Chapter 55

CHAPTER 1 — BOOK IV

 

Graduation

 

(March 2017, Sydney)

 

The hall smelled the way it always did when a crowd tried to pretend it wasn’t nervous—polish, old timber, flowers arranged too early in the morning, and the faint electric warmth of microphones that had already been tested twice.

 

Everything was in place.

Rows of chairs aligned with obedient precision. A banner stretched above the stage, ironed flat enough to suggest no one expected history to misbehave today.

 

Geoffrey stood just off to the side with Embong, both of them in dark suits that made them look older than they felt and younger than they were. Thirty-three did that. It gave you legitimacy without asking whether you were ready to carry it.

 

Embong adjusted his tie for the third time.

 

Geoffrey watched him, amused.

 

“You’re going to strangle yourself before they even call your name.”

 

“I’m trying to look respectable.”

 

“You’re trying to look like you’re not thinking about leaving.”

 

Embong’s mouth tightened, which was his version of conceding.

 

Geoffrey reached over without comment and flattened a crease in Embong’s lapel. The gesture was unremarkable to both of them—automatic, practical, intimate in the way of people who had stopped noticing what others might.

 

A student marshal passed by with a clipboard and a look of absolute authority, and Embong immediately straightened as if summoned by muscle memory.

 

Geoffrey leaned in.

 

“You’re doing it again.”

 

“Doing what?”

 

“Standing like you’re about to be inspected.”

 

Embong shot him a look.

 

“My mother would approve.”

 

Geoffrey smiled faintly.

“Your mother would approve more if you weren’t here at all.”

 

That earned him a quiet exhale from Embong—half warning, half tired acceptance. The subject sat between them like an object they both knew better than to touch today.

 

Embong said, softly, “Not now.”

 

Geoffrey nodded.
Not now.

 

They were ushered into their row among the graduates—some younger, some older, some clearly returning to something they’d once postponed. The ceremony made no distinction. It wrapped everyone in the same formal language: achievement, perseverance, future.

 

Geoffrey sat and felt the unfamiliar stillness of his own body, like he had finally reached a platform after years of running without knowing where the track ended.

 

Embong placed his hands neatly on his thighs, composed, almost ceremonial.

 

Geoffrey leaned toward him.

 

“You alright?”

 

Embong kept his eyes forward.

 

“I feel like I’m waiting to be told I’ve done something wrong.”

 

Geoffrey smiled, soft and sure.

 

“No one’s doing that today.”

 

Embong glanced at him—quick, searching.

 

“You’re sure?”

 

Geoffrey let his shoulder brush Embong’s.

 

“I’d know.”

 

The ceremony began: a processional, a welcome, speeches delivered by people whose job it was to believe in the power of careful phrasing. Geoffrey listened more than he expected to.

 

Not because the words were extraordinary, but because he kept noticing small things—Embong’s stillness, the way he swallowed when the speaker said family, the way his fingers pressed once against empty air where something reassuring might have lived once.

 

Names were called. Applause followed in polite waves.

 

When Geoffrey’s name echoed through the hall, the sound struck him with surprising force.

 

He stood, adjusted his jacket, and walked.

 

As he crossed the stage, memory arrived uninvited: Los Angeles sun on concrete, locker doors slamming, laughter sharpened into cruelty, a suspension that never should have happened, a plane lifting away from everything familiar, and then an auditorium in Sydney—years earlier—where a boy from Malaysia had smiled at him like the world might still be generous.

 

He accepted the certificate, shook the offered hand, and turned.

 

He didn’t look for parents.

 

He looked for Embong.

 

Embong was already watching him.

 

Not loudly proud.
Proud like recognition.

 

Geoffrey’s smile broke, sudden and unguarded.

 

When Embong’s name was called, Geoffrey clapped harder than anyone nearby.

 

Embong rose with a controlled inhale and walked across the stage with the same composure he wore whenever something mattered too much to reveal. He took the certificate, nodded, and returned.

 

As he sat down, Geoffrey murmured, “See? No consequences.”

 

Embong’s mouth twitched.

 

“Give it time.”

 

After the ceremony, the hall loosened into movement—photos taken in front of banners, conversations overlapping, relief expressed too loudly as if silence might undo everything.

 

Geoffrey’s cousin Jenny appeared with her phone already raised, eyes bright with intent.

 

“Hold that,” she said, pointing at his certificate.

 

Geoffrey held it.

 

Jenny tilted her head.

 

“Now look like you didn’t just survive something.”

 

“I did survive something.”

 

“Not aesthetically,” she replied, snapping the photo.

 

She hugged him next—quick, familiar, unceremonious.

 

“Well done,” she said. Then, softer, “They’d be proud.”

 

Geoffrey nodded once.

 

Embong stood just close enough to be included without introduction.

 

Jenny looked between them and smiled, satisfied.

 

Outside, the air was cooler. The sky was a clean Sydney blue that made the city feel briefly forgiving.

 

They stood near the steps as people rearranged themselves for more photos.

 

Geoffrey looked at Embong’s certificate.

 

“We finished.”

 

Embong studied the paper as if it might vanish.

 

“We arrived,” he said instead.

 

Geoffrey leaned closer.

 

“I knew you would.”

 

Embong looked at him then—really looked.

 

Geoffrey didn’t move.

 

Embong swallowed once, then nodded, almost imperceptibly.

 

“Okay,” he said.

 

Geoffrey’s shoulder nudged his.

 

“Okay.”

 

And for a moment, amid the brightness and noise, they stood still and let the future arrive without asking permission.

 

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