea pulled the gown off over her head, folded it carefully, and put it back in the plastic. They got in the car. Bea started the engine, checked her hair in the rearview mirror, and backed out of the spot too fast.
They were quiet for a few blocks. The jasmine was stronger now in the late afternoon heat.
“You know it’s okay, right?” Bea asked, eyes on the road for once. “Not knowing.”
“I know.”
“Because it is. It’s actually smart. You said it yourself—why spend the money until you know what direction.”
“I know, Bea.”
“I’m just saying. Not everybody has to have it figured out at eighteen. That’s insane. We’re eighteen. We barely know how to do laundry.” She flicked the blinker on a beat late and took the turn anyway.
“You barely know how to do laundry. I’ve been doing mine since I was twelve.”
“That’s because you’re Australian and self-sufficient and slightly terrifying.” Bea turned onto Tyler’s street. “I’m just saying it’s fine.”
“I know it’s fine.” Stella looked out the window. Tyler’s bungalow was three houses down, the porch light on even though it was still bright out. He always left it on. “It is fine.”
Bea pulled into the driveway and put the car in park. The engine ticked in the heat.
“Do you want to come in?” Stella asked.
“Can’t. Mom wants help with something at the house. Probably rearranging furniture again.” Bea reached over and squeezed Stella’s hand. “Try the gown on. Just for a second. You’ll look incredible.”
“You looked like a bat.”
“A historic bat.”
Stella took her bundle and her iced coffee and climbed out. Bea backed down the driveway with a wave, the Civic’s brake lights flashing twice at the end of the street before she turned the corner.
The bungalow was quiet. Tyler was still at the Shack. Stella dropped her bag by the door, kicked off her shoes, and stood in the hallway with the plastic-wrapped cap and gown in her hands.
She could hear the neighbor’s dog. A lawnmower somewhere down the block. Sprinklers. The ordinary sounds of a street on a weekday afternoon.
She hung the cap and gown on the back of her bedroom door, still in the plastic, and closed the door behind her so she wouldn’t have to look at it.
Then she opened it again, because that was dramatic and she wasn’t dramatic.
It hung there. Navy blue, wrapped in plastic. Three weeks away from meaning something.
Stella went to the kitchen, poured herself a glass of water, and started editing the photos from that morning. Margo’s profile against the window. Bernie’s pen hovering. Bea with her hand over her mouth.
Other people’s moments, perfectly framed.