Ruthie, Queen of the Late Bloomers Post #3 - The Last Day of 8th Grade

Eighth grade graduation is dumb. So is kindergarten graduation, but really eighth grade graduation is dumb.

Antsy, super-charged, middle schoolers jacked up on end-of-the year candy move in packs through the narrow halls making their way toward the auxiliary gym, whooping it up and pumping fists celebrating - the last day of school and eighth graders, who aren’t actually graduating.

They all jockey for a spot in the bleachers near friends. Teachers have given up trying to keep their classes together. And all I want to do is escape through the side gym door into the fresh air where I can breathe.

The sound of nearly 800 seventh and eighth graders (me among them) heading toward the last two hours of school on the last day of the year does more than echo in the too bright artificially lit auxiliary gym; it’s deafening. And I still can’t catch my breath.

I spot Kelli all the way on the other side of the gym in the bleachers where visiting fans usually sit. She’s surrounded by orchestra kids with Josh, her boyfriend since the state band contest in January, sitting behind her. I have no idea where I’ll sit as I move as quickly as my heaving lungs and the mob of students will allow.

I’m about to climb the 12 rows of bleachers toward Kelli when she sees me and scoots over away from Jillian Hughes, first chair flutist. Kelli motions for me to sit next to her. Praise the Lord for my best friend, Kelli Jenkins. If there is a lord, I praise him or her, or whatever a lord is.

I sit down immediately uncomfortable on the hard plastic bleacher that has me way too close to Jillian our shoulders brushing together. I realize I am literally sweating bullets that have begun trickling over my upper lip and seeping into my mouth. I quickly wipe away the little sweat bullets with the back of my hand, hoping no one sees. It’s disgusting, but not as bad as the giant pit stains growing under both my arms. I thought deodorant was supposed to keep this shit from happening.

Kelli is talking, maybe to me, maybe to Jillian or Josh behind her. I can’t tell. Mr. Greutzmacher, our perpetually grouchy principal, tries unsuccessfully to get everyone’s attention. He’s saying something about it being Memorial Day weekend, so he invited local veterans to join us for graduation. As soon as I hear the word veterans, I think of my brother, Mike, who announced last week he’s joining the Air Force. My mom was blind-sided. I was blind-sided.

Mr. Greutzmacher drones on and on about “the eighth graders graduating and moving on to bigger and better things at the high school.” I want to scream, it’s not graduation! There are no diplomas, no caps, and no gowns. It’s public school, which, by the way, is compulsory until age 16 in Indiana. Everyone passes (check that, graduates) eighth grade because nobody wants 16-year-old libido-driven middle schoolers in the building.

I’m still sweating and I notice my heart pounding through my chest as the pep band, which Kelli hates, begins playing The Star Spangled Banner. We all stand.

And the last thing I see is a bunch of old geezer veterans standing in a crooked line next to Mr. Greutzmacher, with their right hands raised in salute.

Blackness all around. And silence.