I’d snuck into Clem’s room the night before. I waited until one in the morning, and then I tiptoed across the hall, holding my breath. I shut the door so it didn’t even click, and then I slipped into bed next to Clem. Neither of us made a sound. We just snuggled—I mean, we did some stuff, but very quietly—and then I tiptoed out an hour later, and there was my mom, standing in the hall, looking right at me. We stared at each other for a few seconds, and then she went back into her bedroom, and I went into mine.
I thought I’d be in trouble in the morning, but she didn’t say a word. We ate breakfast together, the way we always did, and it felt like any other day, except that now she knew. It was right there between us, the secret I’d been hiding for so long.
I gave her a small, apologetic smile from the stage, and she gave me a smaller, not very happy smile in return, and I was okay with that, because I could see that she still loved me, and would love me no matter what.
Tracy Flick
I didn’t thank Buzz or acknowledge any of the Board Members or politicians in the audience, not even the Mayor. None of that mattered anymore. I just stood there until I had everyone’s attention, and then I recited “Ozymandias,” a poem I’d memorized for the occasion.
I met a traveller from an antique land
Who said: “Two vast and trunkless legs of stone Stand in the desert…
I’d first read it back in high school, and it had made a huge impression on me, though not a positive one. Quite the opposite. I found it depressing, and even a little upsetting, because I valued fame and power—I believed in them—and I thought those things would save me.
“My name is Ozymandias, king of kings:
Look on my works, ye Mighty and despair!”
More recently, however, I’d come to find the poem oddly comforting, because I’d learned from bitter experience that there was no justice in the world, and that I would never get what I deserved. My mother had been wrong: fame wasn’t a reward for your hard work. It was a lottery, pure dumb luck, and it didn’t matter anyway, not in the long run. That was the whole point of the poem. There’s no such thing as immortality; all our striving is in vain. In the end, we’ll all be forgotten, every single one of us, the winners and the losers alike.
… Round the decay Of that colossal wreck, boundless and bare The lone and level sands stretch far away.
I didn’t say that in my speech, though. It wasn’t appropriate for the occasion. What I said was that the poem was undeniably true, but that it wasn’t the whole truth. I said that we live in human time, not geological time, and that we have a duty as humans to honor the people among us who’ve performed great deeds. I said that was why we were here tonight, to pay tribute to two exceptional graduates of Green Meadow High School, individuals who have inspired us with their talent and their generosity of spirit.
“Diane Blankenship and Vito Falcone,” I said. “As long as this building stands and this community exists, you will not be forgotten.”
Nate Cleary
Before Vito got his plaque, they turned off the lights and showed a short video celebrating his high school football career. This was the moment I’d been waiting for. The video was my baby—I’d found the footage, I’d done all the editing, and I’d chosen the soundtrack, a bunch of cool songs from the early nineties—Nirvana, Weezer, U2, that kind of thing.
The highlights were amazing, one spectacular play after another: Vito lofting a perfect forty-yard pass to Reggie Morrison, who leaves the defenders in the dust; Vito scrambling for a touchdown, dodging one would-be tackler after another; Vito launching an off-balance Hail Mary that Reggie catches with one outstretched hand to win the State Semifinal in 1993. I added cool graphics and cut in lots of images of the cheerleaders and the band and the scoreboard and the crowd going crazy and the refs signaling for another touchdown. I concluded with a full minute of Green Day’s “Good Riddance （Time of Your Life），” played over a slide show of Vito as a little kid, Vito in his Pop Warner uniform, Vito at the prom, Vito in a cap and gown, Vito and Reggie with their arms around each other after the last game of their undefeated senior year, both of them sweaty and joyful, grinning the biggest grins you’ve ever seen, and then the screen goes black and all it says for like five whole seconds is DIRECTED BY NATE CLEARY, and I can’t even tell you how good that felt.
Tracy Flick
I didn’t watch the video very closely. I was contemplating my future, thinking that maybe everything would work out for the best, that every setback was really a new opportunity. Maybe now I could go back to law school, pass the bar, live the life that I’d meant to live. It wouldn’t be easy, starting a demanding new career in my midforties, competing with all the young hotshots, but nothing had ever been easy for me. I would just have to work harder than everyone else and prove myself to the skeptics, the way I always had, and simply refuse to take no for an answer.
I knew I could do it. I was strong and I was smart and I was a fighter. And I believed in myself.
Tracy Flick would be fine.
When the lights came on, I turned away from the screen and found myself staring straight at Vito Falcone. To my surprise, I saw that he was sobbing—his shoulders were heaving and tears were streaming down his face—and at almost the same moment, I realized that I was sobbing too, though I wasn’t sure if I was grieving for his squandered promise or my own.
Jack Weede
I hadn’t been feeling well all day. I blamed it on stress—it had been emotionally exhausting, spending the night with Diane, trying to imagine what would happen when Alice got back—but my symptoms worsened during the ceremony. My chest started to ache and I couldn’t catch my breath. I should’ve slipped offstage while the video was playing, but I just sat there, because standing up didn’t seem like such a great idea, either.
And then the lights came on, and it was too late. The fat cop—Glenn Keeler, the one who’d pulled me over—was moving down the aisle, heading for the stage, and I could see it in his hand. I tried to warn them, but it felt like there was a heavy leather belt strapped around my chest, and it just kept getting tighter and tighter, and when I opened my mouth…
Lily Chu
I didn’t know where to look. Dr. Flick was crying, Principal Weede was making this weird gurgling noise, and this other man was standing in the orchestra pit, screaming at Vito Falcone. Front Desk Diane grabbed my hand and pulled really hard just as the Principal pitched forward and the man started shooting.
Tracy Flick
Vito was on the floor. His shirt was wet with blood and his face was wet with tears. I was kneeling beside him, pressing on the wound, trying to keep the blood inside his body, but it wouldn’t stay there.
“Tracy,” he said, very softly, and I was surprised that he remembered my name.
He mumbled something else, but I couldn’t hear him—my ears were ringing and someone kept screaming, Get out of the way! Get out of the way!—so I leaned my face a little closer.
“I’m sorry,” he whispered. His eyes were cloudy and confused. “Please forgive me.”
I was about to tell him that I didn’t need to, that he hadn’t done anything wrong, not to me, but something must have happened, because I wasn’t kneeling anymore, and the words just…