Graduation Rehearsal
1775 Words
GWEN
~ JUNE, SENIOR YEAR ~
Staying invisible has become an art form. All those lunches spent hiding in my car, all those hours tucked away between library shelves—it all pays off when my counselor hands me the letter saying I’m valedictorian. I should feel proud, ecstatic even, but mostly I feel… tired. Worn down. Like I’ve been sprinting for years and only now realize I never learned how to breathe.
Sara, meanwhile, spends the last three years turning herself into someone untouchable. Clean. Polished. Loved. The girl who once kissed me sick and sweet behind a band room door becomes the girl who stops kissing anyone at all—at least publicly. She throws herself into cheerleading, dance, and musical theater. Of course she becomes captain. Of course she becomes the star. Of course she gets a damn agent by sophomore year.
And of course… I still love her.
God, I hate that I still love her.
Jay doesn’t know that. Nobody knows that. Not my friends, not my parents, not even myself on the days I pretend hard enough. Jay studies out of state and only ever comes back for holidays, but we text every day, call every few nights. He’s safe. Predictable. A steady hum compared to the earthquake Sara is. I cling to him because I’m afraid of falling back into the fault line Sara carved into me.
And now, thanks to my highest GPA, I have the “honor” of organizing half the graduation ceremony. Meetings. Schedules. Seating charts. Endless chaos. Teachers bicker, parents complain, students whine… and then I start hearing Sara’s name. Once. Then again. Then in every meeting.
At first, I pretend it’s a coincidence. Then I pretend it doesn’t sting. When those lies collapse, I just pretend I’m not listening.
Until the principal corners me in the hallway, practically vibrating with excitement.
“Gwen, I’ve been talking with Sara Starr’s agent for a while,” he announces, like he’s holding the golden ticket. “We’ve officially decided to let her debut at our graduation!”
My brain short-circuits.
“What?! Graduation is in two days! Where are we even fitting her in?”
He smiles like I’m asking silly questions. “It’s good for her and for the school! Everyone will know THE Sara Starr came from Savanna High. We’ll squeeze her in—maybe right before your speech. Could you check where she fits best?”
Right before my speech.
So she’ll warm up the crowd, and I’ll… follow her. Again. As usual.
“Yes, sir,” I manage, gripping my gown and cap so hard the fabric wrinkles. “I don’t control seating charts, but I can find a spot in the program.”
“That’s my star student!” he beams, slapping my back before strolling away, oblivious to the shrapnel he’s leaving in my chest.
I stare at the freshly printed program notes. If I put her performance before my speech, the entire crowd will still be buzzing afterward. She’ll glow. I’ll fade. I’m used to it by now, but I still feel the familiar ache—the one I pretend is pride.
I sign the paperwork and hand everything off to the coordinator. Poor woman. Two hundred graduates isn’t a nightmare, but dealing with celebrity agents and ego-drunk staff absolutely is. I feel bad for her. Worse for myself.
And then, worse for myself again, when I arrive the next morning and a staff member whispers, “Paparazzi.”
I stop dead in the hallway.
“Paparazzi? Here? For a rehearsal?”
“For Sara,” she sighs. “Her agent insisted.”
Great. Perfect. Exactly what I need: cameras catching me sweating, fumbling, sitting next to—
Oh.
Right.
They didn’t reconfigure the stage seating. They didn’t shift rows or adjust spacing. They simply added a single chair. Next to mine. Onstage. Locked in. Trapped.
Which means Sara Starr—my ex-everything, my unresolved heartbreak, my personal Bermuda Triangle—will be sitting directly beside me for the entire ceremony.
I try talking to three different teachers. Then the principal. Then a coordinator. But everything is “finalized,” “locked,” “decided.”
And I’m stuck beside her.
During rehearsal, I glue my eyes anywhere but on Sara. The ceiling. The floor. My script. The empty air. Anything to avoid her honey-blonde hair, her golden skin, her stupid unfair perfect everything.
But I feel her.
Every time she shifts.
Every breath.
Every note she hums under her breath.
She’s so calm it’s infuriating. I’m two seconds from vomiting from nerves, and she’s humming and tuning her guitar like this is a living room jam session instead of a performance for hundreds of people—including national photographers.
When she does her sound check, she sings little riffs, tiny melodies, little glimmers of something familiar and dangerous. Soft. Pretty. Effortless. Too effortless.
That’s what she’s performing?
It seems… small. Sweet. Intimate.
Something she hummed in the car that night.
My stomach twists, sharp and warm, like a memory is trying to shove its way back into my throat.
I look up without thinking, and she’s staring at me.
Directly.
Openly.
Like she’s been waiting for me to notice.
Heat floods my face, and I snap my gaze away, heart pounding like I’m suddenly sixteen again in that dusty band room with her breath on my lips.
Stop it, Gwen. Get over it.
She’s not yours. She never was.
I force myself to look again, just to prove I can.
She’s still looking at me.
Something in her rises—her mouth twitching, her eyes softening—and then she chuckles. Right into the mic. Right at me.
She’s laughing at me.
Again.
The humiliation hits so fast and hard I barely feel my legs carrying me off the stage. I mumble something about needing water, space, anything, and then I bolt.
For the next hour, I avoid her like she’s radioactive. I hide behind towers of folding chairs, lurk in the back rows, pretend to study my speech. She doesn’t approach me—not physically—but I feel her eyes on me whenever I accidentally glance her way.
She’s watching.
Constantly.
Curiously.
Too much.
Maybe graduation won’t be as bad as I thought, I lie to myself.
-----
Jay calls halfway through rehearsal, right as I’m hiding behind a podium pretending to reorganize my note cards.
“Hey, babe,” he says. His voice is familiar. Solid. Safe. “Just checking in. You nervous?”
I sigh. “You have no idea.”
“Aw, hon, it’ll be fine. It’s just a speech.”
My jaw tightens. “It’s not just the speech. Sara’s performing. Right before me. She’s sitting next to me during the ceremony. There are paparazzi. Her agent is here. The school is freaking out, and everyone keeps talking to her like she’s the second coming of Christ.”
There’s a pause.
Then:
“You’re not still hung up on her, are you?”
My stomach drops.
Jay’s tone—sharp, insecure—sets my teeth on edge.
“No,” I lie. Smoothly. Automatically. Like muscle memory.
Because what am I supposed to say?
Yes, Jay, I still love the girl who broke my heart and laughed about it?
Yes, she’s the reason I hide in my car on lunch breaks?
Yes, I’m terrified of sitting next to her because being near her makes my chest feel like it’s going to cave in?
Instead, I stay silent.
Jay sighs heavily. “Gwen… I swear to God, if this ruins graduation—”
“I’m valedictorian,” I snap. “The only thing ruining graduation is the circus happening around Sara’s performance.”
“So it’s about her.”
“It’s about the situation.”
“You’re being dramatic.”
Anger crackles through me, hot and electric. “I’m allowed to be stressed. This is important to me.”
“And what, she’s more important to the school than you?”
“Yes,” I spit before I can stop myself.
Another long pause.
“Are you coming tonight or not?” he finally mutters. He means the dinner reservation he made. The one I forgot about.
“I... don’t know.”
“Unbelievable.”
He hangs up.
My eyes sting.
Not because of Jay—but because of how fast I cave, how fast I crumble, how fast my heart still reacts to Sara’s gravitational pull.
When I return to the stage, Sara is sitting in her assigned seat, tapping her fingers on her guitar case. She glances up the moment I step into the light.
There it is again.
That watching.
That intensity.
That something I refuse to name.
Her lips part like she wants to talk to me. Maybe apologize. Maybe tease. Maybe ruin me all over again.
I don’t give her the chance.
I slide into my seat, stiff and distant, staring straight ahead.
But her thigh brushes mine.
Barely.
Accidentally.
Maybe not accidentally.
Heat shoots through me. My chest tightens. My pulse stammers.
She doesn’t move her leg.
Neither do I.
The room spins, heavy with stage lights and memories and the faint smell of her perfume—vanilla, citrus, something warm and dizzying.
My heart whispers things my brain shouts over.
Not again.
Not her.
Not now.
But God… I feel her.
She leans forward slightly, whisper-soft, like only I’m meant to hear her inhale.
Like she’s pulling my breath into her lungs.
I stare straight ahead, gripping my note cards so tightly the edges bend.
After a full minute of silence, she speaks—quiet, low, dangerous.
“You look good, Gwen.”
The words are soft enough to pretend I misheard.
Sharp enough to slice me open anyway.
My pulse stutters. My thoughts swirl.
Say nothing.
Don’t give her power.
Don’t let her see you crack.
I keep my voice flat. “Focus on your performance.”
There’s a small, surprised exhale.
Almost a laugh.
“Always do.”
I don’t look at her. If I do, I’ll shatter.
And maybe she knows that, because she doesn’t look away either.
Her presence wraps around me the entire rehearsal.
Hot.
Heavy.
Unavoidable.
By the end, my entire body feels like a wire pulled too tight.
Maybe tomorrow won’t be so bad, I try again, foolishly.
Then the rehearsal director announces, “Okay, everyone, next is Graduation! We’ll run with full media present!”
My heart drops through the floor.
Yeah.
It’s bad.
It’s already bad.
And the worst part?
It’s only going to get worse.
- Writer
