I give him a look. He might not have been in Principal Chambers's office five times in the last two weeks, but I have.

"And, if they do, they'll have to find someone else to speak at graduation." He opens a little hook-shaped device from the knife and begins wiggling it around the rim of the can.

I watch in wonder. I'd never seen a can opened without a can opener. "I didn't know you were a Boy Scout."

He peels the lid back and fishes a pepper out with his fingers. He makes another taco.

Then something he said sinks in. "Wait, you're really speaking at graduation?" I ask.

"Salutatorian."

"What are you gonna say?"

"Thanks, everyone, for slacking off this year and making me do this crappy job."

"Huh?"

"I have no idea how I ended up second in the class," he says. "Last semester I wasn't even in the running. I mean, I'm in Mr. Purdy's government class with you."

"Um, thanks?"

"It's not AP," he explains. "You have to take all AP classes to get a perfect GPA."

I nod. I had only AP calc, and it threatened to bring my grades down, not up.

"So a bunch of people must have screwed up last semester, or I'd never be where I am-not with a regular class." He takes a swig of soda and hands me the bottle.

"Last semester?" I take a drink. "That was when the flu hit during exam week."

Mason slaps his knee. "You're right! Everyone was sick."

"I was."

"So I owe my class rank to the the flu?" Mason says. "Nice."

"Does Bahti know?" I ask. Because she's gonna know. At graduation.

"I sure as hell didn't tell her. It's not like I'm going to Berkley," he says.

There's a sarcastic tone in his voice, and I know he's kidding. But I can't help thinking, Why not? If you're so smart, why not?

"I know what you're thinking," Mason says, pulling another dripping chile from the can and adding it to his third taco.

I play dumb.

"I want to go to WSU, not some hoity-toity Ivy League school. Not for undergrad."

That's right. He's going to grad school.

"Besides," he says with a gooey, cheesy grin. "This way we get to go to college together."

I smile back, my chest as light as a helium balloon.

Then, like a pin to my solar plexus, Mason asks, "You sell a lot of Gumshoes?"

I deflate then mumble, "More than last year."

"It was the graphic short, wasn't it?"

I shrug then take a bite of taco shell and cheese.

"Jamie?"

My teeth clamp down on the inside of my cheek. I yelp in surprise.

"You okay?" he asks.

I nod and cradle my face.

"It was good," Mason says.

My mind whirs, trying to catch his meaning.

"Challis's story?" he prompts.

"Not stellar," I say, trying to throw him off my tracks. "Maybe a little lacking, plot wise."

He looks confused. "You got a week of detention for something you didn't even like?"

Damn it, he's persistent. I try another tactic. "Challis worked really hard on it, and I didn't want to let her down."

His eyes catch mine, hot-fudge pools that seem to say, Talk to me.

"She's a little weird," I say about Challis because I can't talk about myself. "But we're sort-of friends-she's in my art class-and I sort of asked her to draw me a story-told her I'd get it-"

"Jamie," Mason gently interrupts my babbling. "You're sort-of friends with everyone."

"But I didn't know what the comic was about until after I promised," I say.

"Yeah?" It sounds like a question.

"Yeah," I scoff, because that is the truth, the very last shred of it, but the truth nonetheless.

He smiles sadly and shakes his head.

He knows I'm lying about not liking it.

Mason stops pushing. "I wouldn't want Challis to have it out for me, either."

An Elegy to Lincoln High by Brodie Hamilton The stadium lights fade to blue as night reclaims its rightful place- the game played, the season over.

Six wins. Three losses.

My jersey no longer mine, passed on to the next guy, my seat in the cafeteria, my locker and textbooks, too.

Old people say these are the best days of our lives, the times we'll always remember- as if the rest of life sucks.

Jealous people say jocks like me peak in high school- and end up selling mattresses, cell phone plans, or used cars.

But I say farewell, Lincoln High.

Thanks for the football, the rockin' group of friends, and the beautiful girls- you know who you are.

Thanks for the starting gate, the push out the door, the drive to do something better, bigger, and to leave you in the dust.

FORTY-THREE.

Graduation is on Wednesday afternoon at the big basketball stadium at Boise State.

I'm all decked out in a shirt and tie, the dress shoes my mom bought me when I told her I was wearing my Converse, and a black graduation gown that reminds me of a Hogwarts robe. I have my trumpet. (The band is playing the national anthem.) And my parents have successfully herded the twins into both dresses and their car seats.

They drop me off near the stadium and then go to find a parking spot.

I join the crowd of seniors, some of whom-Brodie and Kellen-are totally pumped and bouncing around greeting people with fist bumps and high fives. Others seem bored, as if they're thinking, One walk across the stage and I'm gone.

"Peterson!" Brodie says.

"Hey, man."

"Where's Viveros?" he asks, holding out his fist.

I shrug. I don't see Mason. "Maybe he had to go do salutatorian stuff?"

"Nah," Brodie tells me. "We did that this morning."

"You're giving a speech?"

"Class president official business," he says, pinching the lapels of his suit.

"Sounds good," I say with an oof as Kellen drapes a meaty arm over my shoulders.

"Dude," Kellen says. "So glad I don't have to speak-that stadium's effin' huge."

"Me too," I agree, lifting my trumpet case. "I'm just playing in the band."

"Cool," he says, then releases me. "Brodie here's gonna read his 'Elegy to Lincoln High.'"

"Nah, man," Brodie says. "Chambers says I couldn't read it."

"But it's, like, a published work of art," Kellen says.

"It doesn't have quite the right tone for a graduation ceremony," Brodie says in his snooty principal voice.

Kellen and I laugh.

I spy Eden and wave two fingers her direction.

Kellen follows my gaze. Then he thumps my back. "I love you, man," he says instead of good-bye. It doesn't mean anything-not like when I said it to Mason in government. That's the thing. There are three ways to say I love you, man.

The first one is an announcement, said at full volume and often accompanied by a swear word. It's sort of Thank you, sort of You're cool, with a little And damn, you make me look good thrown in. This is how Kellen said it.

The second one is a diss, said with four and a half tons of sarcasm and most likely a reference to the father, son, or Holy Ghost. There's no sort of about it. It means I hate you right now.

The third one comes wrapped in caution tape. It is said quietly and on its own, without any adjectives. There's no "sort of" to this one, either, because you mean it.

Like, well, I did.

Mrs. Templeton waves down those of us in band. She ushers us inside. We unpack our instruments and assemble them, playing random notes and getting nervous.

"Ladies and gentlemen," Mrs. Templeton shouts over the noise. "Your music is all on your stands-and seniors, please leave it there when you join the rest of your class. You will also leave your instrument with your stand partner. Understand?"

I nod. It's not like I want to be carrying my trumpet when I walk across the stage.

"I'll be at school all next week so you can pick them up."

More nodding.

"Ready?" she asks.

"Ready!" we shout.

And Ms. Templeton shows us out to the auditorium floor.

I look up at the seemingly endless rows of seats-almost all of them filled with bodies. I look around for my mom and Frank and the girls, but don't see them.

After we play the national anthem, I join the seniors in the bank of chairs in the middle of the floor. The seats are alphabetical and a few empty ones are scattered here and there. I watch Bahti find her seat among the Rs and calculate where mine might be.

Then I see it. L, M, N, O-Eden O'Shea. Nick O'Shea. P. Jamie Peterson.

I'm next to Redneck.