MC Princess Wrapped in Leather

Chapter 2

I watch as my father and our family walk through the crowd. There are about fifteen of them all walking in rows behind my father, with him as the line leader. I laugh as I think about their formation, reminding me of walking the halls in elementary school.

"Something funny? Biker trash?" I hear Tina say from behind me.

I turn and see her standing with a group of her friends. I just walk past her and into my spot in line to wait for the graduation to start.

She is not worth my time, been a pain in the ass my whole school life.

I watch as she and her friends laugh with each other before turning and looking at me.

"Just let it go. Don't engage; if you do, they will hold your diploma. You worked so hard for this." I tell myself, giving myself a pep talk to calm myself down.

The music starts—"Pomp and Circumstance," because of course it does—and we begin to move. One row at a time, filing into the auditorium like we've practiced. My hands are sweating under my gown, and I wipe them on the polyester fabric that's already making me too hot.

The auditorium is packed. Every seat filled, people standing along the walls. The air smells like perfume and hairspray and that specific scent of too many bodies in one space. I can hear the rustle of programs, the murmur of voices, cameras clicking.

We take our seats in the folding chairs set up in neat rows on the floor. I'm somewhere in the middle—alphabetically cursed to wait while they work through the A's and B's and C's. Principal Davidson takes the podium and starts talking about journeys and futures and the Class of 2024, but honestly, I'm not really listening. His voice becomes background noise, the same generic speech every principal probably gives at every graduation everywhere.

I scan the crowd instead, looking for my dad. It takes a minute, but then I spot them—impossible to miss, really. They're in the third row, center section. All fifteen of them, taking up nearly the entire row. My dad is right in the middle, and even from here I can see he's sitting up straight, eyes locked on the stage. Bobbie's next to him, and Knox is leaning forward with his elbows on his knees.

They look so out of place in their leather and denim among all the polo shirts and sundresses, but they don't seem to care. They're here. They showed up.

My chest tightens in a good way.

The principal finishes talking, and then there's the valedictorian speech—some girl named Ashley who I've maybe spoken to twice.

She talks about memories and friendship and reaching for the stars. I watch a dad in the front row wipe his eyes with a handkerchief.

Then it starts. The actual calling of names.

"Sarah Abbott."

Applause. A girl in the front row stands, walks across the stage, shakes hands, takes her diploma cover, smiles for the photographer. It's mechanical, rehearsed.

"Michael Adams."

More applause. Another walk. Another handshake.

My heart starts beating faster. I know I've got a while—my last name puts me solidly in the middle—but suddenly it feels real. This is actually happening. I'm actually graduating. A year early. At seventeen. Despite everything.

"Jennifer Alvarez."

I watch Jennifer trip slightly on the stairs up to the stage. She recovers quickly, laughing it off, but I can see the red creeping up her neck. I make a mental note: don't trip on the stairs.

The names keep coming. B's now. Then C's. Each one brings me closer.

"David Chen."

I glance back at my dad. He's watching the stage, but then, like he can feel me looking, his eyes shift to me. He gives me a small nod. Just that. But it's enough. I turn back around, breathing a little easier.

"Marcus Cooper."

My hands won't stop fidgeting. I smooth down my gown again, adjust my cap even though it doesn't need adjusting. The girl next to me—Emma something—is crying quietly, dabbing at her eyes with a tissue.

I wonder if she's crying because she's happy or because she's going to miss this place. I'm not going to miss it. Not really. Maybe a teacher or two. Maybe the library. But not the hallways. Not the cafeteria. Not the whispers that followed me everywhere for twelve years.

"Rachel Daniels."

D's already. Time is moving too fast and too slow at the same time. I can hear Tina whispering behind me, probably something nasty, but I tune it out. Not today. She doesn't get to take this from me.

She's been trying to take things from me since third grade.

I remember that year clearly. It was the first time I really understood that my family was different. That having a single dad who wore leather and rode a motorcycle made me other in a way I couldn't fix.

We were doing a project about families. Everyone was supposed to bring in photos. I brought one of me and my dad at a bike rally—both of us grinning, his arm around my shoulders, his vest visible in the frame.

Tina saw it and laughed. Loud enough for everyone to hear.

"Your dad looks like a criminal," she said, her voice dripping with fake concern. "Does he, like, sell drugs or something?"

I didn't know what to say. I was eight. I just stood there, my face burning, while the other kids stared.

The teacher intervened, but the damage was done. By lunch, half the class was whispering about my "biker trash" family. By the end of the week, no one wanted to sit with me at lunch anymore.

"Brandon Ellis."

I blink, pulling myself back to the present. My throat feels tight.

That was just the beginning. Third grade turned into fourth, then fifth, then middle school. The comments got meaner. More creative.

Does your dad know how to read, or does he just fix bikes?

I heard biker gangs are all criminals. Is your dad in jail?

My mom says I'm not allowed to come to your house. She says it's not safe.

I learned to keep my head down. Learned not to talk about my dad or his friends. Learned to eat lunch alone in the library where the

whispers couldn't reach me.

High school was supposed to be different. Fresh start, new people, all that bullshit they tell you.

But Tina was there. And she made sure everyone knew exactly who I was before I even had a chance to introduce myself.

Freshman year, first week. I walked into the cafeteria and heard her voice carrying across the room.

"That's Samantha McKinny. Her dad's in a biker gang. Like, a real one. My mom says they're dangerous."

I watched as kids I'd never even met turned to stare at me. Watched as the table I'd been about to sit at suddenly found reasons to

leave.

I ended up eating in my car that day. And most days after that.

"Kayla Foster."

"Joshua Garcia."

The names blur together. I watch each person walk across that stage, and I try to imagine what it'll feel like when it's my turn. Will

my legs work? Will I remember to smile? Wil

Sophomore year was when I stopped caring what they thought.

I was in the bathroom, washing my hands, when Tina and two of her friends walked in. I should have left. I knew better. But I was

tired, and I just wanted to wash my hands and get to class.

"Oh look," Tina said, her voice syrupy sweet. "It's the biker princess. How's your dad, Sam? Still running with criminals?"

I looked at her in the mirror. Really looked at her. And I realized something.

She was scared.

Not of me. Of my dad. Of his friends. Of the fact that I had a family that didn't look like hers, that didn't fit into her neat little boxes.

"My dad," I said slowly, "is a better man than anyone in your family will ever be."

Her face went red. "Excuse me?"

"You heard me." I dried my hands, taking my time. "You've spent years trying to make me feel small because you're terrified of anything you don't understand. But here's the thing, Tina—I don't care anymore. You can say whatever you want. It doesn't change

the fact that I have a family who shows up for me. Every single time. Can you say the same?"

I walked out before she could respond.

She didn't talk to me for three months after that. When she finally did, it was just more of the same. But it didn't land the same way.

Because I'd figured out the secret.

Their words only had power if I gave them power.

"Amanda Harrison."

"Tyler Henderson."

We're getting close now. My section is starting to shift, people sitting up straighter, preparing. My heart is hammering so hard I'm

sure the person next to me can hear it.

Junior year, I stopped eating lunch in my car. I started eating in the shop with my dad and his friends. They didn't care that I was

quiet or that I didn't have a lot of friends my own age. They just cared that I was there.

Bobbie would make me laugh with terrible jokes. Knox would help me with my homework. My dad would check in, make sure I

was okay, make sure I knew I was loved.

And slowly, I started to realize something.

I didn't need the kids at school to like me. I didn't need Tina's approval or anyone else's.

I had a family. A real one. One that showed up, over and over again, no matter what.

"Nicole Hughes."

"Christopher Jackson."

I can hear my family now—they're cheering for everyone, not just waiting for me. Every name that gets called, there's a whoop or a

whistle from their section. Some people in the audience turn to look at them, annoyed or confused.

But I'm not embarrassed. Not anymore.

Let them look. Let them judge. These are my people. And they're here because they love me.

Senior year—well, my senior year came a year early, combined with my junior year. I worked my ass off to graduate early, partly

because I was ready to be done, and partly because I wanted to prove something.

To myself, maybe. Or to everyone who ever made me feel like I didn't belong.

I belonged. Just not here.

"Megan Johnson."

"Daniel Kim."

My mouth is dry. I try to swallow but can't. This is it. I'm next, or almost next. The girl in front of me stands up, smoothing her

gown.

I think about all the years I spent feeling small. Feeling like I had to apologize for who I was, for who my family was.

I think about Tina's voice behind me, still whispering, still trying to take up space in my head.

And I think about my dad, sitting in that audience, standing up and cheering like I'm the only person in this room who matters.

"Lauren Martinez."

Lauren walks up the stairs—doesn't trip—crosses the stage, shakes hands. The photographer's flash goes off. She's smiling so wide.

There's a pause. Principal Davidson looks down at his list. Picks up the next card.

This is it.

My name is next.