The trembling of a branch, low and shaken by the wind, blossomed delicate pink flowers that were soft and feathery—infusing every passing breeze with notes of fresh sweetness; the scent of melting ice and the coming of spring that cloaked the land in a shade so shy, he could smell the vanilla.

They brushed the tips of his hair, pink petals did as he passed under a tree in a hurry, making for the auditorium in the great strides he'd gotten used to walking in on his own. Which he often did, nowadays. Time was a particularly confusing notion for the young man; an odd construct, almost, that seemed to change based on the magnitude of the events that happened in every frame of the ticking clock that the entire human race appeared to share but could strangely never agree upon. Some often said that it went too fast. Others wanted it to go faster.

The senior had cue cards in his hands that were a tad spent by the time he'd rehearsed his speech eleven times in front of the mirror, fixing his tie every second or two precisely because he knew that was the only thing they could see over his graduation gown that he hadn't exactly seen just yet. Culinary dean Chef Marseille had made it a point to have the entire cohort in the dressing room two hours before the opening ceremony and yet here he was, barely thirty minutes to showtime, brisk-walking past the barn, the race track, the stands, the commons, the plaza, down Roth Hall and past the ranking boards and into the newly-restored right wing.

Guests were only just beginning to filter into the cocktail reception, mingling among themselves whilst occasionally interacting with the student servers who were making their rounds with hors d'oeuvres on circular trays. This crowd, he made a detour just to avoid. Amongst them were several familiar faces he could not afford to greet at present, knowing the ease at which he could be affected by the words of everyone else. For all intents and purposes, the school's star critic and valedictorian of the graduating cohort had never truly overcome the jittery nerves he had at the mere thought of public speaking.

Slipping past the reception and making his way down the hallway out into the garden and then into the adjacent building that housed the waiting room full of graduates in the middle of getting appropriately dressed and lined up, he found himself greeted by a flurry of urgent questions. This was mostly routine.

"I know you make a point to be punctual but being right on the dot can be nerve-wracking." "Mr. White, you have twenty minutes to eat your lunch, change into your academic robes and assist in the operations. Headmistress Lindy will be taking the stage in twenty before we start on the scrolls. Oh and the press has been looking for you." "Here's your gown." "Your complementary lunchbox. Jasmine rice with a side of pandan chicken, fried lotus root slices and sauteed spinach." "You join the class roster in the order of class representative to index numbers. Meaning you're first, even if your name starts with a 'W', followed by your substitute. We'll be positioning the rows by the side of the stage so when your name is called, all you have to do is—"

"Walk up the steps, shake hands, receive the scroll, take a picture, bow and walk off. Yes I read the briefing slides." The chill of a frozen lake, reflective and distant in nature, shivered the spine. He accepted the academic dress held out to him and ran a finger along the silver-blue tassel, then reached for the packed lunch placed on the edge of the table they were using to organize names and attendance. "I'll be stepping out for a short meal before changing into the gown. Has anyone seen Gelb? Scott Gelb. He's covering the event from start to end and I'd like to give his news angle a quick check. Just yesterday, he was having trouble thinking of a title to run with."

His honorary general secretary pointed him in one direction. A member of the administrative staff gestured in another. Chef Marseille could not be bothered with either. "You are not to be juggling three things at once, Julian. The press is waiting for you in the main lobby of the left wing, past the gardens. I don't know who this Gelb is but someone by the name of Keith Tang—yes, I know—came by. He should be outside on the benches. Some alumni were gathered there with the leftover lunches and he might have joined them. Be back by the half-hour mark, is that clear?"

"Well, I could make it a whole minute before that." His smile was professionally charming. Almost uncharacteristic of the very person he was only two years ago, swimming in the sea of new and novel. "I don't see how it is a problem."

He took his leave after a polite bow of his head, heading out the door and further down the hallway for the benches that lined the floor-to-ceiling windows that looked upon the statue garden. Meeting the gaze of several other students clad in their academic gowns, he was, by habit, able to pick out those on deliberate procrastination—wandering outside the waiting room to mingle around despite having had their lunches. A single glace their way was enough to convey a chilling message. Those of the graduating batch made the split-second, clever decision not to linger. The general movement had caused a decent stir amongst the others gathered outside the waiting room; and it was upon the turning of heads that the graduating batch's valedictorian recognized key figures who played significant, if not critical, roles throughout his academic journey.

"Nillie?" The girl three years his senior came towards him with open arms and at an alarming speed. This, he'd had to brace himself for. "Baby, please don't tell me you chose the pair of glasses you're wearing. Oh but whoever did your hair has good taste... maybe En should try that someday."

"It's not gonna suit people like me, Layla," Chen was much taller—shoulders, perhaps even broader—than he last remembered him to be. "And there's nothing wrong with his glasses."

They exchanged a round of greetings before jumping straight to the matter at hand: his much-anticipated valedictorian speech. After all, it was the main reason they'd returned in the first place. Layla Tenner was not the kind of person who had the luxury of time to attend graduation ceremonies every year when she had, upon her graduation, been offered a sous chef position at a world-renowned, Japanese-French rooftop dining experience in New York. Chen on the other hand, had been reluctant to settle on a specific plan in mind, which therefore somehow necessitated the many internships he'd completed before finally deciding, instead, to be furthering his patisserie studies back in Shanghai.

"Well, I must... admittedly, I wasn't expecting either of you to be here, let alone the both of you. At the same time, I mean. The—so you... there were flights, yes? Well of course there were, no one could possibly walk their way from... from halfway across the planet."

Chen laughed. "You don't seem thrilled. Guess I'm booking the first flight back." At once, the bespectacled bean was scrambling.

"No, no. Of course not. I mean, I am thrilled. It has been so long and I... I've heard how well all of you have been doing and... so I assume you're expecting a speech of great standard and I don't quite know what to feel about that, you see." He glanced down at the boxed lunch in his hands and noticed the ticking time. "That's all."

"We aren't here to put pressure on you, Nillie," Layla patted the space next to her and he obliged, snapping the lunchbox open and appreciating whoever designed the menu for it before tasting each component. "The reason why anyone would fly oceans across to see you is because you're special. And you so rightfully deserve the achievements you'd worked so hard for in school and today is... is the day us and other people celebrate that! So yes, we're here to um, send you off."

"That sounds both moving and um, not quite as reassuring, that is, about the term 'sending me off' um as though—"

"It kinda is a warzone," Chen had, in his years after graduation, developed an odd inclination towards likening his daily life to chaos and bloodshed. "But I'm not gonna be the one planting ideas in your head. You probably hear from Cox how bad it is, anyway."

Vanilla had paused at the name. His gaze slowed to a stop, resting upon a stray grain of cauliflower rice stuck to the back of his spoon. The pandan chicken beside it was incredibly fragrant, splendidly seasoned, perfectly cooked. His gaze returned.

"I, um. Yes... I've heard stories. Not necessarily from a specific source, per se. Just, in general. About the culinary world outside of school. I don't foresee things getting any easier but, admittedly, I have somewhat come to terms with that some three, four years ago when I made the decision to, well... pick up the critic's pen."

Layla was the first to notice the ripple in the pond that was otherwise still; she hesitated, nevertheless, on re-directing the conversation elsewhere. She'd always felt strangely responsible for the two beloved juniors who were, in fact, the ones who'd made her graduation possible in the first place.

"And we're wishing you all the best in everything that you do," she turned to Chen for a follow-up. He didn't quite catch on, and had, in fact, blinked in surprise at their dismissal of a certain name when the three were fortunately interrupted by fellow graduates—all dressed in their gowns with hats twirling around their fingers.

"You're here! Chef Marseille was like, looking all over for..." Si Yin was having a hard time gathering her thoughts. She attempted to do so in a well-practiced manner. Having had an orderly conversation partner who tended to organize his speaking points in a naturally structured manner for the past four years most certainly helped. "Wait, your gown's inside and... okay you're having lunch, so... lunch first and then change into your gown A-SAP and is that Tenner? And and Chen?" She stopped twirling her hat, grabbing it, instead, by the tassel. Beside her, Violet Birchwood very casually removed the item from her grasp.

"So on the last day of school, you finally decide to reveal that you're human and capable of being late?" Ranked second, the pastry chef who'd, months before graduation, already secured herself an internship at a patisserie known for its world tours and grand events, had been vying for the spot of valedictorian as early as the first semester of her final year. She was also the one who picked out Vanilla's eyeglasses for the day.

The pair of school alumni exchanged yet another round of greetings in the presence of the girls while valedictorian-deer finished his packed lunch in silence, mentally reciting the key points of his speech. Once, he missed a beat and restarted on instinct.

"Did you guys, like, seriously spend hours on a plane just to hear the nerdiest speech of your lives?" Violet scoffed, producing a pair of panna cotta shots from the wide sleeves of her academic dress. Offering one to Vanilla without quite looking him in the eye. She finished her portion in one go but winced at the glass. He needn't taste it himself to know it wasn't the best panna cotta around. "You're so going to regret it."

"Yeah but don't you hover outside Nillie's room sometimes hoping to catch him practicing the speech or something so that you—mffmhhgug." Si Yin was very familiar with the holy hand of Violet Birchwood. Saved, however, by yet another timely announcement of the commencement of the headmistress' opening speech, the graduating trio were, at once, scrambling.

"We'll be listening!" Layla called after the bespectacled bean, who turned over his shoulder with a smile that seemed almost blindingly confident. She felt, strangely enough, the urge to send him back in time for one last memory; something reminiscent of the nervous charm and shy intelligence he once possessed. At present, the adjectives seemed no longer applicable.

Hastily donning his graduation gown whilst answering the rapid-fire questions of Scott Gelb from the Chronicle, he made his way to the row of 'W's and 'V's and 'X's. He could observe the top of Si Yin's head several students down, bobbing up every now and then for an occasional tip-toe. Right beside him was another classmate of his—who was, perhaps, the only other male companion of his who hadn't the urge to exit a casual conversation between them and Vanilla—Aaqil.

"Remember the kids who got expelled in our first year?" The latter angled his head slightly towards him, but discreetly enough so that the junior writer furiously scribbling pointers behind them couldn't make out the exact words of the exchange. "I saw them at the fountain. Mingling."

"You mean Lee and... hm," the model student stopped a passing student in their tracks to fix their hat. "I've forgotten their names. The ones who had me locked in a freezer?"

"Yeah them." Aaqil did not bat an eyelash. "They were doing selfies and shit as if they were the ones... never mind."

Their eyes came upon a group of students standing idly in the row before them, tapping away at their mobile devices before one of them raised hers at an unusually high angle and all of a sudden, all five had the brightest, merriest smiles on their faces. This went on for quite some time, necessitating an innovative burst of consecutive poses that each lasted for about a second or so. The pair simply observed; silently wondering if the girls taking the pictures were aware of their dumbfounded, awkward expressions present in the very corner of the photographs.

"Julian." Chef Marseille called from several feet by the registration table. "A word."

He could hear the muffled echoes of Headmistress Lindy giving her speech in the auditorium as he neared the front of the room, where the one door leading to a waiting area connected to backstage had been left ajar.

"Is this about having technical issues with those out front?" He laid out the first of simulated realities on a list of things he'd mentally drawn up in a matter of seconds. Marseille scoffed at once.

"You always think something's wrong. There is nothing. Nothing is wrong. Do you think so poorly of your culinary dean that she would not wish her model student the best of luck in his future endeavors?"

A blink. Two blinks.

"But of course there is something wrong with that, Chef Marseille," said Vanilla, quite unintentionally sarcastic. "Except that you don't believe in luck."

A wry smile crossed her features. "Always so innocently bold and daring, under the guise of a harmless little fawn. Those glasses of yours throw people off all the time. Here is a little something for you. A parting gift," she handed him a vial that had its cap attached to a key ring.

His eyes lit up at once. "Could this be the amethyst bamboo salt you were... oh." The contents of the vial were white in colour. "Not the most expensive salt in the world then. What is this?"

"Drugs, obviously," Marseille rolled her eyes before privately musing at the expression on her student's face. Indeed, the pair had developed quite a peculiar teacher-student companionship throughout his years of study. "The first ever critic-major to top the entire school, ranked above every other culinary, pastry chef, cannot find it in himself to identify table salt?"

His senses dulled at her words, tuning out but momentarily sizzling on a phrase that he could just barely hear through the gap between the doors in the voice of Chef Lindy. 'Create something new every day, even if it sucks.'

Those in their graduation gowns huddled in the waiting area cheered at the closest form of cursing they'd ever had the privilege of hearing onstage, loud enough for those seated in the auditorium—parents, alumni, distinguished guests—to acknowledge and laugh.

"A vial of table salt," clarified the valedictorian, nodding for extra measure. "I see now. How extremely appreciated and valued I must be in your eyes to receive this, um, holy gift."

"Everyone needs a little table salt now and then. Even more so as an established critic! I'm sure you'll be tasting some terrible dishes in the years to come," she humored with a wink, adjusting the angle of his hat. They shared some quiet appreciation for the light-hearted talk that had, for all intents and purposes, achieved its intended effect of shedding the nerves. "Now, as for the speech—"

"You want me to do it right after the headmistress' speech, before the certificates, because the organizing team hasn't quite yet had the fake papers rolled up and ribboned," he read and predicted, all from a single glance at the state of chaos that the student union volunteers in the background were in. That had been him, too. Last year. "A vial of salt is an unfortunate trade, Chef Marseille. I demand something minimally decent. Like a conversation about the chemical make-up of amethyst bamboo salt over a nice quiet dinner in your restaurant. The new one. In London."

Marseille was shaking her head, eyes wide in disbelief but smiling all the same. "You've grown to be the most awfully confident scientific mathematician-thing I've ever known to attend culinary school. Of all things. And of course you are welcome to the restaurant, Julian. I'm sure you'll give the staff quite a beating with your ratings."

"I always do," admitted the model student, producing his cards and giving them one final scan. He knew he'd probably end up having to use them onstage anyway. Public-speaking had never been the slightest bit agreeable with his general character. "Shall I stand in position?"

"Lindy has three more minutes, so you're just in time." She pointed to the door at the very back of the room. "Exit through that door and make your way down the hallway so you arrive at the entrance to the auditorium. You'll walk down the aisle and up onto the stage as soon as she gives you the cue. Yes, she will be introducing you as valedictorian."

Then he was off—making his way down the corridor that had, over the years, grown familiar to a lone back that had, many others, following along behind but never again, someone by his side. A member of the student union received him at the double doors and had him stand several feet away so that there was just enough space for a pair of first-year students to, well... open the doors for him and allow a grand, magnificent entrance. The bespectacled bean, as we all know him, was unfortunately not prepared.

"—changing attitudes towards the industry and what it means to have culinary skill. That while cooking with the mind is vital to making good dishes, cooking with the heart is essential to becoming a good chef."

"Oh good god that is so terribly misleading. Please do not introduce me in the next—"

"This, he has done as the representative of the Chronicle and our student body. In the span of three short years, he has cultivated a new culture for a school that now understands the value of healthy competition or what he calls 'professionalism with a heart', and most importantly, the importance of truth. In the kitchen. In our food."

"Please welcome—"

His phone. It buzzed. He produced it from under his academic dress and, after glancing at the preview on his lock screen, could not fight the urge to smile.

*

His uncle was in tears. That was the only thing he noticed despite the rapid flashes of light and cameras in his face, courtesy of the public media that had, since years ago, took interest in the student who single-handedly wrote the article that turned all eyes onto every culinary school in the world for checks on power and abuse. The aisle was packed on both sides with members of every local press but past the rolling cameras, tripods and microphones were Aunt Julie and Uncle Al in the crowd, clapping and crying as the hall rose for his welcome.

He neared them as he was walking up the side of the stage and his uncle, though thin-lipped and stiff-faced, had sucked in a single breath for a well-presented façade of professional cool. 'Good job,' he'd mouthed.

The headmistress received her favourite student at the podium and, after shaking his hand with an odd, wobbly thing that was her bottom lip, she let him take over. At once, the valedictorian was reaching for his notes with trembling fingers that could thankfully go unseen at a forgiving distance. The very back of the hall was, to him, ant-sized. He'd never seen the auditorium this packed.

"Well um," his voice sounded absolutely alien on the mic. The strangeness of it all rendered him momentarily blank. "Before I start, I'd just... I'd like to commend whoever prepared the pandan chicken chunks in the lunchboxes." Thank goodness for laughter. "And say that it was a touch of genius to include yuzu pepper in the marinade. But um, on the other hand, whoever made the pana cotta shots... well. Practice makes perfect. Perhaps coconut cream and some lemon zest instead of the usual heavy cream." If it was speaking about food chemistry then, well, he wasn't quite out of his comfort zone at all. This made him relax a little. "Richness doesn't necessitate that flavour be compromised. Yes, so. And so with that out of the way...

"Congratulations." He turned, somewhat, to those watching from backstage. "To all of you here. With the hats on your heads. You have... come thus far. Not that it is a competition. Graduation is simply a means to an end that we must have." He glanced down. The notes helped. "Nothing is to be won; not the GPA on your report card, not the number of culinary competitions you have medaled—as you can see, I have a grand total of zero under my belt, so—and certainly not the number of elite connections you have made in school. And as per this specific line of reasoning, it would therefore mean that nothing is to be lost either. There is no winning. And no losing.

"What is lost is if you have not made the most of your time here. If you made little of your mistakes. If you have learned nothing but ruthless competition or that the happiness of one must necessarily mean the compromise of another because that is not true. What is true of food is that it, inevitably—shared. From the very conception of a dish to... to sourcing of its ingredients, to the kitchen, the pan, the plate, the fork and into the very guest whose identity should never, never matter because all guests—kings, queens, beggars alike—all. Guests. Matter."

He paused; having run far off his pointers and skipped ahead in the rush of adrenaline. Moments later, he found the card he was looking for.

"It is unfortunate that people think of me, all of a sudden, so highly throughout these years though I have, as you all know, started off as nothing. Quite a plain jane, in fact. Simple. Boring. Quite... unnoticeable. Barely, noticeable. Really. And there is much reason in that.

"There were, and are, other people who were as, if not, more talented, more impressive and more achieving than I could ever hope to be. These lot of people, I learned, did not only belong to or excel in the academics of our school but in other fields of knowledge I had previously never even imagined to properly exist.

"Things like working as a team. Or... knowing when to reserving a seat for someone over lunch at a table. How to reserve that seat, for the matter. And and and conversations. Friendships. Getting into arguments. Yes and getting out of them, of course. But... well... mostly... into. Them. Because I was very apparently frightening at conversations. Ah, that... should not have been written in past tense," he stared down at the grammatically erroneous bullet point on his speech card. There was laughter. "Thankfully, I am much more versed in humor than I was before. Having friends might have helped.

"I am sure that most of us graduating... well, most of us actually do not have a single clue as to what we will be doing next week. Let alone next year. Two years. Five. Well, the number doesn't really matter. All we know is that there is a semblance of something out there, lying in wait to be discovered and experienced or, perhaps, as Chef—Headmistress Lindy had put earlier, 'created'. Surely, there must be some form of pressure we all understand to be expectations. Expectations to have a goal, a dream in which one can so willingly strive towards, which is why most of you probably think that it is quite impossible to be standing where I am now primarily because I may seem to have a concrete plan of my future, all mapped out for the next twenty years of my life.

"That is nonsense, by the way. I am no creator. I don't run around thinking of fresh ideas all day for menu design or... ways to, well, criticize someone's culinary passion or venture. I don't have a future set in stone. I don't have something like that at all except, well, maybe just for the next week and what I would like to have for dinner tonight. Those, I tend to think of. Unconsciously. Right, I am derailing.

"My point is that I want you to know... my apologies, headmistress, I mean no offense... that even if the thoughts in your head aren't novel and new and fresh—even if there are days you cannot help but not create—that there is nothing wrong with being plain or simple or boring.

"Because while it is easy to impress with the new, the novel, the fresh, the modern—it is compelling one to fall in love with a flavour they can find everywhere else that you just know you are good,

said someone by the name of Leroy Cox,

under a red tree... in an autumn breeze... on a seesaw... to someone else.

Someone

by the name of—