“Thank you, but I’m wearing the dress.”
Another pause.
“No. I understand.”
He ended the call.
I stared at him.
“You can still change your mind.”
He picked up the garment bag.
“I won’t.”
Then he added,
“I already sent them Mary’s graduation photo. I asked them to put it on the screen when I give the signal.”
“Does the school know why?”
“About Mary, yes. About the dress, no.”
By the time we reached the auditorium, I could barely breathe.
People noticed Aaron immediately.
Students stared.
A few laughed.
One mother looked at him, whispered something to the woman beside her, and both turned toward us.
Aaron stood with his graduating class as if none of it bothered him.
But I knew him too well.
His shoulders were stiff.
His jaw was clenched.
He heard everything.
I wanted to take him home.
I wanted to stand between him and every phone pointed in his direction.
Instead, I sat in the third row because he had asked me to.
“Whatever happens,” he had said before joining his class, “stay where I can see you.”
So I stayed.
Name after name was called.
The whispering intensified whenever Aaron appeared in someone’s camera.
Then the principal finally announced him.
My heart seemed to stop.
Aaron walked across the stage.
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