Under the black graduation gown, sweat slid down Emma’s back as she glanced at her watch. 9:45 AM. She stood at the rear of the room, her back pressed against the wall as the growing crowds spilled into the foyer of Silver Falls High. The air was stuffy, full of laughter, cheers, and the occasional sobs of joy. Emma stood still, clutching her purse, balancing on her red heels. Her eyes fixed on the entrance of the main foyer expectantly. Floating over the crowds, she saw various hats — a couple of fedoras, feathered caps, and multiple graduation caps with gold tassels dangling beside her classmates’ faces — but no Black Cloche. 

At 10:00 AM, the intercom crackled to life, “Attention all graduates, please gather in the cafeteria.” 

“Any luck?” said a male voice. Startled, Emma whipped around to face Nate, one of her close friends. 

“Not yet,” she replied, with a twinge of hope that the Black Cloche would suddenly appear among the crowd. She could imagine seeing its sweeping design bobbing over everyone’s head, the crowd parting like the Red Sea, revealing Cora Jean dressed in all black except for the bright rouge lip she always wore. But the ceremony was about to start, and Cora never had the best track record regarding her education.

“She’s probably just running late,” Nate suggested. 

“Maybe,” Emma shrugged, trying to shake it off. But even she couldn’t be blind to the situation. Of course, Emma knew where her Cora was; she was the director of La Rouge, the most famous high-fashion company in North America. If she wasn’t in the studio coming up with breathtaking designs, she was organizing and participating in fashion shows across the world. Yet Emma knew that after high school, her life would begin. Today was only one day to mark this transition from child to adult, only one day to celebrate her for once. 

… 

Emma found Cora drinking her coffee and reading the latest Vogue magazine. She was dressed in black as usual, her blond hair swept back in a tight bun. Biting her lip, Emma handed the ticket to her. 

“What is this?” Cora spoke, without looking away from the page. 

“Graduation ticket,” Emma replied proudly, leaning against the marbled island. Cora raised her reading glasses against the bridge of her pointed nose to peer at the ticket before looking back at the fashion designs.

“Ah yes, congratulations,” she replied, flipping to another page. Without missing a beat, she added, “Who would you like to attend, Frank or Santi?” 

Emma’s heart sank. 

“I thought you would go.” 

Cora looked up from the page she was reading, her brows furrowed. 

“Date and time?” 

“Next Friday at ten.” 

Cora clucked her tongue. 

“Sorry dear, no can do. I have a prior engagement to attend,” she said, standing up, grabbing her purse, and taking the last sip of the coffee. Dejected, Emma watched Cora leave the kitchen and approach the front door. The cold response was familiar; Emma was used to Cora’s absence. It was consistent, a fact that was oddly reassuring in the sense she never had to have her expectations crushed. But this time, something sparked inside Emma, and before she could think it out, she exclaimed:

“But I only graduate from high school once! Can’t you make an exception?”

“I’m sorry,” Cora replied, putting on her hat. Emma’s eyes burned with tears.

“Fine, don’t show up. Clearly, you don’t care!”

Cora froze midway through putting on her Black Cloche. After a pause, she fitted the hat and spun around on her heels with a tight plastic smile. 

“Santi will pick you up at nine, don’t be late,” she said, clasping her purse tightly before leaving.

…

After another five minutes, Emma and Nate entered the cafeteria and joined the lineup, slotting themselves in alphabetically. Yet as she stood in line, Emma’s heart raced with anticipation of what awaited her in the next room. At once, the graduation march boomed out of the school’s speaker system, and the line began to shuffle forward, with Emma spying for the iconic Black Cloche in the halls as she entered the gymnasium  —  only grad caps, fedoras, and feathered caps. White flashes popped before her as a grandparent tried to snap a picture of the boy standing beside her. She blinked away the tears and focused on the plastic chairs that awaited her ahead.

She fidgeted, her neck strained as she glanced at the door behind her, and in the corner of her eye, she spotted a familiar face — but it was Santi, one of Cora’s lackeys, and on his arm was an unfamiliar woman. Santi locked eyes with her, and with a smile, he eagerly waved. But Emma was too dejected to wave back, for the Black Cloche was nowhere in sight. Biting her lip, Emma reverted her focus to the stage as the ceremony began with boring speeches. Eventually, graduates were called to the stage to receive their diplomas. Applause, whistles, and the occasional shout erupted from the crowd, mainly from the graduates themselves as they cheered on their classmates — except Emma. She sat quietly, staring into blank space, wondering what she had done wrong. Was she too strong? Or was she too soft and didn’t pester her enough? What if she had told her about it months in advance? Would she have come then? Or maybe it was time to accept the truth that she will never — 

A light tap on the shoulder broke Emma out of her thought spiral. She turned to face the girl sitting behind her who pointed at the empty row ahead of Emma. She looked up to see most of her row approaching the stage. She jumped and quickly darted down the aisle to join her classmates. One of the teachers managing the students was her homeroom teacher, Miss Daniels, who gave her a quizzical look. 

“Are you alright, Emma?” 

“I’m fine,” Emma replied, standing in line. The teacher approached her, began smoothing her gown, and flipped the tassel cap off her face. 

“Well, no matter what you’re facing, don’t let it ruin your special day,” she whispered. She stepped back to admire her work and smiled. “Now, get up there and smile. Be proud of yourself.” Emma shuffled onto the stage and squinted against the bright lights. She squeezed her eyes before opening them with determination. She straightened her shoulders and smiled, reflecting on years of hard work. 

At that moment, the announcer boomed into the microphone: “Emma Rose Jean, Art Certificate, High Distinction.” Emma raised her chin and grinned as she approached the little black-taped X on the floor. After four years, she finally had her high school diploma. She shook the hands of her principal, grasping the little tied-up paper before turning to face the camera and —

Beside the cameraman was the small, slender woman who came in with Santi, but now something was eerily familiar about her. She wore a black dress, yet her blond hair was a mess. It looked as if the wind blew and yanked at it. Her face was not flawless, full of crease lines and pimple scars, and instead of the classic fair white makeup, there was a splash of colour in those cheeks as she smiled. Emma’s eyes grew watery as the smile on her face began to crack. She finished taking the picture with her principal. As she walked off stage, she felt as if every step she took was on air. Her feet no longer dragged through the halls. Her heart began to race. She pinched her wrist, then her arm, then her cheeks. Yet every pinch hurt just as the rest. She walked over to the base of the stage stairs, where the lady greeted her with a bouquet. 

“Congratulations, my dear girl,” she said. The voice was the same, yet with no Black Cloche. She looked like someone else — who she used to be. Emma let out a shuddering breath as she stared at the lady. 

“Mom?” Emma croaked. 

“Come, Emma. We shouldn’t block the exit,” her mother replied, extending her hand. 

Emma burst out laughing, “Right.”

 She followed her mother from the stage and turned right to exit the cafeteria, but her mother pulled her back.

“Do you have somewhere to be?” Emma flushed, her face visibly confused.

“No…?” Her mother smiled and pulled her close as they returned to where Santi sat.

“Good, neither do I.”