Chloe’s starting to understand. She can climb on a stage in a parking lot and try to change something, but she can’t decide the rest for anyone else.
While Brooklyn has the assigning and assembling and decisive pointing covered, Summer plants herself in front of the local TV news crew as soon as they arrive. Her dad stands at her shoulder while she aces the interviews and smiles her pretty, dimpled smile. When asked, he explains that his business is happy to provide a place for anyone to stand up for something.
“Ever thought about being a politician’s wife?” Chloe whispers to Georgia as they tie off balloons. “Summer’s kind of crushing this.”
“Nah,” Georgia says. “If I wanted that, I’d date Brooklyn.”
Chloe glances across the lot to where Brooklyn is shouting at a bunch of band kids. “Yeah. That girl is going to be a White House intern before she’s old enough to buy beer.”
Georgia laughs and starts measuring out ribbons. “Where are your moms, by the way? Didn’t you say they were coming?”
“Yeah,” Chloe says. She glances at her phone. “They should have been here by now. I wonder—”
Before she can finish the sentence, her mom’s work truck comes trundling up to the lot.
There are cardboard boxes sliding around the bed, and when it pulls up closer, Chloe can see three people in the cab. Her mom parks beside the TV news van and climbs out in her nicest pair of coveralls, followed by her mama, and then—
“Is that Mr. Truman?”
Chloe passes her balloon off to Georgia and jogs over.
“Sorry we’re late!” her mom says, circling around to the back of the truck and unlatching the tailgate. “We had to pick some stuff up at the last minute.”
“Mom,” Chloe says, “what did you do?”
Mr. Truman reaches into the bed and slaps one of the boxes.
“She knows a guy who has access to the school on weekends,” he says. “I’m not saying that guy is me, but, you know. Always helps to know a guy.” He picks up the box and grunts. “Jesus Christmas, this is heavy.”
Mr. Truman and his imminent back sprain shuffle away as Chloe’s mama joins her at the side of the truck.
“We did something very cool,” she says. Gently, she rearranges a piece of Chloe’s bangs. Chloe scrunches her nose and puts it back. “Your mother is very hot and daring. I want you to know that.”
Her mom finally slides the remaining box up to the tailgate and opens it.
“Mom,” Chloe gasps when she sees what’s inside.
The box contains two dozen thick, burgundy leather envelopes, each one embossed with the Willowgrove crest in white. Her mom takes out the topmost folder and opens it.
It winds her to finally see it in real life. The fancy gothic font, the shiny gold seal, the ridiculous, beautiful full name her moms picked out for her.
This certifies that Chloe Andromeda Green has satisfactorily completed the course prescribed by the Alabama State Board of Education for the accredited high schools—
“This is why y’all asked for the names of everyone who was coming today?” Chloe demands. “I thought Mama was going to make personalized cookies again.”
“Oh, I did,” she says, producing a Tupperware of frosted sugar cookies. “The diplomas were Jack’s idea. Helped to have a list though.”
Chloe looks over at Mr. Truman, who’s huffing and puffing as Shara helps him set the box of diplomas down on the stage, and back to her moms.
“I love you so much,” Chloe says, folding herself into her mom’s arms.
“I love you too, coconut,” her mom says thickly in her ear. “I’m so proud of you.”
“Don’t make me cry,” Chloe says. “I spent forever on my eyeliner.”
Her mom sniffs. “God, you are your mother’s child.”
“Hold that for one more second,” her mama says. “I almost got a good picture.”
“Mama, stooooop.”
* * *
After Rory shreds “Pomp and Circumstance” on his Flying V, before Mr. Truman starts handing out diplomas, he leans into the microphone.
“I’d like to—” A squawk of feedback. “Lord in heaven. I’d like to invite someone up to say a few words. The valedictorian of Willowgrove Christian Academy’s class of 2022: Chloe Green.”
A sound rushes up to her ears, and it takes her a second to identify it: a round of applause. She’s had a lot of fantasies of this moment, but this isn’t part of most of them. She always expected everyone to sort of tolerate her at the podium. But when she looks around, Georgia is whooping through cupped hands, and Smith is pounding his feet against the ground, and somewhere in the back, her moms are blasting an air horn.