The week preceding graduation is torture, filled with lots of television, naps, bowls of cereal, and sulking. By Monday evening, Dad's clothes are packed and ready to go. I intend to pack last minute as a quiet form of rebellion.

Eli is still grounded until further notice, but I sneak up to the treehouse with him every day after school for a couple of hours. We do a lot of sitting and not talking, hand-holding and sulking. I've never been very religious, but I ask him to pray aloud, and he does. It makes me feel a tiny bit better, like someone other than Gray has a say-so in the way my life unfolds.

On Wednesday, I get a letter in the mail. Alyssa George has been accepted to the University of Nebraska in Lincoln. They even want to offer her a scholarship. I ball it up and toss it in the trash.

Friday morning calls for graduation practice. All of the seniors meet at the gymnasium. The principal goes over the rules — no airhorns, no beach balls, no hidden flasks, no cell phones — and then we walk as the band plays "Pomp and Circumstance". I'm graduating with honors and seated on the second row between a girl named Nicole Fowler and a boy named Marty Gros, but a few boys in letterman jackets lovingly refer to him as "Mardi Gras".

Several speeches are to be given, but thankfully each speaker says only the opening remark during rehearsal. The class president, Mason Kentworth, opens the ceremony, followed by the vice president and valedictorian, Stefanie Sims. The school principal and vice principal will also give speeches, along with a special guest. After a grueling hour and a half, we are dismissed to the locker rooms to be fitted for caps and gowns. I will also wear a golden sash with an honors patch sewn onto it.

When I finally make the trek back to the Camry, I see something sitting atop the hood, its color catching the sunlight and blinding me. I pick it up, and it's a gift. A thin, square something wrapped in obnoxious pink paper that says "BIRTHDAY GURL!!" on it in a silver script.

"I know it's not your birthday, but this is the only wrapping paper we had at the house. Think of it as a going away present." I look up, and Eli is beside me. "Wait, when is your birthday?"

"June fourth. Why aren't you in class?"

He brightens. "Oh, well then this can be an early birthday present." He winks. "And don't worry about that. They think I'm pooping."

I roll my eyes at him. The boy has zero shame. "When's yours?" I ask as I peel off the first layer of paper only to find another.

"September twenty-second. Should I expect a gift?" Even though I'm not looking at him, I know he is smirking.

"We'll see."

Upon extraction of the item from both the second and third layers of paper, I find that it is a blank white canvas. I look up at him in question.

"Flip it over," he coaxes, annoying smirk still intact.

When I do, I find that it is an acrylic painting. The main focus of the painting is a tree with a thick trunk and many branches tangled together and covered in leaves of every color, most of them impossible. Hanging from one of the branches is a swing, the kind made of a single wooden plank and some rope. Leaning up against the trunk is a skateboard. Atop a few roots sits two pairs of shoes — black combat boots and shiny, golden heels. A stack of books sits atop another set of roots, and one of them is our math textbook, if I'm not mistaken. Off to one side of the scene stand a couple of sunflowers. Hanging from a smaller branch is a simple gold chain with a heart-shaped locket. Hanging from another branch is a dreamcatcher — beaded and feathered much like the one that hangs above Eli's bed; from yet another hangs a small, battery-powered lantern. A wooden ladder leads up to the tree from the far back left, its destination unseen in the picture. And, finally, carved in the tree trunk halfway up the middle are the initials E.W. + A.G., but the 'G' is drawn in a such a fashion that one could almost mistake it for a 'Q' if that were one's intention.

Eli has painted a portrait of us.

"Eli..."

"It started off as a tree about me, and I was gonna put stuff about my family and friends and church and stuff. But then I thought that you were the only person I'm worried about remembering me. But then I was, like, no way. I'm super special so, like, how could anybody forget me? But I thought it'd still be cool to give this to you to hang in your room in Iowa, yenno, if you want."

"This is— This is your self portrait?" I ask, utterly dumbfounded. "But I saw yours last week, and it had, like, none of this stuff on it..."

"That was the decoy portrait," he says with a proud grin. "This is the one I've been working on this week."

My face burns when I realize that this is likely the portrait he'd turned in to Mrs. Berthelot. "Did Bertha ask you to explain any of this?"

"I just told her that each thing was significant to some part of my life. I pointed out the dreamcatcher and the skateboard and she didn't ask about the rest. But she did smile when she saw the carving, though. And look!" He points to a branch up high on the tree, and I see, for the first time, a tiny green lizard, so small that it had blended into the leaves and I'd missed it upon first sight.

It's a chameleon.

"Do you like it?"

At a loss for words and suddenly overcome by gratitude, I set the canvas safely inside the car and go to him. I slide my arms inside his windbreaker and lock them tightly around his waist. Heat pricks at the back of my eyes and I bury my face in his chest so he won't see. "I love it. I love it so much. Thank you."

He squeezes me tight. "You're welcome. I'm glad you like it." When we kiss, his aura is as radiant as the sun.

And I have to ruin it with a reminder of the present.

"You're still coming tonight, right?"

"And miss perhaps my only chance to see you walk down an aisle?" His voice is playful, but his smile is sad. "Not a chance."

"I'm scared," I whisper.

"Me, too. Just stick to the plan, and we'll be fine."

"Yeah."

The bell rings, and Eli starts. "Shoot; gotta go." He gives me another quick kiss and then runs back towards the school.

Just stick to the plan, I repeat his words in my head after he is gone. Just stick to the plan, and we'll be fine.

🦎

          Principal Dean had requested we wear semi-formal attire beneath our gowns. I wear a black cotton dress and sneakers. I curl my hair like I had the night of the party. I wear Mom's locket. I apply a fresh coat of matte black polish to my nails.

"You look beautiful, Pen," Dad tells me.

"Thank you."

"You wanna take a last minute sweep through your room?"

After I'd returned home this morning, I had brought Dad to pick up the U-Haul. I'd spent the rest of the day helping him load it up with all of our belongings. "Yeah, I will."

In my empty room, there is nothing. In my empty closet, there is nothing. Except there... on the floor in the corner... I see something metallic. I squat down and reach my arm into the tiny space. My fingers grasp around a thin chain. I pull it into the light. On the end of it hangs a heart-shaped locket, one diamond inlaid in the middle. ...Weird. It must've fallen off. I put my hand to my throat... and I feel a heart-shaped locket hanging on a thin chain. ...More than weird.

I make a mad dash for the bathroom — as inconspicuous of a mad dash as possible — and flip the light on. The necklace I hold in my hand looks just like the one I wear around my neck. I unclip the one I wear and hold one in each hand, bringing them both up to my eyes. I can't find a single mistake — they are exact replicas of each other. Except for maybe one feature. Heart beating against my chest, I attempt to open locket number one. No matter how hard I pry, it doesn't budge. I set it aside and move to locket number two. It takes a thumbnail, but it opens. And inside of it is not a photograph like one would assume a locket to hold. No, this particular heart-shaped locket holds a small microchip. And it is blinking red.

Memories of the prom come rushing to the forefronts of my mind like the aftermath of a faulty dam. Dancing. A gray aura. Losing my necklace. Finding it later inside my jewelry box. Not remembering how it got there, but being too relieved to care.

The bastard has been tracking me this whole time.

I peel the chip out and flush it down the toilet, and then I flush the rest of it. After tonight, it won't matter. None of this will matter.

In the kitchen, I slip on my robe and sash and Dad helps me pin the cap to my head. "You got everything?"

"Yep."

He steps back and admires me. He snaps a picture on his phone, which I am completely ill prepared for. "I'm proud of you. You know that, right?"

I nod. I do because his aura is proud.

"I saw what you threw away. You got in, kid. I never doubted you would."

"Thanks."

"Alright," he says. He clears his throat. "Meet me in the parking lot after the ceremony?"

"Yeah."

"Okay, then. Off you go." He traps me in an awkward hug and I pray that, if everything goes according to plan, we will both come out of this thing unscathed.

I hadn't been planning on warning him — I'd selfishly decided it'd be best the less he knew — but as I say what may possibly be my final goodbyes to this bunker, I'm starting to worry, and that is usually his forte. "Dad, I need to tell you something," I force out of dry lips.

He doesn't seem too concerned with whatever it is I've been withholding from his knowledge. To him, our leaving is so close that we've practically left already. "Yeah?"

I swallow hard; I swallow down any temptations of "never mind" or "it's nothing". "I contacted... I'm not one hundred percent sure... but I may have contacted Gray."

Dad's brows pull together. His aura goes dark. "You did what?"

"I kind of... made a Facebook for Alyssa? And I made a status about graduating... in hopes that he'd find it and come tonight? Maybe? So we can end this thing! Once and for all!" I try to end my admittance on a positive note in hopes that maybe Dad won't tie me up and lock me in the trunk of the Camry and drive straight to Iowa without looking back.

He steps backwards and falls into the kitchen counter. He rubs his forehead with his fingers and sighs, slowly shaking his head. "I can't believe this."

I take a step towards him. "I'm so sorry, Dad... but I'm so tired of running! I'd honestly rather make bait of myself, at this point, than run any longer. I like this town, and I like my friends I've made here, and if he shows up in a public place and we can call the cops before he gets away, maybe this can all finally be over and done with and we can finally breathe again!"

"I can't believe this," he says again. His aura feels drained and he won't look me in the eye. "I've tried everything..."

"There's still a chance he won't show," I say to hopefully ease the blow. "I have no way of knowing if he saw my post or not."

That's when it hits him. His aura is bubbling, then boiling, and he finally bursts with a slam of his fist down onto the counter. "Enough, Aspen!" he yells. "This has gone on for too long!"

Thinking he's agreeing with me, I pipe up almost cheerily. "I think so, too! That's why I—"

"Stop. Talking," he cuts me off in a very commanding tone, and I comply with a start. "Brody said you'd grow out of this by now. But I just... I can't take it any longer."

Brody...? What is he talking about? "Grow out of what?!"

Dad presses his palms to his eyes. This time, when he speaks, his voice is much calmer. Almost crooning. "Gray isn't real, Aspen."

"What?" I start again. "What are you— what are you talking about? Of course he's real. I mean, I know Gray isn't his real name, but..."

"He's not real," he repeats as I trail off. "He's a figment of your imagination." He looks up, and his aura holds a tremendous exhaustion.

"What are you talking about?" I ask again, as I am apparently at a loss for any other words of remote intelligence.

"Mom was very sick before she died. You were so young... You couldn't quite grasp the fact that she'd left us. So you made up this... this bad guy in your head... someone to take the blame. We went to see a doctor, and he spoke with you for a while, and then he told me that you were suffering from a severe bout of Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder and that the best way to help you cope with it was to cater to your fantasies. So I went along with it. But Brody... he assured me that you'd grow out of it. By adolescence, you'd see things for what they were. But adolescence came and went, and I was too soft to stop the charade. It's my fault it's gone on this long, really. I wanted desperately for you to come out of it on your own." He holds his head in his hands again, and I cannot believe what I am hearing. "But apparently that hasn't been the case."

I stumble backwards and catch myself on the door knob. "You're... you're lying... You've seen him yourself!"

"No! I was just playing into the fantasy. Brody suggested that I pretend to have seen him, that maybe it would scare you straight."

I shake my head, hard and fast. Whiplash. Proof. I need proof, evidence... "I just found Mom's necklace in my room," I plead with him. "Except it wasn't Mom's necklace." I touch the chain around my neck. "Because I'm wearing Mom's necklace! The one I found was a copy. And it opened, and it had a tracker chip in it! He's been tracking me since the prom, maybe longer!"

Dad sighs again. "And where is this tracking chip now?" He doesn't believe me.

"I... flushed it." I realize now that I might not believe me either if I was him.

"Mm. Of course you did."

My limbs turn to Jell-O. I lean against the door for support. It can't be true; what he's telling me can't be true... I grasp for further proof. "But, Dad, we're... we're in the Witness Protection Program..."

"Every time we move and you enroll in a new school, I sit down with the principal and I tell them about our... special situation. I show them all the doctor's notes, and they agree to play along."

Further evidence... "But the IDs... the birth certificates..."

"Brody always secures those for us. I don't know why... his theories have never proved themselves."

"What does Brody have to do with any of this?!" I cry. Maybe I'm finally losing it, after all these years of living under a microscope, a living organism disguised as a fleck of dirt. "He is a detective. A really awful one, at that. It's his job to rename and relocate us when Gray gets too close."

"Stop it!" he cries back. "Gray isn't real! Detective Brody isn't real! Dr. Brody is a psychiatrist! He is your psychiatrist!"

No. He's lying, I tell myself. He's not telling the truth. He's trying to goad you into backing out of graduation, into not baiting yourself. When we arrive in Iowa, he'll tell you it was all an act, a last minute attempt to save you from walking to accept your diploma and right into Gray's hands. I plead silently to my mother, and I feel her aura for the first time in weeks. It is red. Angry. Angry at my father. Angry at my father for lying, perhaps. Gray is real.

"I don't believe you."

"You don't have to," he says matter-of-factly. "Tonight, after you recieve your fake diploma with your fake name on it, we will drive to Iowa. We will unpack a new home. I will find you a new doctor to see, one that believes in medicine and not hunky-junky pseudo-science like Brody. You will recieve your real diploma in the mail, one with your real name on it. And we will try to move on from this."

"Yeah, maybe," I say, my voice, heart, and skin all frozen over, cold as ice. "Or maybe Gray will show up tonight, and he'll kill me. And you can go live in Iowa by yourself, and you'll be the one who has to see a shrink."

I slam the house door behind me, running to the Camry, knees buckling beneath me right when I reach the car door.

🦎

          We form a single-file line around back of the gymnasium. The sash is too big for me and the cap makes my already throbbing head itch but I'm afraid to scratch it or else the bobbies will come loose. Everyone around me partakes in pleasant conversation, mostly about the parties they'll be attending tonight and the graduation gifts they've received. Since I'm near the front of the line with the honor grads, I can see into the parking lot. I watch every aura from every person inside every vehicle. He'll show up. He has to show up. It's either that or the last eleven years of my life have been one big game, one big lie, one big medical experiment.

Around ten 'til showtime, I see Sol's old blue truck pull in. Eli hops out dressed in black slacks and a blue button-down as if he is the one who is graduating, his hair pulled back halfway. Dex and Jules continue towards the entrance, but Eli lulls behind. He takes out his phone as if he's going to text me, but I whistle and he jerks his head up in my direction. A wide grin splits across his face and he jogs over to me. At once, I feel light as air, like all my troubles are dust and nothing can hurt me.

He cocks a hip and rubs his chin. "Spin for me, darling," he says in a ridiculous posh English accent. I do, and he snaps a picture on his phone. "For St. Ruphio's summer collection."

"I wish everyone would stop doing that," I mutter.

He takes my hands in his, his features going from playful to strict without so much as a moment's notice. "In all seriousness, though, in case I don't see you after—"

"You will," I cut him off. Either one of two things will happen, this I know to be sure: Dad will be right, and Gray will not show up because he is not real and because I am crazy, and I will kiss Eli goodbye and ashamedly lie to him that I will keep in touch; or Gray is real and he will show up and we will face him together.

"Okay, but in case I don't, I need you to know something."

Suddenly acutely aware of the surrounding students and their near proximity, I feel a panic setting in at what he might be about to say. "Eli," I plead, "don't... please..."

"I don't maroon you," he says, the straight line of his lips curving slightly upward to one side. "I just wanted you to know that."

I breathe a sigh of relief and I laugh. I put a hand to his cheek. "I don't maroon you either, kid."

He leans into my touch, and the motion seems involuntary. "And no matter what happens tonight, I want you to know that I will never not regret not meeting you, and I will never ever not regret not marooning you."

He kisses me sweetly on the cheek, and before he can lean away I grab him by the collar and pull him back to me, and I kiss him with all that I have in me. His aura pulls me into the deepest kind of longing. I feel tiny drops of water behind my eyelids, and I squeeze them shut as hard as they will go, forcing the water back inside my head.

"I'll see you shortly," he says. Then he straightens out his shirt and walks off to the gym's front doors. I hear the buckles of his boots clack beneath the hem of his slacks, and I smile.

Nicole Fowler leans back over her shoulder. "Your boyfriend's kinda weird."

My smile grows in spite of myself. "I know."

A gym coach instructs the girl at the front of the line to count five measures after the band starts playing, and then begin the procession. She nods silently, communicating her understanding, but as soon as the coach is gone she turns around to the line behind her and asks what a measure is. Once the music starts, she just stands there until the boy behind her shoves her forward. And onward we march. As we round the side of the gym, I see the U-Haul parked on the street.

Principal Dean begins the ceremony by welcoming our family and friends. The band plays "The Star-Spangled Banner" and we all stand with our hands on our hearts. Mason Kentworth delivers the first speech. I've never officially met him, but I can confidently gather that he has a flair for the dramatics. His speech is very elaborate and long-winded. I believe his intent is to keep everyone entertained while simultaneously bringing our years of primary education to a close, but I, for one, have trouble taking him seriously. Once he's finished accepting his Oscar, Stef replaces him onstage. She starts with a couple of twin jokes that are very well-received with the students, and I hear Paige yip at the mention of herself. Stef's speech is short and sweet and reflects mostly on academia. With her final remark, she somehow manages to challenge gender norms in public schools and yet still congratulate our senior class on a job well done, or if not well done, at least completed.

The special guest turns out to be the town's sheriff who Nicole Fowler informs me is Vice Principal Gill's husband and has been the "special surprise guest" for three years in a row, ever since Gill took the job. His speech is ill-informed and is mostly just a time-filler if I have to guess. But having the actual sheriff here takes a kind of weight off my shoulders.

The principal and vice principal each speak about our class's achievements — our average GPA, the various scholarships students received, our state and national rankings in standardized test scores, the titles our sports teams took home. They really go all out to glorify us; it's kind of nice. And as they begin calling out names starting with Spencer Noelle Adcock and the front row rises, I actually start to anticipate Alyssa George's name being called, and I'm actually proud of myself, and it actually feels pretty good to be a part of a group — a part of something bigger than myself. I push all thoughts of Gray aside and for once try to enjoy the skin I'm in. When Jordyn Marie Ellis's name is called, my row stands. I try, not for the first time, to spot Dad in the audience, but I can't. My guess is that he's standing somewhere off to the side close to the doors. Although Principal Dean requires that all applause be held until the end, the crowd behaves very little. Each student whose name is called receives a standing ovation filled with whoops and hollers from their small fan base among the bleachers. I begin to get nervous that I won't have one.

"Alyssa Elaine George."

Yeah, I never bothered looking up Alyssa's middle name, although it seems the school had had it in their records all along. Or Dad had gifted them this name, wrapped up with a bow, and they're just playing along.

I walk to Principal Dean, a smile crawling on my face inevitably. Regardless of whose name is on this temporary piece of paper, the honor is all mine. "Congratulations," he says. I shake his hand and accept my diploma with the other. I turn to the audience — this is the part where the parents are supposed to snap a picture — and my fan base stands and cheers — a tall and lanky American Indian, a short and round Latin American, and a tall and goofy white boy. I shift my tassle from one side of the cap to the other and pump my fist in the air like Bender (something I'd always imagined myself doing upon receiving an important award) and take my certificate back to my seat. I hope Dad had seen it. I hope he's still proud of me.

The remainder of the ceremony goes by like a breeze. Airhorns are honked, beach balls are bopped, cell phones are flashed, and I'm sure somewhere flasks are being sneaked. I continue to scan the audience for Gray or for Damian, but I don't see the familiar face. A boy I know to be a "Super Senior" (he'd had to repeat his senior year) thrashes an air guitar upon the calling of his name and dives off the stage. He lands with an impressive somersault and dodges the disciplinarian on his way back to his seat. Everyone laughs collectively at his antics.

After Zachariah Marshall Zachary (I'm serious) receives his diploma, all the students stand. "Congratulations to the 2015 graduating class of York High School... We did it!" The band begins to play the school's Fight Song and all the graduates shout and throw their caps into the air. The gym ceiling is smeared with shades of navy and gold for only seconds before gravity commands the caps back down to their owners. Nicole Fowler hugs me and I don't stop her.

Before the band has even finished, the gym becomes a cell of mass chaos. Seniors leave their seats to find their family and friends in the bleachers; family and friends leave the bleachers to find their seniors on the gym floor. I try to feel for a gray aura, but the excitement in the building is too much and too full. I look to the seats where Eli and company had been seated, but they are empty. I grumble. The plan was for him to stay put and wait for me to come to him. Apparently he'd been too short-minded to remember. I slide through the seats and head for the doors, thinking I'll meet him at the truck, which was plan B. Halfway to the double doors, I feel a hand grasp around the top of my arm, and I swivel around. "You were supposed to stay in your seat," I reprimand him. But the man holding on to me isn't Eli.

This man is fair-skinned with slightly graying hair and a troubled look in his olive eyes. "Ian? What are you doing here?"

"It's Ford," he tells me, his aura just as troubled.

My eyes sprint around the room in search of him. "He's here?!"

"No," Ian shakes his head. "He's come for me. He came to my house."

He's real. But he went to Ian's? "What? Why?!"

"I don't know. I knocked him out, but he'll wake up any minute. We must go now." He takes a few steps towards the door, pulling me with him.

I attempt to resist, though Ian's grip is strong. "No, I can't... What about my dad? And Eli..."

"I have already warned them. Your father is on his way to my home as we speak."

"And Eli?"

"Eli is with him."

My thoughts spin too wildly for me to resist any further. When we reach the double doors, a blast of cool air hits me head on, and with it, the frantic colors of the gym dissipate. The last aura I feel before Ian ushers me into the passenger seat of his shiny, black Range Rover is a gray, confused one.

__________

Hello!!! I'm so sorry this took a thousand years to post. I was enduring a nasty bout of writers block. Like, I knew what I wanted to do with this chapter, but I didn't know know what I wanted to do with this chapter. Anyway. Tell it to me straight.

REMEMBER THAT BIRD CAGE ASPEN DREW FOR HER FINAL PORTRAIT LAST CHAPTER?!??? @lqsmaine drew it. SHE DREW IT. Hats off to her because it's amazing.