My senior year
My daughter is graduating, which puts me in mind of my high school graduation. I didn’t care about what to wear or even what the ceremony would be; when I was asked, midway through the school year, if I were willing to share salutatorian honors with another guy, I didn’t mind that, either. I paid no attention to class placement. I had excellent grades and I knew it. As long as I had at least a high B or above, in every class, I was happy. I had arrived at a certain amount of confidence, after years of painful growing up. This other guy had been second in the class over me. During the first half of our senior year his sister went off the deep end, eloped with someone, had to be searched for, and returned with a baby. His grades took a dive; he fell to third place in our class. So they asked me if I minded sharing second place with him; I had been solidly third, apparently, without my knowledge or concern. Now my grades placed me second. We would both speak at graduation, along with his best friend, the valedictorian.
I was not a bit bothered. Speaking at graduation held no fears for me. I had been on the school speech team for three years. I had performed in several plays. I talked in church once every couple years; I had been in front of a microphone since I was three, lisping a prayer and a scripture verse to the children’s meeting.
As to being second in the class, I had to have it explained to me just why this mattered at all. Colleges cared, but they also cared how many other students there were: only 52 in our class. I didn’t see why this would matter. My SAT score was off the charts high, apparently, the second highest in 30 years at our school; one other student scored higher, shocking everyone. I had been in “Gifted and Talented” classes since second grade; he had moved there in middle school and had never distinguished himself academically. When I scored high, everyone expected it. He stunned them all.
My mother knew I was academically capable; she used to throw up her hands and tell me in tones of mild disgust and caution, “Melinda! There are lots of people of middling intelligence who run rings around lazy geniuses!” She studied carefully, in great detail, and felt keenly that she didn’t know as much as she would like. It frustrated her to see me skating through school without sweating it.
I followed my teachers’ directions to the letter; I did every problem and wrote every essay. I got A’s and A plusses, occasionally a B. I only remember one C, in my senior year second semester. By that time class rank had already been determined; I was in a 20th century history class learning about the war in Vietnam. I missed a few days of school for some competition, probably All-State Band. I got back and the teacher gave me a copy of the class notes. I was supposed to read and study them for the test. I didn’t. I flunked the test. The teacher knew I hadn’t looked at the notes; he ruefully grinned and called me out on it. I felt embarrassed but still didn’t really care.
