I sit here in this classroom in complete and utter disbelief. How can someone as ingenious, charismatic, and diligent as me tie with Wesley Russo, a weak, scrawny, cowardly nobody? A bottom of the barrel underdog on the decathlon team for goodness sake. He is a complete loner, but somehow his valedictorian speech is equivalent to my work. In what world is what he has to say more important than my senior year wrap-up? I lost elbow grease while writing this speech. Wesley has nothing on me. I’m popular, idolized even, but I presume that’s no longer valued in the world, or rather Kinleigh High School English Department. Apparently now is the time to take pity on losers or put more formally those who can’t evolve. Wesley has been second to me since kindergarten; he placed second in all the elementary spelling bees, weightlifting contests, and even in class debates until today when we leveled.
Miss Kwenton tells us both to rethink and polish our speeches which will be judged again on Friday, and she suggested that one of us should even think about dropping out. I sigh and run my fingers through my tousled hair with frustration. Clearly I wasn’t discreet enough “something on your mind,” Wesley asks. I contemplate being passive and responding with “no” for roughly 5 seconds, instead I go off the handle saying “How is an oration about your Grandfather worthy of discussing on one of the single most significant days of our young adult lives?” My snarky yet valid counter earns me an eye roll from Wesley who averts his coppery eyes and sways to Miss Kwenton to say “I appreciate you making me aware of my competition. Are we done here?” She nods after picking up on his uneasiness. Miss Kwenton turns her head and meets my gaze, giving me a piercing look of judgment. “What?” I mutter unremorsefully, shrugging my shoulders. “It’s not like I lied. Nobody wants to hear him ramble, and I just can’t wrap my head around being overshadowed by him.” Miss Kwenton interjects. “It’s a shame to see one of my most promising students behave like such a child.”
After she leaves the room, I realize it would be pathetic to wallow in my sorrows and decide to head over to Vince’s Diner where I happen to do my best writing. I stroll in like I own the place, which I
practically do, since I close the place every night. A worker walks toward my booth and asks “What can I get for you, son?”
“Nothing I can buy from here,” I claim.
He looks puzzled. To my surprise the restaurant is empty, so he tucks his order pad in his shirt pocket, raises his eyebrows, sits down, and replies “Hmm, humor me” I told him… well everything we discussed my Type A personality, my fears, and I somehow managed to divulge my two massive current dilemmas being my rocky relationship with my father and how I’m tied for the graduation speech. He made a cackle in his gravelly tone, “You sound just like me at your age. I was the black sheep of my family, but managed to outgrow my family’s traditions.”
“That’s easier said than done. My dad went to Harvard Law, graduated at the top of his class, and gave a graduation speech that’s still multiplying in views on YouTube after going viral decades ago. How can I top that?”
“I never tried to beat my old man at his own game; I only tried to master mine. I might’ve lost some of his respect doing so, but that’s ok because I gained my own!”
“You said earlier you want to go to Harvard too, right?”
I give a shy nod. “Does that make me a sycophant?” I probe.
“No” he affirmed, “That would make you authentic, and being genuine is a lot better than putting
up a facade so you don’t disappoint others around you.”
“I see you in here every night writing up a storm and it’s clear there’s more to you and you’re not
some cliche, so be your own person. You don’t need your peers or your daddy to tell you that you’re exceptional, especially when you’re on a distinct path. You’re stressed about your future. I get it. I have a grandson who is the same way.” Our therapy session suddenly gets cut short by his nasty cough. I lean over to my side of the booth and ask him if he needs a sip of water. He shakes his head muttering that he is “fine” and collapses on the ground. I shout for help and begin dialing 911. The paramedics arrived in 6 sluggish minutes and he was rushed to the hospital.
Two weeks after that bizarre experience at the diner, I decided to listen to the man I vented to and finally worked up the nerve to confront my father. As we ate dinner my aura shifted. “Is everything ok with you son?” It was at that moment that I came clean.
“Dad, I don’t know if I can do it.”
“Look I know you’re probably nervous to give the speech but it’s a few minutes and it will be over before you know it. Just do the thing they say, picture everyone in their underwear.”
I chuckle, “No it’s not my nerves it’s just I doubt mine will be as memorable as yours was.”
“Who says it has to be. I pushed you to try because I knew you had the potential to get the opportunity I did, not so we could compete.”
“Oh so you don’t care if mine differs from yours?” “Would it be your speech if it was a reiteration of mine?”
Confronting my dad did not go as anticipated because there was no shouting or cursing. Maybe I was wrong; it was my tendencies that drew that conclusion. I know I put in work, but most importantly I know who I am. I do not need anyone else to tell me. A day later, I am told that Wesley won the speech. I immediately feel a weight taken off my shoulders.
I can faithfully say, come graduation day, I am content. Today, in my cap, and gown I feel at peace with everything as I walk to my seat to listen to Wesley share his revised speech. Looking over, I saw the gracious man from the diner, and I was suddenly comforted. I find myself sitting in disbelief once again after hearing Wesley’s initial remarks “To my Grandfather Vince…”
The End
