Arielle: Part 1

A story

Take a mental picture of this moment, Arielle told herself. She tried. Thinking of the heat and the stage, backlit by the sun, beaming in their faces.

Whoever had organized the graduation ceremony must have been trolling, she decided. Why else schedule it for 5:30 pm on a Saturday and arrange for the stage to be on the west end zone, and not even flush with the end zone but angled so that the sun stared them straight down as it set? Who the hell tracked the trajectory of the sun like that? How big of a compass and/or protractor would you need for that?

Whatever. She would never need those again. She would miss proofs, though. She didn’t know it now, but a month into her freshman year, she and her dormmates would begin writing proofs of “Law & Order: SVU” episodes. They would even create an Instagram account to post them to, and that account would become the subject of a BuzzFeed article that would alter the trajectory of her life.

But at the moment, she was concerned with the trajectory of the sun, which was bowing to flash its light straight in her face, like an asshole. The moon would never do this.

She reminded herself that it wasn’t the sun’s fault. The sun didn’t know it’d be pitted into a staring contest with the North South High class of 20something. Even if the sun had known, it couldn’t do anything about it. Couldn’t angle itself to look at something just beyond and to the side, like someone trying to be polite while the Subway worker makes them a sandwich. The sun couldn’t pull up a book to bury its head in. Nope, the sun was here, and so was the sweat.

Oh fuck, the sweat. What if it pooled under her boobs? It’d be like that time she stood outside for hours get a selfie with Demi Lovato and felt Demi’s hand squish against her soggy shoulder and instantly peel off, sounding like a wet fart. A sound that Arielle may have imagined but that made her face bulge in an all too real way. Like she had accidentally swallowed a bug and was being told it would lay eggs inside her.

Obviously this would be worse, though. With Demi, no one there knew her, and no one who knew her needed to know about the picture. But if she got up on that stage with two dark stains on her maroon robe looking like oversized, oblong nipples — wait, they didn’t have to be nipples. They could be eyes! Yes, and she could tuck her robe into her belly and bend over, pressing her sweat into it, into a smile, a happy face. It’d be weird, sure, but at least it’d be on purpose then. And it’d make for a good picture, a picture she’d remember. All their faces. Then she could forget the rest of this, this…culmination? Coronation? Culmination.

Why do life’s milestones always have to involve walks down aisles? What was momentous about grocery shopping? Oh oh, getting to pick whatever cereal you want when you’re an adult on your own, that’ll be momentous. She’ll remember that for sure.

Author: petersontee

I write

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