A plump woman taps the mic on the stage. She’s wearing glossy black pumps and a plastic smile. I’m sure she’s led the same graduation every year, with only the names changing. But it’s my first time seeing you graduate, my first time seeing you in a while. I suppose that’s what happens when life gets in the way.
                      Speaking of in the way, the parents in front of me are blocking my view. You would joke that I should push them apart by the ears, to make a little window. But, of course, you’re somewhere up there, with the other graduates. I lean forward in my seat, peering between heads at the black caps and the gold ropes hanging joyfully around each senior’s neck. Any of them could be you. The plump woman clears her throat, setting down a binder of names. As she begins to read them out, starting with ‘A,’ the names float in and out. I recognize some of them. We still live in the same town, after all. I remember playing on the playground with these names. One chased us down a slide during recess, another sat behind us on the bus.
                      As the plump woman makes her way to the ‘D’ last names, I begin to wonder what you’re wearing under the gown. In eighth grade you called me on the phone one day, saying your mother was controlling your life. You’d wanted to wear this slip dress, a pink one, to your middle school dance. She said it was slutty, not something for a girl to wear. So instead you wore a maxi dress, a cardigan, and way too much makeup, and you hooked up with that boy in the back of his brother’s car, coming home with a bright pink smile on your face. Served your mother right. I didn’t see any of this, but I pieced it together from your phone calls and the way you seemed to have a new boyfriend every month.
                       So you’re probably wearing a slip dress, a white one, like the rest of the girls graduating. But I’m sure you look modest in it. Paired with heels and the collarbones of a woman, how could you not? Gosh, you’ve always seemed to pull everything off. I still remember our 10th-grade piano recital where you never memorized the piece like we were supposed to. You marched up confidently to the baby grand, announcing that you’d play Pachelbel’s Canon in D. But instead, you whipped out minor chords and 2nd inversions, claiming afterwards that you had ‘just improvised.’ Our piano teacher cringed, but I thought it was beautiful.
                        I wonder what your class voted for your superlative. Probably ‘best laugh.’ I still remember you leaving me a voice memo last year on Halloween. You were drunk and your words were high-pitched, but your laugh was the same. You told me you missed me, 15 Title for you, though, I have directions to our favorite ice cream place already on my phone. Once you cross that stage and I give you a hug in your white dress, we’ll have just enough time to catch up.
                       As the microphone feedback lets out a screech, the plump woman finishes the list of last names. I must’ve zoned out and missed yours. It’s okay, I’ll tell you I couldn’t see the stage well with those pesky parents in front of me. I glare as one woman leans over to her husband. Shame what happened to that girl, the one that overdosed, she whispers.