Ms. Maude signals it's time for me to go, and I stumble up the stairs.

I blink back the glare from the stage lights as Principal Chambers holds out her hand for me to shake. I take it, a handful of icicles compared to my own sweaty palm.

A man says my name into the microphone, "James Laurence Peterson."

I blush even hotter, walk a little faster. Wanting nothing more than to get this over with.

Then I hear it.

My classmates erupting in a storm of applause, shouting my name as if I were some sort of Lincoln High superhero, instead of the kid who just ruined his best friend's life.

FORTY-SIX.

We toss our caps into the air, scramble to pick them up. Then it's over.

Thank God.

We file out into a courtyard, away from the blinding lights and stifling heat. I unzip my robe and loosen my tie. I'm unbuttoning the top button of my shirt when Eden rushes over.

"I can't believe Nick did this!" She shakes a torn program at me. "I'm so gonna kill him!"

I nod absently and look for Mason in the crowd. I don't know if I want to talk to him or not, but I have to know if he's okay.

Eden calms down a notch, seeming to understand. "Over there," she says, and points.

Then I see him, talking to Brodie and Kellen. He's still standing and seems all right.

He turns and looks right at me.

A swarm of honeybees buzz in my stomach, and I fight the urge to turn and run.

In slow motion Mason claps Kellen's shoulder. Then he drifts toward Eden and me.

The bees buzz and sting. My throat swells up. I can't breathe.

"Jamie!" he calls.

With this, our classmates stop talking-the only sound is the buzzing in my ears.

I feel Eden's hand on my back, pushing me toward Mason.

He hugs me and thumps my back, and I return the gesture robotically, not knowing what else to do.

"Jamie," Mason says again.

I look past the glare of sun on his glasses. His eyes are bright, sparkling with energy. And he's close. So close to me.

"Jamie." This time he says it at a whisper. "I'm ready. Are you?"

I search his face for an idea of what he's talking about. It's inches from mine and on the verge of a smile. A smile?

"You want to do this?"

I don't know what he's talking about until his hands close around my ears, his thumbs pressed to my cheekbones, and the tips of his fingers wrap around the hot back of my neck. Then I get it. Oh my God, my scrambled brain thinks, he wants to kiss me!

And suddenly I can't wait any longer.

"Hell, yeah," I reply, and reach for him. I close the gap in an instant and press my lips into his. Too hard at first, but I figure it out. I kiss him. His lips are soft and warm and vaguely sweet.

At first the crowd is pin-drop silent.

He kisses me back.

My mortarboard tumbles to the pavement.

Our lips part.

A chorus of low oohs begins. Then a series high-pitched whistles, with one "woo-woo-woo" that sounds like Brodie.

So we don't stop kissing.

FORTY-SEVEN.

But we do stop kissing. Because a girl's voice rings out, bouncing off the hard cement walls. "You had no right!"

Mason and I turn to see Eden and the Redneck squaring off a few yards from us. We stand there, our arms still around each other as if we are holding the other one up.

"Why'd you draw it," the Redneck asks, "if you didn't want people to see it?"

"It was personal!" she shouts.

"Yeah." He laughs. "A personal moment between two fag-"

She slaps him.

His head jerks right, her handprint on his cheek burning as bright as a red neon sign until the rest of his face catches up.

His hands ball into fists as big as sugar beets, and Eden's eyes grow wide.

Oh my God, I think, my fingers gripping Mason's robe. He's going to hit her.

The Redneck's forearm muscles tense, release, and tense again, his face glowing redder with each squeeze.

Eden seems frozen between anger and fear.

Mason's muscles go rigid, as if he's ready to pounce.

"You worthless piece of homophobic crap!" Challis's voice cuts through the crowd. "Back the hell off!" Then Challis is all up in the Redneck's face, slamming her palms into his gorilla-wide chest.

The Redneck growls like a pit bull, drowning out her insults.

She shoves him hard.

He doesn't budge. Then, after a beat, he turns and stomps away.

Challis gives his retreating back a single-finger salute and puts an arm around Eden.

"I can't believe he did that," Eden mumbles. "He doesn't even write his own English papers."

As if drawn by the shouting, families start to trickle in around the corners of the stadium, infiltrating our sea of black hats and gowns with bits of colors-dads in red power ties, sisters in pink party dresses, brothers in orange-and-blue BSU jerseys, and moms in printed blouses.

I let my arms fall to my sides and Mason does the same. We stand there, taking in the wave of people.

My mind plays a game of mix-and-match, matching parents with my classmates: Holland's mom is a tank-top type, her father a burly blond with more tattoos than shirtsleeves.

The Schoenbergers are dressed in black, Michael's dad in a suit and his mom and sister in dresses.

Challis looks around hopefully, as if she is trying to spot someone, anyone with a blood relation. She bites her lip as her eyes grow glossy with realization that they hadn't come at all.

"You see your folks?" Mason asks me.

"No, you?" I reply as my eyes snap back to Challis.

She's wrestling out of her gown. The zipper is stuck and she yanks the gown off over her head. Her hat falls to the asphalt. She balls up the flimsy nylon robe and shoves it into a trashcan. Then she scoops up the mortarboard and tosses that too. Only the square hat doesn't fit in the round hole. So she leaves it there, the gold tassel fluttering in the breeze, and walks away.

Mason points to where the crowd has shifted to reveal our parents-both pairs plus four siblings and my grandma and Stan-all together. My biological dad couldn't make it. And this makes me think of Challis.

"I'm not ready for this," Mason whispers.

I know I should be thinking about him. About us. About what this all means, but I can't concentrate. "One minute," I tell him, and squeeze his hand. Then I jog to the trash can, pick up Challis's mortarboard, and pull the tassel free. I put it in my pocket, thinking that maybe, someday, she'll want it back.

In a flash I'm back at Mason's side. "Sorry."

"You think they saw?" He juts his chin at our families.

"The picture? Or us . . . ?"

"Both?"

"Probably," I say. My mom is sagging under the weight of one of the twins in her arms, so she's probably been standing there for a few.

Mason swears in Spanish.

"It'll be okay," I tell him, and hold out my hand, palm up and open-there if he needs it.

Mason takes it. His grip so tight, my knuckles abrade one another.

We dodge a hugging knot of Polmanskis and another of Quincys. Our hands cementing themselves together with heat, sweat, and fear-bonded as we approach our own knots of family.

My mother is beaming, Frank is smiling. Grandma and Stan look out of place.

Mason's father is scowling.

One of the twins spots us and wiggles free from my stepdad's arms. She trips toward us and the other follows. Mason and I catch one twin's little hand with each of our free hands. They tug us back toward our families.

That's when I see Mrs. V brushing tears from her eyelashes and Mr. V's grip on her shoulder.

"Congratulations, sweetie," my mom says, hugging me long and tight. "You did it!" I don't know if she means graduating or coming out. I've let go of my sister and Mason, but I don't remember when I did.

"Congrats, Jamie," Frank says, giving me a thunk between the shoulder blades. He picks up one twin and at the same time, reaches for the other's hand.

I offer to shake hands with Gabe, but he pulls me into a hug. He passes me to Londa and goes back to teasing Mason in Spanish.

Over the top of Londa's head, I watch my mom watch Mr. Viveros.

"Congratulations, Jamie," Londa says. "I'm gonna miss having two little brothers-you'll visit me in my new apartment?"

"Of course," I say to her, but my eyes flick to my mom.

She gives Mason a motherly hug, whispers something in his ear. He nods. She pulls him close again, holds him for a long time. Then she says to his parents, "You should be proud, a college-bound high school graduate!"

They nod and mascara-tinted tears dislodge themselves and roll down Mrs. V's cheeks. Mr. V's face is stony, not a flicker of emotion crosses it, and I get the feeling he's thinking about the one thing no one is saying out loud: his son is gay.

"We've gotta go," Mason says quickly. "See you at the party, okay, Jamie?"

"Yeah," I say, my heart heavy with what I imagine will happen when he and his father are no longer in a public place.

FORTY-EIGHT.