Turner 454

          Her fall couldn't have been less graceful.

          A foot caught on the very last step, a flailing about of arms and an awkward twist. A knee, then hip, then shoulder, then very nearly a face, slamming into the platform, sending pathetic, amplified thuds to the far end of the hall and back. The sharp pain stung the backs of her eyes, but her pride was needled the hardest.

          There was a collective gasp, followed quickly by giggles and nervous tittering. The shimmering wall of maroon robes that were lined up on dramatic, curved tiers above her just shuffled and coughed, but from the row behind her came tentative helping hands and half-finished whispers of concern.

          "Deft," boomed a voice from everywhere.

          Raucous laughter as she got to her feet. She stepped clumsily forward away from the fingers of her classmates, a few of which were dubiously placed, and just looked up into the blackness. She inhaled to toss off some colorful language, perhaps accompanied by a shocking gesture or two, but at the last minute just bowed curtly and took her place on stage.

          "Say, Sarah, can you do that on Friday?"

          "Yeah, yeah, piss off, Vince," she said, but no one heard, as everyone was laughing again.

          The procession continued, and soon the rest of Sarah's row was filled, and then the row in front of her. She was, she sighed, invisible, completely indistinguishable to anyone who would be sitting more than halfway back in the arena, her face a faint speck in six lines of faint specks floating in a silky purple sea.

          She looked up again, and distractedly tried to count the tiny but blinding gold lights that were specially colored to lend an aura of elegance to the scene. They seemed to just float there, above everything but below nothing, famously denying any hint of the enormous dome overhead. She remembered how students would always bring flashlights to shows and point them futilely into the vast darkness. And the story of the engineering major who - during another graduation ceremony years ago - tried to launch an elaborately designed paper rocket with a glass marble at the tip, just to hear it hit something.

          Though it was probably just a Turner legend.

          "Okay," Vince said, obviously still smiling to himself. The microphone picked up his breathing as he took in the scene. "That's fine. Don't stand so close, take up the whole row. Okay. Okay. And everybody? When you see the green light?"

          Everyone recited wryly, "Turn the hat."

          "I hate the hat," someone growled.

          On the back wall, just barely visible behind a hundred rows of shiny grey seats, a dim red square blinked twice and was replaced by a green one. On cue, ninety-seven sleeved left arms came up and rotated ninety-seven triangular trencher caps so the longest tip pointed forward. It sounded to Sarah like a flock of birds shivering at the same time.

          "Perfect," Vince said. He was clapping, but not near the microphone, and the odd clicks echoed back and forth in the hall and made Sarah a little dizzy. "But Bekka, take that thing out for the real deal - I can see it from here."

          "Yah okay!" came a shrill voice seemingly right at Sarah's ear. She heard the distinct sound of metal against teeth, and turned to see weird little Bekka holding a gaudy, impossibly large facted gem of some sort above her head. "Okay?"

          "Okay," Vince answered. He was enjoying himself.

          Backstage there were the sounds of heavy things moving, a large door opening.

          "We're done, everyone, thank you, thank you," Vince said, his voice fading in and out as he seemed to be shuffling papers somewhere. "The next time we're together, though, we won't be alone. And after that?"

          A purposely placed dramatic pause began to stretch into an uncomfortable one. Apparently Vince had come up short in the witty sign-off department.

          "The future!"

          Polite chuckles only.

          "Oh, Lissa, don't forget, the dean's office in an hour," he added.

          "I won't," came a sing-song reply from the other end of the stage. Sarah rolled her eyes.

          Although everyone had come up in perfect order, everyone on stage tried to clamber down at the same time, and the arena filled with the noises of heavy footsteps, boisterous conversation, and the big purple mass dissolved slowly as friends tried to find each other even though they were all dressed alike. It seemed to get warm all of a sudden, and Sarah vaulted off the front of the stage into the pit, then ducked into a small doorway. The chilled air in the narrow hallway was a relief as she made her way to the exit.

          Just inside the door, a couple of young women with sculpted blonde hair and enormous polished teeth - pretty but a little too short, fortunately a flaw that would be completely fixable through camera placement - were arguing next to a long banner taped to the wall. Sarah read it as she passed: "Congratulations Class of 91' - from Theta Sigma Phi!"

          The debate was over the placement of the apostrophe.

          "Not text majors," Sarah muttered, a little too loudly, as she pushed past and leaned into the heavy metal door.

          The summer Atlanta sky was unusually cloudy and dim, and it seemed later outside than it really was. The air was heavy, still, vowing an unusually turbulent night. She looked across the tree-filled mall as individual purple robes disappeared into bags or simply crumpled balls. Suddenly a bright orange flare streaked across the street, accompanied by an ear-piercing shriek, and hit a man who had been looking the other way. It had jumped on his back; he staggered under the weight, but laughed and spun, and more shrieks pierced the air.

          Bekka and her latest victim, Sarah thought. But at least this one was kind of cute. Not an extra hole or obscene implant or giant scar to be found.

          She turned toward the cafeteria, but immediately stopped and turned the other way. She was going to see if she could avoid crossing Melissa's path ever again. Just two more days. She headed in the general direction of her apartment instead, but purposely meandered around several campus buildings. For the past week she was haunted by the sense that she never really appreciated the place, and now she was leaving.

          She paused outside The Druid's Loft just to smell the incense and to smile at the cute clerk, whom she'd probably never talk to. Then she went to Clifton Hall and defiantly walked several times through the dancing water fountain in the courtyard. In five years she'd memorized the pattern, every squirt and splash, of the entire two-minute cycle that her last holography instructor said was set to a Rachmaninov piece. Fat, wriggling worms of water jumped up and over and around her, but she didn't get a single drop on her. Emerging, she bowed again, this time to no one, and continued walking home.

          Running footsteps and heavy breathing behind her. "A perfect score!"

          Vince. No one.

          "Hey, Sassy, you remember…"

          "Freshman year, right in the face, the water got up my nose and it started bleeding, yes, Vince, I remember... and you've never stopped telling that story even after you said you would," she growled, still walking.

          "Classic, totally classic!" he said, beaming as if he'd just told the anecdote to a room full of people who hadn't yet heard it. "Your acrobatics at the rehearsal didn't even come close."

          Two more blocks.

          "So, Sass, this is it, huh?"

          Ever eloquent. No response needed. Sarah noticed he was wearing the green and yellow silk patchwork polo he said he'd thrown away.

          "Look," he said, trying to shift his voice into "I'm Serious" despite being out of breath. "Look, wherever we end up, I think we should stay in touch, okay?"

          "Sure." Red light. Jaywalk?

          "I'm serious, I'm serious," he laughed, but not convincingly. "We've been through a lot… five years, we've completely changed, haven't we?"

          "Not completely," Sarah replied, a bit too quickly.

          "Congratulations!" A woman zipping past on a scooter was waving at her. Sarah's eyebrows scrunched in confusion for a moment. Then they leapt back up her face in exasperation. She was still wearing her shiny purple robe.

          The street was otherwise empty. She crossed against the light, and started walking faster. One block.

          He put his hand on her shoulder, but quickly got smart and yanked it back. "You going to the 'Shroom thing tonight?"

          Damn. "I was," she said, leaving the "until you asked" implied in the sigh that followed.

          "You should, if you can," he said, clearly hurt. "I know lots of your old gang is going."

          Translation: "Those boring history minors you goofed around with."

          Sarah sighed. She started to feel bad for him, despite everything. "I might, I might." Then, something inexplicable came over her. "No, I will. Sounds great. I'll see you there, okay?"

          "Okay!" Vince said, not disguising his glee. "I'll see you there."

          He nonchalantly waved and turned and tried to play it cool, as if he had already planned to stop right there, at a little sidewalk cart, and shop for melons. The vendor, an old man with a cane held oddly between his knees, was startled by the young man's sudden and intense interest in produce.

          Sarah reached the corner and turned into the shadow of her building. It was new, but designed specifically to evoke the history of the school - or more specifically, the main Emory University campus further down the corridor. Stark white columns set against distinctive red bricks, all formed by precision equipment designed to give them that perfect imperfectness - rough edges, just-crooked-enough angles.

          Her building, King Hall West, along with the other residential towers lining the longest edge of the Turner complex, all seemed to be trying very hard to look classic and regal. A collective architectural apology, Sarah always thought, for the uninhibited tall and angled towers of her school.

          On one side of the street, artificial blue steel and glass, giant red globes topped with ridiculous spires, accent lights that shifted colors at night. On the other, artificial Old England.

          She slipped into the delivery lift along with a crate of clinking plates destined for the rooftop cafeteria, and apologized sweetly for delaying their delivery when she stepped off on her floor. Apologizing even though she knew she was talking only to a little electric eye that only cared about invisible lines on the ground.

          Her door only opened a few inches, bumping into the dozens of boxes she'd stacked up inside her apartment. She inhaled and squeezed through, then tiptoed through a maze of clothes and equipment to reach her desk. It sat, alone, along the far wall.

          She tapped it with her finger, turning it off, and it went transparent, letting the sun stream in. With the softer curve of her knuckle, she lightly brushed the surface downward, adjusting the opacity to a faint, cloudy white.

          She looked out at the Turner campus, and the top half of the Atlanta skyline visible over the thick, closely planted trees that cluttered the hillside. If she stood all the way to one side of her apartment, she could see a short, glistening white line extending from the west end of the city, the jagged end of it surrounded by cranes and scaffolding.

          The Bluebird Line, finally making its way toward Austin - a trip that would span 1,300 kilometers and four hours, weather permitting. It stood out so much, it looked like a toy, but Sarah knew the support structures alone were hundreds of meters tall. When finished, Atlanta would become the new easternmost terminal on the Southwest Maglev, and you could get to San Diego in about four hours. Or, getting off at Phoenix Station, you could be in Canada in seven.

          She sat down on the edge of her bed - she'd already sold her obnoxious titanium-wire chair - and surveyed the room. Five years of a surprisingly successful media education were now packed away and ready to go. Somewhere.

          Her fingers were tapping on the black square of her terminal. She whispered up the last note and frowned. "Please come to the dean's office this morning," she read, more from memory. "We have some wonderful news."

          Yeah. Salutatorian.

          Melissa Kanno was probably now a very happy, relieved woman. In fact, Dean Villanueva was probably getting an inappropriately long hug from her at that very moment.

          There was no doubt in Sarah's mind that Melissa was going to get the gold cord, but there was apparently lots of doubt in Melissa's mind, and Sarah had enjoyed preying on it for the last few weeks. Of course, she was going to be absolutely unbearable from this point on. Thank god there was nothing left but the graduation ceremony itself.

          And her speech.

          And the party. Tonight.

          "Fuck all," Sarah said. The terminal chimed politely, refusing the command.

          "Off," she barked. She needed a shower.