Chapter 3 - The Gala Lights and Empty Chairs
May first arrived.
The alumni ballroom held four hundred people under chandeliers and white linens. At the front table, on either side of my chair, sat two empty seats with gold-lettered cards.
Paul Watson.
Susan Watson.
Donna sat across from me in sequins.
Curtis wore a suit and spent most of dinner pulling at the collar like it owed him money.
At 9:30, the university president introduced the gala chairman.
"Professor Everett Hail."
My father owned two copies of his book.
I had spent nine years in his classrooms.
Dr. Hail walked to the microphone and repeated the sentence Dad had quoted at Christmas tables for years.
"An economy runs on hands it refuses to look at."
Then he said he had finally learned who he had written it about.
He told them about Whitmore at five in the morning. The chalk. The flood. The pandemic. My nine years as both custodian and student.
Then he said, "Tonight, for the first time, Hartwell gives its Distinguished Staff Service Award to someone who will also graduate from this university in eight days. Chloe Watson, Bachelor of Science in Economics, class of 2026."
Four hundred people stood.
I walked between my parents’ two empty chairs.
Dr. Hail handed me the plaque.
Then he announced that at commencement I would become Hartwell’s first staff representative to address the graduating class.
I thought about Dad laughing over mashed potatoes.
How fast you mop toilets?
At 10:06, my phone began vibrating inside my clutch.
Dad.
Again.
Again.
Eleven calls altogether.
Then one text appeared across the screen.
WE JUST SAW WHO HANDED YOU THAT AWARD. CALL ME NOW.
Donna read it upside down.
She snorted into her coffee.
I turned the phone face down.
For sixteen years, my family had expected me to answer whenever they decided my life was worth discussing.
That night, I finished my dessert.
The next morning, my phone buzzed at seven.
Megan.
I ignored it.
Then Mom.
Ignored it.
By noon, my doorbell rang.
I looked through the peephole. Megan stood on my porch holding a worn leather purse, her hair windblown, looking like someone who had just discovered the earth was round after forty years of flat-earth geography.
I opened the door three inches.
"Chloe," she said, her voice tight. "Mom is beside herself. Dad has been pacing the living room since midnight. Why didn’t you answer?"
"I was sleeping."
"Sleeping? Chloe, you were on the local news feed. The university stream! Dr. Hail spoke about you. He called you by name. He said you’re graduating with honors in economics."
"Economics is a fascinating subject, Megan," I said calmly. "Supply and demand. Especially when people try to corner the market on other people's futures."
Megan blinked. Her gaze dropped to the small foyer table behind me, where my university award plaque rested against the wall, catching the morning light.
"You knew him?" she whispered. "Professor Hail? How did you know him?"
"I cleaned his chalkboard for nine years. Then I sat in his class."
She opened her mouth, closed it, and stared at me as if I had spoken in binary code.
"Dad wants you to come over for dinner tonight," she managed to say. "To talk. To clear the air."
"Tell him I’m busy."
May you like
"Doing what?"
"Administration," I said, and closed the door.
