I walked on Saturday, in the gym, because the weather over the harbor was bad and the school would not risk the lawn. It was hot and the folding chairs were old and the speaker system squealed twice during the dean's speech, and I sat in the front row in a gown that smelled like the plastic bag it had come in, and when my name was called I stood up, and the room, which was full of families who had spent three weeks reading about my stepmother in the county paper, went quiet in a way I will remember for the rest of my life.
My grandfather was in the third row. My father was not there. Bea Lockhart, who was valedictorian, gave a speech about how we were all about to leave and how none of us knew what we were leaving, and I listened to it and thought about the dock and the fog and the four g
