Potential Hazards of Hester Day

CHEAP CALLIGRAPHY When I was seventeen I drove a combustion harvester through my life. Well, to behonest, I'm not sure if there is such a thing as a combustion harvester, but ifthereis, that's definitely the sort of machinery I drove through my life. It was at the end of June. The sky was overcast, winds were coming from the east,a little too strong to qualify as typical for that time of the year. There was apodium set up on the football field. In front of it sat countless acne-ridden,wide-eyed teenagers -- oversexed, undereducated -- as ignorant as the day theywere born, but with less curiosity and more confidence in their sharpenedintellect than ever. Some kind of music was playing through the speakers --sentimentally engaging, patriotic music that is meant to bring tears ofresolution to one's eyes. Somewhere along the line it was my turn. I stood on the podium and reached outmy hand for my high school diploma. My name floated through the air over the seaof parents spread out before me. The principal shook my hand, and I realizedthat he smiled as though with the help of some medical device pulling at thecorners of his lips. His forehead was glazed in perspiration. An unfortunatestring of hair had loosened itself from its position and now stuck awkwardlyover an eyebrow. I was about to say something to him -- maybe some tactless joketo sum up our acquaintance -- but his eyes had already moved on, his hand wasalready reaching for the next graduate, and I drifted automatically across thestage as practiced earlier that day. The diploma was rolled up and tied with a blue ribbon. While walking back to myseat, I glanced over to where my family sat, waiting for the ordeal to be over.My mother, father, older sister, and some aunt of mine I'd only met twice beforeall watched me as though I were a car accident by the side of a road. My mothergave a short sigh and then looked respectfully back at the podium -- bored outof her wits. My family was a strange institution. Very often they seemed like some kind of amonstrous machine to me, cogwheels turning, levers moving up and down, steambeing pressed from its sides. They seemed like a machine that mass-producedsomething very pointless -- like those huge Styrofoam hands that people in theaudience of a football match are always waving around. "Why didn't you smile?" my aunt asked, annoyed, as I walked up to them after theceremony. "Why should I have smiled?" She drew back in disgust. "For crying out loud!" My mom hugged me, congratulated me, photographed me, and then said, "Honey, Ireally wish you would have brushed your hair this morning, though. Or at leastput on a bit of makeup. You look like you're ten years old. Oh, I have to sayhello to Mr. Keiller!" With that, she turned and jogged over to where the principal stood talkinganimatedly to a small audience of parents. They hugged and then she joined inthe animated talk. The rest of us stood there for a few seconds, vehementlywishing we were not standing there. "Good job, honey," my dad said after a while. I said, "Thanks." "We really didn't know sometimes if you'd ever get here," he added, looking athis watch. "I just want you to know how proud we are." I said, "Cool." We lapsed back into silence, and since there was nothing better to do, I slidoff the ribbon from my diploma and rolled it open. It proved to be a marble-patterned paper, thick, covered in various signatures and writings -- andimprinted into its strong eggshell color, I found the name "Ronald Peterson"spelled out neatly in cheap calligraphy. With a lopsided smile, I let it rollback together again. I was glad they gave me the wrong diploma. It sort of made up for the fact thatthis graduation ranked second to a pornography awards cerHelnwein, Mercedes is the author of 'Potential Hazards of Hester Day', published 2008 under ISBN 9781416574668 and ISBN 1416574662.