The Grad Box

Deep breath, in and out.

I heave the box out of the furnace room and onto the basement floor. The must of aged cardboard wafts through the air, tainting the smell of fresh paint I've grown to love. The moving box reads, "grad stuff." 

Buried below the framed pictures of fake smiles and folders of forgotten memories lay the grad box. It's different from the moving box, the kind of cheap flimsy folded cardboard box you buy in bulk at Dollarama. When I pull it out I try not to disturb the torn corners but it's barely holding itself together. How ironic.

Deep breath, in and out. Here we go.

Everything feels still. It's early June and normally there would be a cool breeze in the air that would always prompt the question, "when will it start to actually feel like summer?" We always want what we can't have, I guess.

I subconsciously click the lock button on my phone to turn the screen on, to see if they've texted. A picture collage of my friends stares back at me, taunting me. No texts.

Ok then, I'm doing this myself.

Walking toward the school, I feel the strongest sense of deja vu. It's the same walk from the student parking lot to the front doors that I did every morning this year... except now the parking lot is empty and there are no swinging backpacks or obnoxious basketball players to dodge. It feels too easy, stepping into the school alone and not having to hold the door for the neverending stream of stragglers. It feels too quiet.

The last time I was here it was to empty my locker. I was alone for that too. We were supposed to go in alphabetical order at a specific time, to be Covid safe and all that, but somehow I didn't get the memo that my friends were all going together anyways. No biggie.

I enter the front foyer and let out the breath I had been holding. I look around the empty couches, vacant stools, and spotless tables. It feels unnatural.

I follow the balloons set up in a line down the hallway towards some surprise that the school had been hyping up on Schoolzone all month. We hadn't been told what graduation would look like yet, but extra money was added to the grad budget when the dance got cancelled, so I'm sure it will be somewhat decent.

As soon as I turn the corner into the main quad, I see teachers lined up along either side of the hallway, a big balloon arch directly in front of me.

I walk, alone, down the hallway to scattered applause. Awkward eye contact. Sympathy nods. Pity smiles.

At the end of the hallway, I'm handed a grad box. I'm told not to open it until the ceremony. The online, pre-recorded, "Covid-safe," not-in-person, ceremony. I'm walked over to a mini photo booth, where I smile for a picture, alone. I'm directed towards the back door that leads to the parking lot. And I leave.

And I walk back to my car, crumpling the Dollarama grad box between my fingers.

June 17, 2020 @ 2:43 pm: I take a picture alone after picking up my grad box because my friends ditched me.

June 17, 2020 @ 3:31 pm: My friends send a picture on the group chat showing that they all went to pick up their grad boxes together. Without me.

June 17, 2020 @ 3:02 pm: I take a picture alone to send to my friend group chat after opening up the grad box.

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