Commencement

She’s late.

I’m not all that surprised, but I am starting to get worried. If she doesn’t show up soon, the show will go on without her. As I stare at my watch, contemplating where she could possibly be (it’s not like she could forget) I see her running towards me. Or running towards the line, running towards her spot in it, but really, she might as well be running to me. She would end up in the same spot.

She’s twenty-two years old, blond hair whipping behind her as she sprints, holding a pair of heels in her hand. She’s too short to go without them and too uncoordinated to run with them.

She’s eighteen, a pixie cut dyed red, rejoicing in the fact that she arrived before me for once in our lives.

She’s fourteen, the only girl wearing a black dress, looking far older than she should have. This should be an awkward age, but she never had a truly awkward age.

She’s eleven, straight hair braided back, her knee length skirt and sensible collared shirt giving the image of little miss perfect. She’s ignoring me.

She’s four, nervous as hell, biting her lower lip (a habit she never outgrew). She is terrified she’ll trip as she walks across the stage. She does.

She’s twenty-two years old. With a smile that is disproportionately large for her face, she grins at me as she steps into line, placing her left hand on my shoulder and using me for balance as her right hand slips her shoes onto her feet. I stare down at the top of her head, silently admonishing her tardiness. I wait for her to notice.

She glances up to my face and somehow starts to grin even wider. I’ve long wondered whether she has mutated facial muscles. It’s just not normal. She speaks, her voice slightly winded from her sprinting, “What Ben, you didn’t think I’d show? I wouldn’t miss this for the world.”

“Oh of course you wouldn’t Annie. You, late? Never.” Before she can respond, somewhere up near the front of the line some person in charge declares something about moving and the line begins to inch forward.

She looks over her shoulder, that same grin still on her face, too impish to be trusted. “Had I been mere moments later, I would’ve missed the great conclusion. Admit it, you would’ve cried.”

Without waiting for a response, she lurches forward. You would think she would’ve learned to walk in heels by now. She picks up a light jog to catch up to the guy in front of her, going as fast as possible (which is quite slow) to prevent a back up due to her need to add input. Typical.

We are not friends in the classical sense. In all actuality, we are no more than acquaintances made in pre-K. We share the bond of being Anne Hobbes and Benjamin Hodgen. Alphabetically one after the other, we were always thrust together. Group projects? Check. Seating charts? Always. Roll calls? I only ever knew when I would be called because Annie was always so enthusiastic that she would catch my attention just in time for my own name. Even when the teachers decided to “mix it up!” by alphabetically sorting people by first name, Annie and I were always together.

But the coupe de grace of alphabetical sorting is, of course, graduations. Which brings me here, walking behind Annie for the final time to the tune of “Pomp and Circumstance”.

This is no romance story. I am not the stony yet sensitive jock who falls for the spunky and irresistible charming hippie chick. This is just a story of coincidence, of memory and of times gone by, of nursery school of eighth grade of high school of college. This is just a story of, for the last time, marching to “Pomp and Circumstance” behind Annie Hobbes.

We really weren’t supposed to be here. High school should’ve been our last hurrah. Somehow, we ended up at the same school. It’s a big public school so it’s not surprising that someone else from the same high school as me would come here, it’s just ironic that it’s Annie. We can’t separate, can we?

We still are casual friends at the absolute most, but we have sought each other out more at college. There are thousands of people here and we see each other on a fairly regular basis, but in our tiny town we never saw each other outside of class. There’s something to be said for the fact that we’re both pretty big homebodies. It’s comfortable about getting coffee with the girl who was always called right before you in roll when you’re feeling homesick.

We sit in the chairs, Annie settling in beside me, getting comfortable for the speeches. She scans the audience, and though I’m not sure how she can see over the heads of the people in front of us, she points out our parents. As soon as they found out we were going to the same college, they swore they would sit together. They thought the whole thing was hysterical. Oh look at them, keeping all their promises.

Through a boring keynote, through a boring student speaker, and onto the names. It all begins with Joshua Aaron, who has probably been first in the alphabet his entire life. It goes through the Bs, onto the Cs, through the D E Fs, then Gs. For those of you not good with your alphabet, that means H is next. That means Hobbes and Hodgen are after just a few more prances across the stage, pause, big smile for the camera, congratulations you’re done processions.

She’s off to Greenpeace; I’m off to med school. This is the last, final, ultimate graduation of Annie Hobbes and Ben Hodgen. In a way it’s the end of something. I guess graduating from college is in itself the end of something, but before this all my end-of-somethings inevitably included Annie. This will be the end of that trend.

In case you got distracted, this is still no love story. Annie and I will probably not speak again. It’s not for malicious reasons but because we have no reason to. Maybe years from now we’ll be at a reunion and see each other, but for all intents and purposes, this is it.

But back to reality as her name is called and she walks across the stage. She picks up her diploma, she’s almost to the other side, she trips. She doesn’t fall, but just barely. And she turns around, looking not forward but at me. She has that huge smile, gesturing with an overly exaggerated thumbs-up with the hand not folding the diploma. The last crossing of Annie Hobbes.

I start across the stage.

Author’s Note: Thanks for reading. I have had this idea for a while, but I’m not entirely sure about the execution. I might come back and edit it later. Please review if you read and (in a bit of shameless self promotion) I’d really love you forever if you could check out Anecdotal Evidence, which is my other study.