Tuesday, June 21, 7:03 PM

Glen Campbell, "Wichita Lineman"

It's 7:00 and, just like clockwork, Tim Stephens is parked directly perpendicular to the dirt road that, some one-hundred feet on, leads to the house of the Morrison family, whose comely daughter Jennifer has unwittingly held the heart of young Tim captive for these past four years now. But tomorrow it all comes to end, in theory at least, as tomorrow will bring Graduation Day and cruel Fate, as Fate often can be, has decided on wildly divergent futures for the two would-be lovers. Tim will head of to an expensive liberal arts college in Pennsylvania where he will major in Undecided with a minor in Confused; Jen...well, even Fate herself hasn't quite figured that one out, but rest assured it has nothing to do with Pennsylvania or college. Being "unpredictable" isn’t all it’s cracked up to be. Nothing’s official yet, though: Until tomorrow is through, there's still the chance that everything could be different, paths altered, lives changed forever!

As the hands of the clock get closer to their rendezvous at 12 midnight, though, the more pessimistic Tim gets, the more his heart sinks, and so right now is not a time for hope. Instead, twilight time is reserved for considering his shortcomings and his unsatisfied desires. Tim usually finds his solace in music, and normally would construct a mixtape to document this Final Day, but now there just doesn't seem to be a point to it. Sometimes, though, radio has a little mercy on the brokenhearted and heeds their unspoken requests, and so, just as tacitly, the DJ sends this one out to Tim in New Jersey as he keeps his nightly vigil.

It may occur to the reader that this all sounds a little bit more than stalking and without the proper information and background, they'd be correct to judge it so on what little they've read. The reader might then consider that keeping issues of the school newspaper with Jen's picture in it and spending sleepless nights reviewing both her junior year yearbook picture and message, which went:

The reader might think that this too constitutes a kind of stalking. As the highly impartial narrator, though a narrator who can empathize with young Tim -- we have feelings to, you know! -- I ask you to think back to when you were in high school and when you first realized you were in love and the stupid things that you did in private that you hoped would never come to light (let alone memorialized in fiction!) because it would be embarrassing even though everything you did was out of LOVE for this person and you never in a million years would do them any harm. It was just about consoling your loneliness, y’know? A loneliness you never quite encountered until you fell in love and realized that the two, love and loneliness, formed a fucked-up package deal. And so you used all that you had of that other person -- signatures, greetings, pictures, pens you'd let them borrow -- to fend off that loneliness until the next day because the night never seemed as long as it did then. Do you get it now? If you don't, I apologize to Tim and put forth that, in terms of a defense, you get what you pay for and that I won't quit my day job, which I shall now return to with as few interruptions as possible.

Wednesday, June 22, 8:15 AM

Iggy Pop, "Lust for Life"

8:15. You know the drill. Fifteen minutes to get ready. Fifteen minutes to get to school. Fifteen minutes to sit in front of your locker, reading and looking thoughtful and soulful. Fifteen minutes in which to pretend that you don’t care WHO is looking at you, watching you, admiring you as nothing can tear you away from your book as it is sooo absorbing. Sure, this hasn’t worked for the last five-hundred-and-fifty-nine days, but why mess with tradition. Besides, there’s always tomorrow, right?

NO! There isn’t a tomorrow, it has to work today. Today. He remembers it like it was yesterday. First day of high school, September 3, Tim, I’d like you to meet my friend Jen, she goes to such-and-such school, I have her in today on a visitor’s pass…Sorry to interrupt, but why were there such things as visitor’s passes? Who would want to spend a day, likely a day that one has off from their own school, going to school with someone else?! It’s something I never could comprehend and something that I never needed to avail myself of. Back…

Jen, through impartial eyes, was gorgeous. People always talk about hearts skipping beats and one has to wonder how many of them really mean it and how many are just taking advantage of the notion for their own selfish purposes, debasing the feelings of those who’ve really experienced it. In the truest sense of the phrase, Tim’s heart did in fact skip a beat, as it would only one other time in his life and once again it’d be for love. Reflecting upon it later, he recalled that it wasn’t so much the heart skipping a beat as it was that, to resort to another cliché, time stood still. Tim fancied himself a man of words, gifted with a turn of a phrase, and the best he could do when confronted with the woman he’d already envisioned as his wife, living together – along with a dog – in a small farming community, the best he could say to her was:

"Uh…"

It might not have been "Uh," it could’ve been "Er," or "Ah": the point was it was nonverbal, it was a sound, it was unintelligible noise from a gaping hole. It didn’t matter, really, she seemed amused by it and she was ushered along on her way, to where all those people we see once in our lives go. It’s hard to believe that they have their own lives, cares, wants, concerns when they’re not a part of your own life; with Jennifer, though, the only thing that was hard to believe was her, her very existence. I mean, she was gorgeous, and, uh, really good-looking. But what else? Didn’t know, didn’t care. Sure, she turned out to be witty and funny and charming and intelligent as Tim found out that one day in October of his sophomore year when he entered 2^nd period history and thought he saw a ghost; not of Washington or Lincoln or any of those guys and, as it turned out, it wasn’t a ghost at all, it was actually her. Her parents decided to take her out of Catholic high school because it didn’t seem to make her any more godly and it certainly wasn’t making them any less poor.

Daydream’s over, kids, it’s time to get to school.

Wednesday, June 22, 8:15 A.M.

The Replacements, "Can’t Hardly Wait"

Tim was in the unique position of being 18 years old and owning a Cadillac. Sure, it used to be his parents, and, yeah, it’s purple ("Heather!" says mom), but it’s a Cadillac nonetheless, a regular pimpmobile. Too bad the engine only works when it feels like it, but at least the a/c and tape player work.

Watching him, seeing the eagerness and joy in his eyes, you’d think it was all just beginning, as if, like Bill Murray in Groundhog Day, he just kept living the same day over and over again. To look at him, you wouldn’t notice any difference in his physical appearance: While there was evidence to the contrary, puberty still seemed years off – I’ve seen hairier grandmothers! You’d think that he was a novelist, sitting down at his typewriter, inserting that first blank page, when in reality, his story was a novel eagerly awaiting its end. All in due time, all in due time (which is currently T minus 24 hours and counting).

Right now, it’s time for windows rolled down (Mom: "Turn off the air conditioner if you’re going to open the windows!"), fists punching the air, and off-key caterwauling. In his mind, he was a rock n’ roll star, all the women of the world were at his feet. There’s only one for him ("And this next one is for her…"), a girl from his hometown (and the ladies only love him more for it). Sometimes the dream is less, well, unrealistic: He sits out in the courtyard with his acoustic guitar and he sings her a song and, from that day forth, she’s his ever more. "Less unrealistic" because (a) he can not play guitar, and certainly can’t play and sing at the same time, and, oh yeah, (b) he can’t sing either. Drats. Kids, this is what pop music will do to you: You put on your headphones and it’s as if, by sealing off your ears, you’ve blocked off all access to your brain: It becomes the prisoner of the music. The music sings you songs, tells you attractive lies, and it haunts you for the rest of your life. Trust me. Reality isn’t intended for those who have nothing but their dreams. And so it wa—Wait, there already? "55 MPH," hmm? Right.

Wednesday, June 22, 9:00 AM

Sir Edward Elgar, "Pomp and Circumstance"

Anyhoo, the last day of school is an absolute farce and anyone who tells you different is full of shit…or a school administrator, in which case usually both. Sure, there are "final exams" to take, but the rest of the day is padded out with having to PRACTICE WALKING. Here you are, on the verge of graduating high school, of making your big entrance into the world, and it’s as if you’re making your initial entrance into the world all over again. And as silly as this all sounds, there are actually people for whom this is beneficial, clods who will make sure that you have to do it ALL OVER AGAIN because they can’t keep in time with the stately, slow as death "Pomp and Circumstance" – Thank God coordination is not a requirement for graduation. Tim, like any rhythmic kid, gets aggravated and bored. So he—

"Mr. Stephens, would you prefer not to graduate tonight? You’re throwing off everyone behind you!" barked Ms. Stillsoe.

"Is it my fault that I have RHYTHM?!" barked an indignant Tim.

"Do you want to continue to do this over and over? If no, I suggest you KEEP IT SIMPLE."

Tim had put a bit of a hitch in his giddyup, as they say. He was struttin’ and jivin’, but apparently that sort of thing wasn’t appreciated. So he instead kept an eye out for Jen: They were about the same height, however, while he was short by men’s standards (the 5^th to march in to be exact), she was considered tall by the women’s yardstick (and was 5^th from the back or so). Sigh. Quashed were the dreams of walking side-by-side, hand-in-hand, victorious! triumphant! "I couldn’t have done it without you, Tim." "Me either, Jen. Me either." The day was still relatively young and he’d already accumulated more than one broken dream. He began to sense a pattern and his optimism began to wane…

…That is until the first of the exams set for the day, 10:00 in the auditorium. As in all public places, Tim began his lookout for his much beloved, but had to cut it short when the proctor considered looking around at other people once testing began to be akin to cheating. ("Cheating? ME?") He had a point, really. Tim, that is. He was one of the best students in the school and still managed to, not only avoid getting thrown in lockers (though he could’ve easily fit!) and mentally abused, but he also proved to be popular, genuinely popular, even if it was to the detriment of his studies, et. al.

After the exam had ended (for Tim, AP Physics, for others, who knows) and the tests were being collected, he heard his name spoken with a melodiousness that could belong but to one individual and with the "–my" ending that he only pretended to hate.

"Timmy!"

"What?" (mock agitated.)

"I need your help!"

What a combination of words! She! Needs me! Where and for what? In the bedroom? (Rowrrrr.)

Indeed, she did need help. But in the classroom. ("Boo!") Jen was an awful English student, both she and Tim knew this. He’d lend her a hand when he could, but, ultimately, he didn’t have enough hands. If he didn’t help her study, she was doomed to fail, which meant…well, he didn’t know what it meant. He kept thinking, "She’ll have to stay back, and then we can’t be together!" There were probably loopholes and alternate means of getting pass, but these are teenagers and, if you can remember that far back, everything takes on a unique gravity all its own when you’re that age. So, yes! He would help her! And they’d be going to her house during lunch!

Wednesday, June 22, 12:03 P.M.

The Gap Band, "Outstanding"

Her house? Yes, after all this is high school and many of the kids lived near by, and their grades usually formed an inverse proportion with their distance from said school. Accordingly, Jen lived about two minutes away (by car) and they took his car (together!). Little was said, beyond her stressing that she really needs his help and really appreciates it ("How much?" he thought).

They got out, and Tim thought how weird it was to actually see the place, you know, up close and in the daylight. She opened the back door and they made their way inside the house as Jen, our tour guide, proceeded to hastily give a tour of the house.

She says "Here we have the kitchen."

He thinks: "Where she gets food from everyday. Why, I bet she washes dishes in that sink!!"

She says: "There’s the bathroom should you need it."

He thinks: "Where she showers…[CENSORED]"

She says: "Up the stairs is my room, but it’s a mess (isn’t it always!) so I’m not going to show you!" [Laughs]

He thinks: "Third window on the second floor. Know it well. Where she sleeps, where she dreams. Of me?"

"So we should probably get started."

"Yeah, time is of the essence." (Time is of the essence?!)

"So if you set everything up, I’ll make you something quick to eat. Do you like Steak-umms?"

"Oh, yeah, that’d be great, thanks!"

While he opens up his notebook, teeming with details and observations, he quickly colors over the margins where he’d written her name, pausing to think, "She’s making me lunch! And Steak-Umms, no less!" In a Health & Nutrition class, the teacher was running down a list of food options, and after having extinguished all of the healthier items, she asked, "How many of you would just like a hamburger?" Tim shot his hand up immediately and he looked and saw that Jen had as well and he thought that, right there, was his kind of woman, and if the deal hadn’t already been cinched, it was signed, sealed, and delivered with that.

Lunch was served, Steak-Umm on hamburger roll ("She took the Steak-Umm to heights its never previously reached, heights I dare say it’ll never see again!"), and once they finished cramming their stomachs, they moved to her mind. With the precision of a neurosurgeon, he ran through the whole year: J.D. Salinger and Eastern philosophy; Lord of the Flies; A Separate Piece; Sylvia Plath: All of those books and writers that you think of when you think "high school." She said she understood; he hoped she understood, because he understood that their future lay in the balance: If she passed, so did he; If she failed, they both did. (What he didn’t know at the time was that it’d never really come to that.) They were giving each other the eye or, rather, Tim stared at her googly-eyed and she saw him doing just that and smiled back, which sent his pulse racing and skin rippling with goosebumps. He felt like this was it, this was the time. He’d had the same feeling when, during that boring film in English, he looked at her from across the room and she looked back; or that time when one of his friends had asked her out and she asked him what he thought, practically begging him to stake his claime (before friends, acting on the behalf of that other friend, fearful that he’d queer the deal, dragged him out before he could answer). He had the feeling in both of those situations, what he didn’t have was an urge to do anything about it, likely caused by nerves, low self-esteem ("Horseteeth" is what they "jokingly" called him as a youth), and a fear of having an answer. He decided that he’d have time to act another day, that he didn’t want the "chase" to end so soon, that he’d rather go on not knowing and deluding himself than knowing and having no good reason to live (high school, remember). There was the time when she asked him to find her a man, which he didn’t understand at the time. For all the world, he wanted to say, "Okay, how about me?" but something got lost in the translation between brain and mouth because what came out was "I don’t know anyone!" All of these incidents, all of these chances offered up on a shiny platter by fate, turned away because there’s always tomorrow, right? NO! There isn’t a tomorrow. The definition of the word had been changed in the dictionary, the new entry read: "See: TODAY." He was ready! He knew what to say! And he began, "Jen—"

When her no good sister got home. AAARGH! She was one year older than Jen, and she went to county college or something. I don’t know. At least that’s what she told her parents, and that was enough for them to give her money for books, books like New Gap Jeans and Bottle of Cuervo Gold. One look around the house and one got the impression that their parents were never home. The kitchen and the living room were in disarray but one strangely got the feeling that the house just wasn’t lived in, I can’t quite place my finger on it.

Anyway, her. She comes in talking about some bachelorette party they had last night at the Ramada Inn for one of her girlfriends. There was something about stippers dressed up as cops, or vice versa, and a cake shaped like a penis. ("Yes, but how did it taste?") In other words, very little for Tim to add to the conversation. He felt like excusing himself, offering a ride to Jen who declined, absolutely needing to hear about this. And that was that.

A dread gripped his body, something that even he didn’t understand: He felt like a Moment had passed, that Fate stepped in, shook a finger in his face and said, "Nuh-uh." Four years of amassed courage felled by a penis-shaped cake. And though the day wouldn’t end until 5 A.M. or so – I should take the time to explain. That night, after graduation, buses were going to pick them up at assigned areas and would whisk them off to the YMCA for a night of Safe partying, which meant no drugs, no alcohol, NO FUN.

And though the day wouldn’t end until 5 A.M. or so, he was having trouble shaking the mood that had taken hold of him. In his ear, a whisper like the final grains of sand through the hourglass said: "Time’s up."

For Seniors, school ended at 2, following the last exam. He wondered if he would even see her at graduation that night, he wondered if she was listening to a word he said. She could get her grade at 3 o’clock or so and he would take her presence to mean that she did, in fact, pass. For now, though, he got in his car and headed home. The fact that he’d just finished four years of high school was the furthest thing from his mind; it meant little to him compared to having finished four years of loving the same girl, for he indeed thought it was love and, yeah, it was love, with nothing to show for it: I mean, at least the high school will give him a diploma. So he showered, and thought about her; put on his gown, and thought about her; looked in the mirror, and, well, you get the picture. Was it graduating from a school or was it graduating onto someone new? And was there a difference at this point?

Wednesday, June 22, 5:43 P.M.

The Smiths, "I Know It’s Over"

Mom, Dad, and Sis are all very proud, they say. Mom and Dad unquestionably are (Mom: "But you should’ve graduated with high honors! If only…"), Sis, on the other hand, is probably just freaked the fuck out that her brother, elder by one year, is graduating high school. I mean, what the fuck? It is all a bit weird, Tim finally realizes. That last car ride up to the school is becoming more imbued with meaning with each traffic light passed, each landmark frantically waving goodbye in the rear view.

Oh, please, you’d think it was the end of the world. Certainly, it’s the end of a world, a self-contained world where people worked and played and ate and governed themselves (to an extent) and spoke their own language. Walls and boundaries and territory and rival factions, all of which tonight will be erased from the map in order to make room for new settlers, its former inhabitants boldly going off to explore new frontiers…many, though, will be left behind, stumbling blindly through the wreckage, trying to create a new life for themselves amongst the ruins.

Hearts won’t be spared either. They’ll be stretched to their breaking point trying to reach New York from Los Angeles. "I love you forever." "No, I love you forever." Better to be in Tim’s boat with no real anchor keeping him at bay. Right? Wrong? No matter how damaged the heart becomes, at least the couple in the above scenario will have a heart; when your love is unrequited, your heart is tucked away undetected in that someone’s winter coat: how long can you survive without it? Would it be too much trouble to ask for it back?

Wednesday, June 22, 6:30 P.M. (on the dot!)

Elgar, "Pomp and Circumstance"

As he reaches his seat (don’t sit yet!), Tim looks back. Sees each face pass by, remembering the day he first met each and in what capacity he knew them in. It’s a small class of 200 or so, but it seemed to him much larger than he’d thought. Maybe there just seemed to be more people because he was anxiously awaiting to see if Jen had in fact passed. He’d memorized the pair that walked in before her, so just as eagerly as he waiting for Jen, with bated breath, he was awaiting the appearance of Jaime Merryweather and Roger Schultz.

When Ms. Stillsoe gave the dramatic gesture which meant "Sit," Tim was able to do so with a smile. Jen had indeed passed. He didn’t know what it meant for him, though he certainly hoped he’d be rewarded for his effort. The ceremony was going rather well, which meant that it was entertaining. In a riposte to the snooty valedictorian, the class president turned this dais around and faced US, because he was a MAN OF THE PEOPLE. Beach balls were being bounced around; there was a sighting of silly string; the graduation songs were being tackled campily and with glee; and, wait a second, is that real champagne? The earlier pessimism was being crushed under the sheer weight of the silliness that had pervaded the proceedings, a silliness that peaked with the Spring Lake High School rendition of John Lennon’s communist opus, "Imagine."

Wednesday, June 22, 7:06 P.M.

John Lennon, "Imagine"

The other song they did that evening was "With A Little Help from My Friends." A ballot was sent out to each student and after the students failed to agree, the teachers chose what was very likely their graduation songs. Damn Beatlemaniacs. Still, one kid wanted to do the theme from Friends! I shit you not!

One of the things that’s so endearing about high school aged kids is their ceaseless facility for manipulating even the most innocuous of things, turning it into something vaguely naughty or grossly immature. Anyone familiar with either of these chestnuts can probably figure out just what they did. (Stumped? Ask your inner 18 year-old!)

Give up? Well, with "With A Little Help from My Friends," not performed in bombastic Cocker stylee – teachers objected! – they emphasized the word "high," as in "I get HIIIGH with a little help from my friends." As in high on drugs. Which is probably what the Beatles intended in the first place, but parents are supposed to forget about that sort of thing when they become just that, either that or have a good laugh about it with their buddies.

After that came the moment everyone waited for, why they were all here: the distribution of diplomas.

"James Anderson… Julie Babcock…"

For some, this was it, this was their crowning moment. They had the diploma, which meant that they could be hired for just about any job that they could possibly desire. They were ready for marriage at 19, the three kids and the aboveground pool.

For others this was merely a layover, the convergence of their past and present. Four years from now would be the real deal, the college degree, the key to the world. Suits and ties, jobs on Wall Street, apartments in Chelsea.

And then there were the rest, those who were here because, uh, well, just because. It was routine, it was schedule, it was what they needed to do to get from point A to point B. They had a diploma: So what? These were the people for whom the last four years represented the Best Time of Their Lives. They lived out of their lockers, they went to class because they had to in order to hang out at school. More school held no appeal for them, and work held even less. Some would enlist in the Army, some would hang around their parents’ house until they hinted it was time to go, some would "bum around Europe."

By birth, Tim belonged to this second group, yet his heart – in more ways than one – belonged to the third. He’d started school a year early, he skipped a grade, and now he was regretting both. His father would joke, "I think you need another year of high school!" and now the joke was on him. Tim’s was a life derailed: His academic progress proceeded in just the way his family hoped for the longest time and then, maybe there was a signal error or something on the tracks…whatever it was, he lost interest in school and the future that was pre-ordained for him.

When he was 12, he’d look in the mirror and try to imagine himself at 18 – taller, better looking, with plausible facial hair. He’d then imagine everything he’d have to get through to get there and it seemed incredible to him that he’d one day graduate high school. Now, six years later, here he was and it wasn’t all that incredible. In fact, it was a downright drag. But, walking across the platform, he put on the requisite smile, held the diploma high above his head like it was the Lombardi Trophy or the Stanley Cup. And that was that.

Wednesday, June 22, 7:45 P.M.

Kool & The Gang, "Celebration"

COME ON! The band ripped through "Celebration" as the graduates processed out of there, down through a lineup of teachers, one’s last chance to say goodbye to them. The parking lot was a mess, a throng of abandoned children looking to be reunited with their loved ones. Many hugs were received, many hugs were given. Time for celebration was, in fact, short: The grads had to get back home and into their "comfortable" clothes for that night’s evening of alcohol-free fun. Tim’s mother hardly seemed cognizant of this fact as she hugged her son tightly, tears streaming down her face as if she hadn’t seen him in years and wouldn’t see him for years. He was forced to excuse himself and set about finding his car.

On the way to the Caddy, he passed by Jennifer and her gal pal, the one who first delivered Jen into his life four years previous. Economy was the watchword:

"Congratulations, Tim."

"Congratulations, Jen."

I mean, after all, she was with an outlander. What was he supposed to say? Besides, he had all night. And yet.

Wednesday, June 22, 8:30 P.M.

Phish, "You Enjoy Myself (Live)" (?)

"Hey, you guys wanna hear this band I just discovered?"

No.

"They’re really great!"

No.

"Oh, okay."

Phish are godawful, and that’s my opinion. Being a man of good taste, Tim agrees with me. I can’t help but think that that’s the sort of thing no one should have to find out before college. Phish are college music as far as I can surmise, a fact that made Tim reconsider the whole university thing. High school guys should be listening to Pink Floyd or Pearl Jam…but, then again, these aren’t high school guys anymore.

I don’t know if I explained this earlier, but Spring Lake high is made up of three different towns. So each town has a designated meeting point where they will be whisked away to the YMCA and their evening of hijinks. The trip is about twenty minutes and when it was through, Phish were just getting started. It was bad, it was the kind of bad that was actually good for Tim because he actively disliked it, would make mental notes of all of the shittiness and thus prevented him for thinking for the length of the trip. I mean, who needs to think all day long.

Thursday, June 23, 2:07 A.M.

Underworld, "Born Slippy"

What? Oh, no, you didn’t skip a page nor was this account the victim of brutal editing, it’s just that when you’ve got a bunch of teenagers having a good time without booze, it’s not very entertaining, y’know?

But if you want a recap:

• They went swimming. They admired each others’ bathing suits.
• They ate. A lot. Just not Mrs. Miller’s meatloaf. It occurred to them later that it was exactly this kind of rejection that made her such a hardened old woman.
• Some guys played video games while others watched. Which I’ll never understand. The watching part, that is.
• A couple of girls took advantage of the free airbrushing, having "Friends 4-Ever" painted onto their jeans. They’d never wear them again.
• You know those big Sumo outfits? They put them on and wrestled.
• Chuck Wilcox and a bunch of kids with "D’"s in front of their last names made a run for it. Whether they made it out or not is anyone’s guess.
• There was a caricaturist. Caricatures were done. Everyone was drawn roller-skating.
• A handful of people were watching Forrest Gump. Tim had never seen Forrest Gump. He never would, either. Nothing ominous intended, he just wasn’t a big fan of Tom Hanks. In fact, one might say he held a grudge against Tom Hanks.

Currently, people were dancing. Since the party was "dry," the only people who were dancing were those who actually could. The DJ was surprisingly spinning a good set too, so Tim ventured in. It was dark, there were strobe lights, it was late. Outside, others were sleeping – forget any myths you might’ve heard about young people and their partying prowess: stripped of their drugs, they’re no rowdier than you or I. Tim tried to sleep, but he got up momentarily and his couch was appropriated by Kim Bainbridge.

He’d not seen Jen all evening, for all he knew she could’ve tried to make a break for it. He had no idea what she was up to and, for some reason, wasn’t in the mood to track her down. Within the room that’d been cordoned off as the "dance club," he was beginning to feel disoriented, without drugs no less. Chalk it up to the combination of the lateness of the hour, the strobe lights, the high-running emotions, and the brain-rattling, jackhammer beats of "Born Slippy." Lost in the music, he had never before felt such a sensation of "nowness," of being in the here and now. For someone who’s spent his entire life living in tomorrow, it’s a startling feeling. Forgetting his mood of only two sentences ago, with yearbook in hand, he decided to seek her out.

He had the feeling that it was going to come down to this, the all-important yearbook message. (Yes, just asking her would be far too easy for our boy.) He was trying to think of a way in which he could have her sign his yearbook, read it, and then sign hers. But he wasn’t coming up with much. He might just have to take the risk, pour his heart out regardless of what she writes.

As he looks around, it seems as if everyone is now signing each other’s yearbooks, like the non-existent itinerary alotted the hours between 2 and 3 as Yearbook Signing time. Personally, he’d like to believe that it was his decision to track down the woman he loves (love? Is it really?) that acted as the catalyst for all of this. When he found her, she was sitting on the floor, back to the wall, just outside the kitchen. When their eyes met, no words were spoken, they exchanged spent smiles and yearbooks.

What he wanted to write:

He’d mentally composed it on Monday, when they’d gotten their books, and had been fine-tuning it ever since. He was rather pleased with it: It didn’t sound too desperate or too creepy; no, it sounded reasonable, rational, yet it was not without passion. It never made the page, though, and this fact probably didn’t surprise him. So, instead what he actually wrote was:

Yes, he used "K.I.T." And instead of committing to "love," he put a hyphen before his name. Let’s not rub it in, after all, he could’ve drawn a heart. The message was tame and self-censored: it hinted at feelings beneath the surface, but you really had to be looking for it to find it. It was just as well because when he got his book back, he saw her message, which read:

The heart: the kiss of death. When girls use the heart, they want to let you know that they like you, but not in that way. Sure, it was alright last year, because that was last year. But now? The rest of the message was artless and graceless. Perhaps he waited too long, maybe he should’ve had her sign it when there were less people around and earlier too! Before fatigue set in. Maybe. He knew what he had gotten, though. And that was that. They gave back the books smiled, nodded, and they never saw each other again. Four years in the making and it ended just like that. Could you even call it an ending? If I’d read a book and that was how it ended, I would not have called it an ending, I’d have complained and written a letter. But this is real life and, sadly, one doesn’t have such options.

Thursday, June 23, 5:15 A.M.

Frank Sinatra, "Guess I’ll Hang My Tears Out to Dry"

You’d think it was the end of the world. Certainly, it’s the end of a world. On the bus, everyone was silently mourning the end of that world, heading home from the funeral where they laid the last four years to rest. Each had his own particular loss: the locker they’d had for four years, their table in the cafeteria, their "gang," each of which was headed out in a new direction. Did Tim lose his girl? Was she ever his? In his mind, yes, and one should never question how real things seem in the minds of teenage boys. He grieved for the past they had and the future they never would. He was doing all he could to put it out of mind, to give it a proper burial. He’d decided there and then that he wasn’t going to any of the graduation parties; he wanted finality, what they had was over and it’d cheapen its memory to go on any further.

When they arrived, everyone said half-hearted good-byes, trying desperately to sound sincere through the haze and cobwebs. The cars followed each other out and one by one, they began to make a left turn here and a right there until each was alone on their designated path. A lone tear raced down Tim’s cheek and he thought it dignified and also fair to shed but one tear for all. He had half-convinced himself too.

Thursday, June 23, 5:21 A.M.

Michael Jackson, "She’s Out of My Life"

Years later, amongst friends, the question would come up, "Has a song ever made you cry?" Tim’s answer: Yes, two. One because of who sang it, two because of who it reminded him of. Prior to this morning, he’d never heard "She’s Out of My Life" on the radio before; he’d never hear it again, not on the radio nor on his copy of Off the Wall.

He’d gotten home and shut off the engine. He decided to hear the song out before going in. Soon enough, he started to sing; the more he sang, the less one was able to understand him, and the tears fell like rain. All that he’d felt for her – love, friendship, elation, frustration, sadness – was now leaving him, rapidly racing down his cheeks and onto the upholstery. He’d long been able to conceal his pain undercover of the night, but as day began to break, he cursed the sun for bringing his grief to light. The reader might think it was just about her, but it was just as much about him. He hadn’t cried in seven years, when he did so upon hearing the voice, on tape, of his then-recently-deceased grandmother. And now seven years’ worth of failures and disappointments found voice in his song and were manifested in his tears.

Thursday, June 23, 5:24 A.M.

The Rolling Stones, "You Can’t Always Get What You Want"

When he got out of the car, he was determined to leave it all behind. The only evidence of the last four years (the last seven, even) was left in the tearstains on the car seats. Coincidence or not: Within a week, the Caddy would break down and get sent off to be scrapped at the junkyard. When he’d close the door behind him, he’d close it on all that he’d been and all that he’d known. All of those former things had passed away, for him, a new life began today. He lifted a weary fist, stepped inside and slammed it shut. And that was that.