The letter from Salem High School was addressed to The Parents of Kevin Vandever. My first thought was, “Uh-oh, what did I do now?”
It was only a few weeks before high school graduation. I had slacked off in some classes after I was accepted to college. Now there was this letter. I considered opening it, but fought the urge and waited until my mother returned home from work.
The letter was vague, saying I was to receive some kind of academic award. It gave no details about the award, just that I was to receive one. I looked at the letter. I wasn’t the only Kevin in the school, but I was certain I was the only Kevin Vandever.
“There’s no way. My grades are okay, but nothing to brag about,” I said to my mother.
“Well, I’m not going to miss this,” she replied.
I believed her. I couldn’t convince her to skip any of my events, no matter how long or boring they were. She once sat through a track meet during a torrential rainstorm, raincoat and umbrella in hand, protecting her clothes and her blond wig. She had worn that wig most of my life (she was a brunette but wanted more fun, I guess). There she sat, patiently waiting for me to possibly squeak out a bronze medal in the triple jump.
“Mom, it’s a mistake. Don’t waste your time. You’ll be sitting in the gym with all the other students.”
I eventually convinced her not to come. I told her that even if it was an award, it was probably just some silly recognition for getting into college.
On the day of the awards ceremony, the seniors sat in metal chairs on the gym floor. The rest of the student body sat in the wooden bleachers on either side of the gym. I sat in the back with a few friends and scanned the stands until I found my girlfriend, Lisa. We made eye contact, and I gave a small shrug. I had told her about the letter. I noticed that only a few parents were there.
The ceremony started, and they handed out awards. Math, Science, Social Studies, Music/Performing Arts, and so on. So far, nothing to acknowledge a 2.9 grade point average. It was the last award, and the kids were getting antsy. I was paying attention, but not fully. I heard bits and pieces. “Died just before his graduation,” “exemplified unselfishness, integrity, and school spirit,” and “to honor a senior that reflects the character of Patrick Wilder.”
Then I thought I heard my name, but before I was sure, I noticed those around me turning to look my way and beginning to clap. I stood, still unsure whether the smattering of clapping was for me. The clapping grew louder, and I heard my name in a few of the cheers. I spotted Lisa in the stands. She smiled and gave me the same shrug. I walked to the makeshift stage to accept the award and a two-foot-tall trophy. I had won the inaugural Patrick Wilder Memorial Award.
At dinner that evening, the trophy sat on the kitchen counter while we ate. I told my mother about my day. This woman, whose parting shot to me as I left for my prom was, “Keep it in your pants!” and who for many years had told me that she was too mean to die, allowed me to convince her to go against her judgment for the only time I can remember.
She wasn’t quite mean enough.
😭😭😭