Cataloging moments.

Monday.
A senior class meeting takes place in what is deemed the Old Gym—a newer version sits across the street, but this one is still in use. The room radiates decades of sweat; we collect paper after paper from an assembly line of people and fit ourselves into one half of a bleacher. An almost-friend rushes over to sit with me; we puzzle over the forms with slight disdain.

Photo order forms, immunization record information, graduation ceremony code of conduct, senior quotes... all I can think, as our principal booms that this will be one of the "last times we will be together as a class," is that I dearly wish I could skip the rigmarole.

Too bad.

Memory.
The cowboy hat clad boy to my right counts out change for gas money on his shrunken desk. His voice is thick and defiant: "It's either gas or beer, and there's not enough for beer."

Thursday.
I present a PowerPoint on holograms. I’m too annoyed by this class to care that my demeanor is completely unenthusiastic. The end result is adequate, a state I have never really allowed myself before this moment.

I am numb.

Wednesday.
The moments turn to fuzz. I don’t want it to end. I do want it to end. I don’t want it to end…

Thursday.
I am deemed our school's "Outstanding Senior" for English. My mother kvells; John breaks away from his table in the cafeteria to escape parents and sit with me. He tells snide stories on the elite who collect award after award.

Soon after this the moments will collide until all I can think to do is sleep. The morning, when it comes, is only part-comfort.

Memory.
The thin-faced boy in cowboy boots leans back in his desk, pushing away pages of math to say: "Yeah, I'll definitely need this to become a porn star."

Thursday.
I don’t deserve this award. I don’t deserve this award. I don’t deserve this award.

Memory.
I don’t know what you see in me, John texts me, but thank you.

The feeling is mutual.

Thursday.
The school shelters in place due to severe weather. My Physics class disregards this, teacher and students alike popping out the side door to watch the sky spin as water threatens to break loose from the darkness.

“Oh my god, I’ve never seen rain in south Texas before! It’s new!”

Memory.
"Where are you going for the break?"

"Cancun. You can come with us, but we won't talk to you."

Monday.
Students funnel into the cafeteria to collect numbers. Numbers are divided off into tables where we will sit. The girl across from me is, as the alphabet and irony would have it, an enemy. I am hyperbolizing, but she and I have never quite seen eye to eye, and I steer clear of her as a matter of principle. We avert our gazes.

Fifteen minutes into the test a delinquent at the other end of our table feigns crying. The tension is cut; my table-mates and I giggle through layered anxiety. I, for one, am not at all prepared for the standardized test we are meant to complete. Curses run through my head as I think, uncharacteristically, “Well. Four is a good number. Let’s choose that one.”

Wednesday.
“Tell me—” says my boss as I give her my final evaluation sheet, “and you can be honest—have you enjoyed working here this year?”

“I’ve loved working here,” I say, and I mean it. I haven’t the words to express my gratitude.

Memory.

My father laughs. "She can't choose a sandwich, how can she choose a college?"

Friday.
For several weeks the library has attempted to get seniors to fill in cards briefly describing what they plan to do after graduation. Entries have been sparse until now, but today there is a rush.

And all I can think, pinning my peers’ hopes and dreams to a bulletin board outside the library, is that we are all falling apart.

Memory.
"Are you singing Rebecca Black? Don't ever talk again. You've lost that privilege."

Silence.

Friday.
“Thank you for thinking of me, BR,” I tell Ye Old Initials as I pass him in the hallway. “I appreciate it.”

This is not a man to give superfluous compliments.

He nods. “You’re welcome. You deserved it.”

Wednesday.
The principal walks in on my advisory class. Keys jingle too late for us to shuffle, but he simply ignores the number of us clearly finding companionship in our phones.

Rules slip as the end draws near.

Friday.
I’m sorry.

Thursday.
The moments collide, a train wreck I muffle inappropriately.

I have never met my best friend in person. Circumstances make it impossible to meet without conniving. I want, I want, I want… but I can’t.

Thursday.
“Why,” says the boy who talks too fast, “are the people on the news right now not hot? It doesn’t make sense.” He continues for several minutes as I beat questions back at him.

“Stop while you’re ahead,” says the teacher.

“Stop while you’re still alive,” I say.

Friday.
This is the last normally scheduled school day of the year. It will never be the same again.

It will never be the same again.

Friday.
I find John in a hallway to return something to him. Caught in the moving tide of people, I drift as away as words stream from my lips. He follows me. “May I escort you?” he asks.

We link arms and move forward.