His Eyes by Renee Carter Page A

going to be questioning why we’re together, anymore.”
    Ouch. He had point.
    I followed the line of formally dressed families that were filing from the parking lot into the building. We walked inside, down a hallway, and into a large wood-floored gymnasium. There were rows upon rows of leather-cushioned seats that put to shame the rusted old folding chairs I knew would be at my graduation. Elegant banners depicting fierce panthers hung from the ceiling. At the far end of the room was a small stage on which several older women and men, including the headmaster, sat.
    Many of Tristan’s classmates were already in their seats and they turned to watch us walk down the aisle. I kept my head facing forward and hurried to the front row where two seats were waiting; I guessed his mother had arranged for this, too. After we were seated, Tristan’s hand remained wrapped firmly around my arm. I patted his hand comfortingly. His skin was like ice! I hissed, “Nervous?”
    His face rigid, Tristan quickly lied, “No.”
    I shrugged. He didn’t have to tell me.
    A moment later, he leaned toward me. “Can’t you feel them?”
    In fact, I could. Having a hundred people staring at you is hard to ignore. I squeezed his hand and whispered back, “It’s going to be fine.”
    The lights in the room dimmed and I zoned out while the Valedictorian and the Salutatorian took turns at the podium giving their speeches on the future and the great possibilities for our generation and whatever. They were both slow and monotone enough to lose me after thirty seconds. The applause of the crowd and the brightening of the gymnasium lights jarred me back to reality.
    From behind the stage, the Clarence orchestra began to play Pomp and Circumstance and the name “Michelle Anderson,” boomed through the room. Michelle, from a mere five chairs away, stood and began her ascent to the stage. She was followed shortly by, “Kelly Brighton,” “Peter Darmon,” and “Nicole Dunne.” After each name was read, the audience clapped wildly. “Joseph Eccles,” from the last chair to Tristan’s left, even garnered a whistle. I amused myself with visions of the offending whistler being dragged away by secret Clarencite police, before I realized that it was... our turn!
    “Tristan Edmund.”
    With a gulp, I rose and Tristan jerked to his feet. We made it to the top of the platform before I realized that the applause was pathetically quiet, except for the back of the room, where Charlie was standing on top of his seat, clapping his little hands off, along with Mrs. Edmund. Perhaps it was the red of my dress, but I was pissed. I spun on my heel, glaring at the crowd, and began to clap as loud as I could. Pumping my fist in the air, I yelled, “ Woohoo !”
    Tristan squeezed my arm and leaned close to my ear. “Amy, it’s all right.”
    He had said my name . My mind went blank.
    Laughter rumbled through in the gym and the applause in the family section grew louder, spilling over into the student section. Some of the Clarencites gave me evil looks, crossed their arms, and refused to applaud; I bet they knew about his mother’s bribery and weren’t too happy he’d gotten to miss a semester and still graduate. I imaged that they were trying to use their minds to make me explode—but nothing happened. Apparently the Clarencites weren’t good at everything, after all.
    * * *
    The moment the ceremony ended, the gym echoed with chatter. Students were dragged this way and that to pose for pictures with Aunt So-and-so and Grandpa. I saw Mrs. Edmund, with Chris and Marly in tow, burst from the crowd. Mrs. Edmund was sniffling and she threw her arms around Tristan, while saying over his shoulder, “What you did was wonderful, Amy!”
    I blushed when Mrs. Edmund let go of Tristan and quickly embraced me.
    Chris grumbled, “We should’ve beat up whoever didn’t clap.”
    “Christopher John, we do not talk about beating people up,” she chided gently.
    I