Chapter 8 - The True Aristocracy
I lowered the microphone. I set it gently down on the wooden podium at the center of the stage.
I turned to the DJ, who was staring at me with his mouth agape.
"Put the music back on," I said quietly.
"What... what song, man?" he stammered, his fingers hovering over the mixer board.
"Track four," I said, remembering the playlist my grandmother had listened to on her tiny cassette player while cleaning our kitchen on Sunday afternoons. "*Moon River.* The instrumental version."
The DJ didn't hesitate. He flipped the power switch, tapped his laptop screen, and within three seconds, the sweet, soaring strings of Henry Mancini’s *Moon River* began to pour softly through the gym speakers.
I walked down the wooden stairs of the stage.
The crowd of students parted for me like the Red Sea. Boys who had snickered at my thrifted jacket lowered their heads as I passed. Girls pulled back their silk dresses, clearing a straight, unobstructed path all the way from the stage to the exit doors.
Julian Montgomery stood off to the side, his face burning, completely ignored. He was a ghost in his own kingdom.
I reached the back of the gym. Doris was still standing there, leaning lightly against Marcus Miller’s broad arm. Her eyes were red, but the trembling in her hands had stopped.
I stopped three feet in front of her. I reached down, took her right hand, and placed it gently in mine.
"You ready, Grandma?" I asked, smiling through the tears that were now stinging my own eyes.
"Cole," she whispered, her voice choking. "They... they know."
"Yes," I said softly. "They know who you are now."
I guided her slowly back toward the center of the gymnasium. Every single eye in the room was on us, but there was no laughter. There were no smirks.
As we reached the center of the hardwood floor, under the canopy of fairy lights and dark blue velvet, Marcus Miller began to clap.
Slowly. Rhythmically.
*Clap. Clap. Clap.*
Then Sarah Jenkins joined in. Then the kids by the punch bowl. Then the chaperones. Within ten seconds, the entire gymnasium—three hundred students, twelve teachers, and four security guards—erupted into a deafening, thunderous standing ovation.
People were crying. Teachers who had ignored Doris for years were wiping tears from their eyes with cloth napkins.
Doris looked around the room, bewildered, her hand fluttering to her heart. She couldn't believe it. For twenty-two years, she had been a shadow in these halls—a nameless, faceless woman who emptied their wastebaskets and cleaned their toilets. Now, the entire school was on their feet, applauding her.
I placed my hand on her waist, and she placed her hand on my shoulder.
May you like
And right there, in the center of Crestview High School’s gymnasium, under the artificial stars, we danced.
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