Vanilla

Epilogue

The trembling of a branch, low and shaken by the wind, blossomed delicate pink flowers that were soft and feathery—infusing every passing breeze with notes of fresh sweetness; the scent of melting ice and the coming of spring that cloaked the land in a shade so shy, he could smell the vanilla.

They brushed the tips of his hair, pink petals did as he passed under a tree in a hurry, making for the auditorium in the great strides he'd gotten used to walking in on his own. Which he often did, nowadays. Time was a particularly confusing notion for the young man; an odd construct, almost, that seemed to change based on the magnitude of the events that happened in every frame of the ticking clock that the entire human race appeared to share but could strangely never agree upon. Some often said that it went too fast. Others wanted it to go faster.

The senior had cue cards in his hands that were a tad spent by the time he'd rehearsed his speech eleven times in front of the mirror, fixing his tie every second or two precisely because he knew that was the only thing they could see over his graduation gown that he hadn't exactly seen just yet. Culinary dean Chef Marseille had made it a point to have the entire cohort in the dressing room two hours before the opening ceremony and yet here he was, barely thirty minutes to showtime, brisk-walking past the barn, the race track, the stands, the commons, the plaza, down Roth Hall and past the ranking boards and into the newly-restored right wing.

Guests were only just beginning to filter into the cocktail reception, mingling among themselves whilst occasionally interacting with the student servers who were making their rounds with hors d'oeuvres on circular trays. This crowd, he made a detour just to avoid. Amongst them were several familiar faces he could not afford to greet at present, knowing the ease at which he could be affected by the words of everyone else. For all intents and purposes, the school's star critic and valedictorian of the graduating cohort had never truly overcome the jittery nerves he had at the mere thought of public speaking.

Slipping past the reception and making his way down the hallway out into the garden and then into the adjacent building that housed the waiting room full of graduates in the middle of getting appropriately dressed and lined up, he found himself greeted by a flurry of urgent questions. This was mostly routine.

"I know you make a point to be punctual but being right on the dot can be nerve-wracking." "Mr. White, you have twenty minutes to eat your lunch, change into your academic robes and assist in the operations. Headmistress Lindy will be taking the stage in twenty before we start on the scrolls. Oh and the press has been looking for you." "Here's your gown." "Your complementary lunchbox. Jasmine rice with a side of pandan chicken, fried lotus root slices and sauteed spinach." "You join the class roster in the order of class representative to index numbers. Meaning you're first, even if your name starts with a 'W', followed by your substitute. We'll be positioning the rows by the side of the stage so when your name is called, all you have to do is—"

"Walk up the steps, shake hands, receive the scroll, take a picture, bow and walk off. Yes I read the briefing slides." The chill of a frozen lake, reflective and distant in nature, shivered the spine. He accepted the academic dress held out to him and ran a finger along the silver-blue tassel, then reached for the packed lunch placed on the edge of the table they were using to organize names and attendance. "I'll be stepping out for a short meal before changing into the gown. Has anyone seen Gelb? Scott Gelb. He's covering the event from start to end and I'd like to give his news angle a quick check. Just yesterday, he was having trouble thinking of a title to run with."

His honorary general secretary pointed him in one direction. A member of the administrative staff gestured in another. Chef Marseille could not be bothered with either. "You are not to be juggling three things at once, Julian. The press is waiting for you in the main lobby of the left wing, past the gardens. I don't know who this Gelb is but someone by the name of Keith Tang—yes, I know—came by. He should be outside on the benches. Some alumni were gathered there with the leftover lunches and he might have joined them. Be back by the half-hour mark, is that clear?"