The crowd is silent, rapt. For the first time in my life, my parents are staring at me with something close to undivided attention.
I soak it in like a drug.
“Who am I to spend my allocated five minutes preaching? I’m not any kind of authority. I’m just an eighteen-year-old overachiever with stronger test-taking skills than my peers. How that qualifies me to give a speech aboutanythingis, frankly, laughable. Yet, I am expected to step into this charade, playing my part convincingly. And you — you, sitting there, acting like I’m not just as messed up as any kid in this graduating class, simply because I happen to have a marginally higher GPA — are just as culpable.”
Behind me, Headmaster Lawrence clears his throat.
Loudly.
I ignore him.
“Exeter Academy of Excellence taught me many things over the years, from anatomy to astrophysics… but the one lesson that isn’t taught in textbooks is the one I’ll remember best. We’re all just playing parts. Pretending to be something we’re not, hoping no one else looks close enough to notice.” My eyes drop to the front row. My parents are glaring at me, mortification plain as day on their faces. “Whether you’re a selfish philanthropist saving the world to cover your own narcissism…” I glance at Ryan Snyder, glowering in the second row. “Or an imposter bound for the Ivy-League…” My eyes move to Sienna Sullivan, seated beside him. “Or a mean girl lashing out to cover her own insecurities…” I look back out over the crowd. “Or even a clueless valedictorian asked to speak with some semblance of conviction…” I shrug, lips twisting wryly. “Life makes liars of us all.”
The silence of the crowd is absolute.
“I’m so tired of pretending. Aren’t you? I’m sick to death of acting like someone I’m not. So here’s the truth about your Class Valedictorian, Josephine Valentine.” I smile. “The essay that got me into Brown? It was complete and utter bullshit. A painstakingly plotted story, designed with the help of three tutors.”
My mother claps a hand over her mouth.
“The mansion I live in, the one in the magazine spreads and architectural blogs? It’s a sprawling, soulless box, empty of everything that makes a house a home.”
The crowd stirs, whispers spreading like wildfire through grass. “The parents who raised me, teaching me to ride a bike and braid my hair? They’re a housekeeper and a handyman, not the people with whom I share strands of DNA.”
Furious, my father starts up out of his seat. My mother grabs his arm before he can fully stand, her fingernails digging into the fabric of his shirt. Holding him at bay.
God forbid they make a scene.
He sits stiffly. His eyes hold a dark promise that I will soon pay for my behavior.
A radiant smile spreads across my face. With each lie I strip away, I feel buoyant. So light, I could float up straight up into the sky.
“I can’t stand parties. I like being alone, at home with my sewing machine or out on my sailboat. I know that isn’t trendy or cool to admit, but it’s true.” I glance briefly at Odette and Ophelia. “I hate being calledValentineandJosie, but I let it happen because I was too desperate for friends to make waves.” I take a deep breath. “And this fall, I have no plans to pursue a degree in Public Health so that I can take over my parents’ foundation. I’ll be studying fashion design instead.”
Two hundred sets of eyes watch as I take a deep breath. I notice, some people in the crowd are nodding. Whispering behind their programs.
“So. Why am I telling you all this unnecessary information?”
There’s a low, collective chuckle.
I direct my final words at my classmates. “We are eighteen. We are on the cusp of becoming real people. The choices we make now will define who we are for the rest of our lives. Make sure you choose wisely. Stop hiding behind a socially acceptable facade. Stop worrying about what everyone else thinks. Be a freak. Be a weirdo. Be offbeat. Don’t force your sailboat upwind, simply because that’s where others expect you to go. Adjust your course to somewhere that matters. And while you’re at it… enjoy the journey. It’s always far shorter than you expect, and usually better than the final destination.” I pause for a long beat. “Thank you.”
The silence is deafening.
I count out three long seconds before, finally, from the back row, people begin to clap. Before long, the entire courtyard is swept up into thunderous applause, cheering for me as I turn from the podium.
With one notable exception.
In the front row, Blair and Vincent Valentine are stone statues, their faces both contorted in shock, their hands clasped tightly in their laps.
I take my seat beside Eva Ulrich. In six years, we’ve never really spoken outside of class necessities. She’s always been annoyed that I beat her out for the top GPA slot. But now, she’s looking at me with a sort of grudging respect shining in her eyes.
“Good luck at Brown, Val—” She breaks off. “ I meanJosephine. I hear their fashion program is amazing.”
“Good luck at Harvard, Eva. And… thanks.”
Headmaster Lawrence is back at the microphone. “Without further ado… I will now hand out the diplomas.”
The first row of students rises.