Chapter 65
Days later, I've created several sample videos of rainbow UFOs headed toward Oyster Pit using the AI generator app.
Dinah and Brandon take a while to decide which one they want to use, and once they do, they leave it to me to post the footage on their social media channels in addition to their podcast episode.
Before I add anything to their socials, I change the passwords. Then I upload a video to their channel.
Except it's not the one they wanted.
Once I'm done, I head over to my graduation ceremony.
Because they're not done torturing us enough, our school is hosting the graduation outside in the football field. The chairs we sit on are as hot as a frying pan, and the reflection of the sun on the metal bleachers burns our eyes to the point everybody is rubbing them.
Felix is fifteen rows ahead of me. The person I've been attached to for the last six years of my life.
The person who knows more about me than I know about myself.
I'll never see him again after this day.
The back of my throat quivers when I think about it.
Tears well in my eyes, warm from the heat.
Brandon Barton Buckley approaches the podium in his coonskin cap and gown. Aubrey Lam and Dr. Collins are sitting behind him onstage.
“Howdy, folks! I'm so proud to gather here with y'all to celebrate before you set out into the wild, wild west we call the real world.
Before I introduce the valedictorian, I wanted to remind you that we've still got a few spots left for the first-ever semester at IntegriTruth Online University.
Even more exciting, we're having a Memorial Day sale, so you can save on tuition!”
Expecting some applause and getting none, Brandon fills the gap with a laugh and clears his throat.
“Well, I'd love to introduce a special little gal who worked her boots off and ranked first in her class. Here's your Oyster Pit High School valedictorian, Aubrey Lam!”
Tepid applause greets Aubrey, except for a standing ovation from Sutter in the audience. Brandon pinches her cheek before he sits back down.
Aubrey sets her arms on the podium and scans the crowd without a word, something angry stewing in her.
“Distinguished faculty, proud parents, and, of course, our celebrated graduates of Oyster Pit High,” she says. “Before I get into my speech, I feel we must address the… incident… that occurred on our final day of school.”
A murmur ripples through the students. Sra. Breedlove, sitting with the faculty, looks like she's actively trying to suppress a laugh.
“Obviously some of my fellow classmates have a lot of growing up to do before they go to college,” Aubrey continues, her angry eyes like a laser searing through us. “However, I would like to acknowledge one student who demonstrated real IntegriTruth integrity during this regrettable episode.”
She gestures toward the front row. “Sutter Breedlove, please stand.”
Sutter stands proudly despite a chorus of competing boos launched throughout the graduating class.
“When his peers were participating in destruction, Sutter—who I'm proud to call my boyfriend, and who's accepted a full-ride scholarship to IntegriTruth Online University—stayed behind to rescue Scout the Eagle from being hanged over the balcony. He even took it upon himself to wash away the graffiti. This is the type of moral leadership IntegriTruth Educational Solutions celebrates.”
From somewhere in the crowd, a low, guttural grunt emerges. Then another. And another.
They're making Sasquatch noises. Seriously.
“That is enough!” Aubrey says. “I am talking right now.
With gratitude, Daisha and Byron from the theater troupe approached me about doing a skit on what they learned over the year from IntegriTruth, which is something many of you seem to need a refresher on.
I know we've had our differences, but they promised me that this would be something that brings us all together.”
Aubrey backs off as Byron, dressed as a pale-looking Davy Crockett, and Daisha, dressed in the rags and shawl of a plantation slave, take the stage.
“Howdy, y'all! I'm the ghost of Davy Crockett.” Byron waves.
“And I'm just a worker who gets free room and board!” Daisha says with a chuckle.
Their skit begins:
Byron: And let's give a round of applause to our benefactor, Mr. Brandon Barton Buckley!
Daisha: Look at those teeth! Shinier than a new set of rowel spurs.
Byron: We love him and his folksy similes.
Daisha: You know, we can't thank you enough for what you've done for Oyster Pit ISD.
Byron: We were skeptical at the beginning of the year, but IntegriTruth taught us about the importance of truth and tradition.
Daisha: Truth, like is that really Davy Crockett's coonskin cap that Brandon Barton Buckley loves to show off?
Byron: Tradition, like Brandon Barton Buckley carrying seven generations of a Texas family line. Or is he?
Daisha: Great questions! That's why I got a sample of hair from his coonskin cap, which I sent to my cousin's lab at UH. We got a definitive result: Spirit Halloween is always there for any of your costume needs! Sure as hell doesn't sound like Davy Crockett's hat.
Confusion ripples through the audience. Aubrey stands up, her eyes about to pop out of her head. Brandon sits up nervously and adjusts his cap.
Byron: And thanks to our hunky, brave quarterback, Ross McConnell, we collected a sample of Brandon's slobber. A quick DNA test through 23andMe led us down a rabbit hole of relatives and birth certificates, where we found the man himself…
Daisha: Born under the name of Michel Poulin in the great state of, uh, let me, check—Manitoba?
Byron: I don't think that's in Texas, Daisha!
Daisha: He's not related to Davy Crockett. He's not even American. He's Canadian!
Everybody, from me to the families to the students to the staff, gasps so loud you'd think we just sucked up half of the earth's oxygen. I knew he was living a double life, but not this double.
Brandon stands up and marches over to the podium. “That's enough with the pranks! How dare y'all! I am one hundred percent Texan! I will not brook this slander!”
Daisha laughs vengefully. “How about you Brandon Barton Brook this?”
A QR code appears on the screen behind them.
“Want to see the evidence for yourself?” Byron asks the audience. “Scan the QR code!”
The entire audience, including myself, scans the code to pull up a PDF of documents.
Sure enough, a birth certificate is in there, followed by a picture of Brandon as a younger man, dressed as a Mountie in a community production.
Above him, the words “Winnipeg Community Theater” sprawl across the top of the stage.
The murmurs and uncomfortable laughs in the audience give way to a chorus of jeers and boos so sharp, they might as well be knives hitting the stage.
I look at Sutter and Aubrey, and even they are horrified.
Brandon's eyes lose their fury, and a look of fright takes over.
In this country, you can grift people, you can be openly prejudiced, and you can even prey on kids, all without consequences.
The one thing you cannot do is lie about being a foreigner.
Daisha points at Brandon. “Would y'all look at him? He's turning red as a rodeo clown gored by a black bull! Oh-ho-ho-ho!”
The boos get louder, and he gets pelted with water bottles, crumpled graduation programs, and even graduation caps. He flees the stage, dropping his bloodstained coonskin hat behind him. Byron picks it up and tosses it into the crowd of graduates, who swarm around it and tear it to pieces.
“Thank you, Mr. Buckley, for teaching us the importance of truth! And thank you, Daisha, for bringing us all together!” Byron says, taking a bow.
“This is for you, Ms. Easterling! Adios, everybody, and good riddance!” Daisha says, then blows a big kiss to the audience before hurrying offstage with a wave.
The crowd is in a frenzy for several minutes as thousands of videos of Brandon's fate are shot into the bloodstream of social media. Eventually, Dr. Collins takes back control at the podium.
“Okay, folks, this has been the longest ten minutes of my life, and the temperature ain't getting any lower, so let's proceed with the diploma ceremony.”
The procession begins, each name called out like we're on an assembly line of mediocrity. A-through-K students receive their diplomas, and I watch Felix walk across the stage, accept his paper rectangle, and shake hands with the faculty without looking once in my direction.
When it's my turn on stage, the crowd chants “Spider-Dick!” At the same time, my phone is blowing up with calls and a text from Dinah:
ANSWER THE FUCKING PHONE. WHAT DID YOU DO?!?!?!
After the ceremony, I make my way over to where the theater kids have gathered with Ms. Easterling, who drove down from Austin to see them. They stand in a tight circle. Byron spots me first, his expression hardening. The rest of them grow silent when they see me.
“That was amazing, what you did up there,” I tell Byron and Daisha.
Then I look at everybody else. “I wanted to tell you all that I admire y'all so much.
And you gave me the best memory I've ever had in school.
Of course, I screwed everything up for all of you, and I'll never live that down.
I can't go back and get unbitten by the spider. Thankfully, as of today, the grifting is over. I made sure of it. I am so sorry you got sucked into the shitstorm I started, Ms. Easterling.”
They turn to look at me, a united front of people I've wronged in various creative ways.
Ms. Easterling's expression softens slightly. “No, it's not great. But you didn't invent the bigotry. It's been here longer than you've been alive. You just gave it a big, fuzzy costume.”
“I should have thought about the consequences.”
Daisha steps forward and puts her head on Ms. Easterling's shoulder, then says, “For what it's worth, your video also became a symbol for a lot of people. The way everyone used it during the riot? That was pretty cool.”
Byron says nothing, his arms crossed, his expression still closed and angry.
“Taren Shaye, the writer of Pansgender!, is coming down to visit us,” Daisha says. “They want to take some publicity shots with us in costume for an article about the history of the musical. You should come.”
I look at their faces and feel a crushing wave of unworthiness.
“Thanks, but I don't think that's a good idea,” I say, backing away. “I'm sorry about everything.”
I turn and walk away before anyone can respond. When I round a corner by the bleachers, I run right into Mr. Deel, whose chest is puffed out and face is beet-red.
“What is this?” He has the local news pulled up on his phone. Already plastered at the top is the video of Clint's confession I recorded at my job. Glad to know it's taken off so quickly.
“It is what it is.”
“You're telling me your aunt and uncle were lying to us this whole time?”
“How else were they going to get rich and famous?”
He grabs me by the collar of my gown and looks around to make sure nobody is nearby. “Listen here, you little prick. Do you take me for an idiot?”
“I mean… basically.”
“You're not my student anymore, so you better watch your ass.
And tell Dinah and Clint I'll be looking for them.” He snatches my graduation cap and flings it under the bleachers, then storms off.
I realize I never even threw the cap with everybody else to get that symbolic moment of release and celebration.
Fitting, really. Nothing about my high school experience deserves a celebration. But as I walk home alone through the heat, past the houses and landmarks of a town I can't wait to leave, I feel a strange lightness beginning to form.
Not happiness, exactly, but possibility. Like maybe all the ways I've messed up don't have to define whatever comes next.