Walsh Family Universe V2

Chapter 61
Graduation

"Hold still," Mom said, adjusting Ash's collar for the third time. "I want to get a picture before we mess it up."

"Mom, we're going to be late."

"We're not going to be late. The ceremony doesn't start for another hour." She stepped back, eyes already misty. "Look at you. In a suit. When did you get so grown up?"

Ash stood in front of the full-length mirror in his parents' bedroom, wearing his first real suit. Navy blue, tailored to actually fit his 5'7" frame. White dress shirt. A tie that Dad had spent ten minutes teaching him to knot himself before finally taking over.

He looked like a kid playing dress-up as a businessman. Or maybe—and this was the unsettling part—he looked like exactly what he was: an eleven-year-old boy graduating from elementary school.

"I can't believe they made me valedictorian," Ash muttered, tugging at his collar. "I didn't even try to be valedictorian."

"You got straight A's for six years," Dad said from the doorway, camera in hand. "What did you think would happen?"

"I thought Marcus or Emma would get it. They actually care about grades."

"You care about grades. You just pretend you don't." Dad grinned. "Now stand up straight. Your mother wants approximately four hundred photos."

"Only four hundred?" Mom laughed, snapping pictures. "Turn to the side. Now face the camera. Oh, your grandmother is going to love these."

Ash endured the photo session with the resigned patience of someone who'd been through this before. School pictures, sports team photos, family holidays—he'd learned that resistance only prolonged the torture.

"I have to give a speech," he said, trying one more angle of complaint. "In front of everyone. About graduating from elementary school. What am I even supposed to say?"

"You'll figure it out," Dad said. "You've always been good with words."

That was part of the problem. He'd written and rewritten the speech six times, trying to find the balance between "what an eleven-year-old valedictorian would say" and "what wouldn't make him want to crawl under the podium in embarrassment."

Mrs. Anderson had approved the final draft enthusiastically. Said it was "mature and thoughtful." Which meant he'd probably hit the right tone, even if writing it had felt like the world's strangest creative writing exercise.

"Can I at least take the tie off until we get there?"

"No," Mom and Dad said in unison.

"It's choking me."

"It's not choking you," Dad said. "It's just snug. That's how ties work."

"Ties are instruments of torture designed by people who hate necks."

"Very philosophical," Dad said, snapping another photo. "Now come on, we need to get Sophie and head over. Claire and Cathy are meeting us there."

St. Catherine's gymnasium had been transformed for the occasion. Folding chairs arranged in rows, a small stage at the front with a podium and the school banner, flowers everywhere. The fifth-grade class—all forty-three of them—would be processing in wearing their "graduation robes," which were really just oversized blue polyester gowns that made everyone look like miniature judges.

Ash joined his classmates in the hallway outside the gym, where Mrs. Anderson was doing last-minute organization and Mrs. Patterson from the music department was arranging them in alphabetical order.

"Noam!" Alex appeared at his elbow, adjusting their own robe. "Ready to give your big speech?"

"Absolutely not."

"Come on, you'll be great. You're smart. Everyone knows it."

"That's exactly the problem. I spent six years trying to not be 'the smart kid' and somehow I ended up valedictorian anyway."

"Maybe you should have gotten some B's," Marcus suggested from behind them. "Too late now, though."

"Way too late," Emma added. She was getting the "Outstanding Achievement in Mathematics" award, which she was genuinely excited about. "At least you get to go first and get it over with."

Mrs. Anderson clapped her hands. "Alright, fifth graders! This is it—your last event as St. Catherine's elementary students! Next year you'll be middle schoolers. But today, we're celebrating everything you've accomplished here."

She went through the process one more time: they'd process in to "Pomp and Circumstance," take their seats in the front rows, listen to Principal Martinez's welcome speech, then Ash would give the valedictorian address, then individual awards and recognitions, then diplomas, then they'd process back out.

"Simple, straightforward, nothing to worry about," Mrs. Anderson said, though she looked more nervous than any of the students. "Noam, remember to speak clearly and slowly. Project to the back of the room."

"I remember."

The music started. The doors opened. They processed in two by two, Ash paired with a girl named Amanda since they were near each other alphabetically. The gymnasium was packed—parents, siblings, grandparents, all standing and applauding as the fifth graders filed in.

Ash scanned the crowd as he walked. Found his family in the third row: Mom, Dad, Sophie (wearing a dress and looking very proud), Claire with her phone out recording, Cathy, Eden. Uncle Nate was there too, which was a surprise. Declan must be working.

They took their seats in the front rows. Principal Martinez—a short woman with an infectious smile—came to the podium.

"Welcome, everyone, to St. Catherine's Elementary School fifth grade graduation ceremony! We're here today to celebrate these wonderful students and their journey from kindergarten through fifth grade..."

The principal's speech was what you'd expect: inspirational platitudes about growth and learning and potential. Ash half-listened, mostly focusing on not throwing up.

He had to give a speech. In front of two hundred people. About elementary school.

His thirty-three-year-old consciousness found the whole thing absurd. His eleven-year-old body was legitimately nervous, palms sweating inside the too-warm graduation robe.

"And now," Principal Martinez was saying, "I'd like to introduce our class valedictorian, Noam Walsh, who will share some words with us today."

Applause. Ash stood, his legs autopilot-steady despite the adrenaline. Walked to the podium. Adjusted the microphone down to his height—at 5'7", he was tall for eleven but still shorter than Principal Martinez.

Looked out at the sea of faces.

Found his parents. Dad gave him a thumbs up. Mom was already crying, phone held up to record.

Ash pulled out his note cards. Took a breath.

"Principal Martinez, teachers, parents, family, friends, and fellow graduates," he began, voice steady. "Nine years ago, most of us walked into St. Catherine's for the first time as kindergarteners. We were small. We were scared. Some of us cried."

Scattered laughter from the audience.

"We didn't know how to read or write. We didn't know what multiplication was. We didn't know how to make friends or share or work together. But our teachers—" he gestured to where the faculty sat, "—they taught us. Not just reading and math and science, but how to be good people. How to be kind. How to help each other."

He glanced at his note cards, though he'd memorized most of this.

"In kindergarten, we learned our letters. In first grade, we learned to read. In second grade, we learned to write stories. Every year, we learned more. But the most important thing we learned wasn't in any textbook. We learned that we're stronger together than we are alone. That helping someone who's struggling isn't weakness—it's leadership. That being different isn't something to hide—it's something to celebrate."

Alex caught his eye from the second row, smiling.

"We learned that failing doesn't mean giving up. That making mistakes is how we grow. That asking for help is brave, not shameful."

He paused, organizing his thoughts.

"Next year, we're going to middle school. New building, new teachers, new challenges. We're going to face things that feel hard or scary or impossible. But I want to remind everyone here—we've been through hard things before. Remember how impossible reading seemed in kindergarten? Remember how we thought we'd never learn long division? But we did. Because we worked hard. Because our teachers believed in us. Because we believed in each other."

"So as we leave St. Catherine's, I hope we remember what we learned here. Not just the academics, but the important stuff. Be kind. Help each other. Don't judge people for being different. Stand up for what's right, even when it's hard. And remember that you're stronger than you think you are."

He looked directly at his classmates now.

"We started this journey together nine years ago. We're ending it together today. But we're not really ending—we're beginning. Beginning the next part of our lives. And I can't wait to see what we all become."

He stepped back from the podium. For a moment, there was silence.

Then applause. Loud and sustained. Mom was openly crying. Dad was beaming. Several of his classmates were clapping hard enough that Mrs. Anderson had to gesture for them to settle down.

Ash returned to his seat, face hot, heart pounding.

"That was really good," Alex whispered.

"Thanks."

"No, seriously. That was actually really good. The part about being different—" They smiled. "Thank you."

"Just telling the truth."

The rest of the ceremony blurred together. Individual awards were called. Emma got her math recognition. Marcus got "Most Improved in Language Arts." Alex got "Outstanding Achievement in Visual Arts."

Then the sports awards.

"Noam Walsh," Principal Martinez read, "Most Valuable Player, Baseball. All-Star Team Selection. Athletic Excellence Award."

Ash walked up three separate times, collecting plaques and certificates, shaking hands with Coach Williams who'd come to present the baseball awards.

"Proud of you, kid," Coach Williams said quietly. "Not just for the baseball. For everything."

Finally, the diplomas. One by one, all forty-three fifth graders walked across the stage, shook Principal Martinez's hand, received their certificate, moved their tassel from right to left.

When it was Ash's turn, the applause was especially loud. He caught Sophie's voice above everyone else: "That's my uncle!"

He couldn't help but smile.

And then it was over. They processed back out to more "Pomp and Circumstance," out into the hallway where families were waiting.

Mom grabbed him first, pulling him into a tight hug. "I'm so proud of you. Your speech was beautiful. You're so grown up. I can't believe my baby is graduating elementary school."

"Mom, I can't breathe."

"I don't care. Let me have this moment." But she released him, wiping her eyes. "You were wonderful up there. So poised and mature."

Dad pulled him into a side-hug. "Hell of a speech, son. You made us proud."

Sophie attached herself to his waist. "You looked so cool in your suit! And you won all those awards! Are you the smartest AND the best athlete?"

"I don't know about smartest—"

"You're valedictorian," Claire said, giving him a quick hug. "That literally means smartest. Nice job, Noam."

Cathy hugged him next, then Eden. Uncle Nate clapped him on the shoulder hard enough to make him stumble.

"Didn't know you were such a good speaker," Nate said. "That speech—that was real leadership. Not just talking the talk, but actually saying something that mattered."

"Thanks, Uncle Nate."

His classmates were doing the same thing—being swarmed by families, taking photos, comparing certificates and awards. Ash saw Alex with their parents, both of whom were crying and hugging them. Emma was showing her math award to what looked like a dozen relatives.

Marcus appeared, still wearing his robe. "Dude, your speech actually made my mom cry. That's impressive."

"Or embarrassing."

"Nah, it was good. Like, actually good." Marcus held up his language arts certificate. "We did it. We actually graduated."

"Yeah. We did."

Tyler and Daniel joined them, the whole friend group clustering together.

"Middle school next year," Tyler said, sounding both excited and nervous. "Different building. Different teachers. Lockers."

"And way more homework," Emma added, joining them. "My sister said middle school is so much harder than elementary."

"We'll figure it out," Ash said. "We always do."

Mrs. Anderson appeared, herding them toward the classroom for one last gathering. "Come on, graduates! We need class photos before everyone leaves!"

They filed back to their classroom, which had been decorated with streamers and balloons. Mrs. Anderson had set up her phone on a tripod.

"Everyone squeeze in! Closer! Emma, can you stand on that chair? Perfect!"

They took a dozen group photos—the whole class, just the students without teachers, silly faces, serious faces, "one more just to be sure."

"Okay," Mrs. Anderson said finally, her own eyes suspiciously moist. "This is it. You're officially graduated. You're middle schoolers now—well, in two months you will be. I'm so proud of all of you. Stay in touch, work hard, be kind to each other."

She paused.

"It's been an honor teaching you this year. Watching you grow from the beginning of fifth grade to now—you've all matured so much. You're ready for what comes next. Now go enjoy your summer!"

They filed out slowly, saying goodbye to Mrs. Anderson, to each other, to the classroom they'd spent nine months in.

In the hallway, families were starting to leave. Ash's family was waiting by the main entrance.

"Photos outside?" Mom suggested, not really making it a question.

They spent twenty minutes on the front lawn of St. Catherine's. Ash in his suit, diploma in hand, standing alone, standing with parents, standing with Sophie, standing with the whole extended family. Mom took what felt like a thousand pictures.

"One more," she kept saying. "Just one more."

Finally, Dad intervened. "Shannon, I think we have enough."

"Fine," Mom said reluctantly. "But I'm getting these all printed and framed."

"Of course you are."

They went to dinner at an Italian restaurant—the whole family, plus Uncle Nate. Ash was allowed to order whatever he wanted, got fancy pasta and tiramisu for dessert. Everyone kept congratulating him, asking about his speech, commenting on how grown up he looked.

Sophie talked non-stop about how cool it was that he was valedictorian and got sports awards and gave a speech that made people cry.

"When I graduate fifth grade, I want to give a speech too," she announced. "But mine will be about science. Or maybe art. Or both."

"You've got a few years to figure it out," Claire said, smiling.

After dinner, back home, Ash finally got to change out of the suit. He hung it carefully in his closet—he'd probably need it again for something—and changed into comfortable clothes.

In his room, he looked at the diploma, the certificates, the awards. Physical evidence of six years at St. Catherine's Elementary. Six years of being Noam Walsh, student, athlete, friend.

Valedictorian.

He'd tried so hard not to be the smart kid. Had coasted through assignments, finished quickly but never showed off, read above grade level but kept it quiet. Had focused on being the athlete instead.

And somehow, he'd ended up valedictorian anyway.

Because even when he wasn't trying, even when he was deliberately holding back, the work was so easy that he still got perfect grades.

He sat on his bed, still holding the diploma.

Nine years ago, he'd walked into St. Catherine's as Noam for the first time. Two years old in appearance, thirty-two in mind, trapped in a situation he'd never chosen. Everything had been wrong—the body, the name, the family, the life.

He'd been so angry. So resentful. So determined to hold onto being Ash, to never let them win, to never accept this nightmare.

And then... somewhere along the way... things had changed.

Not all at once. Not in any moment he could point to and say "that's when it happened." But gradually, over nine years, Noam had become real.

He'd made friends. Real friends, not just acquaintances. Marcus and Tyler and Daniel and Emma and Alex—people who knew him, liked him, chose to spend time with him.

He'd discovered he was good at sports. Loved baseball, loved the physicality and strategy and teamwork. Had trophies and medals and a reputation as an athlete.

He'd grown. God, he'd grown. 5'7" now, taller than his previous body had ever been. Going through male puberty. His voice was starting to deepen. His shoulders were broadening. He looked in the mirror and saw a boy becoming a man—the right kind of man, the right body, the right everything.

He'd stood up for Alex. Had chosen kindness over popularity. Had defended someone who needed defending, even when it cost him socially.

He'd given a speech today. In front of two hundred people. About being brave and kind and helping each other. And he'd meant it. Every word.

Somewhere in the last nine years, Noam Walsh had stopped being a role he was forced to play and started being... him.

Not instead of Ash. But alongside Ash. Both things existing simultaneously.

He was Ash—thirty-three years old, transgender, formerly addicted, someone who remembered being an adult and making terrible choices and nearly dying.

He was also Noam—eleven years old, cisgender male, valedictorian, baseball star, loyal friend, brother.

Both.

Always both.

But today, graduating from elementary school, getting awards and recognition, standing on that stage—today had been pure Noam.

And the thing that made Ash's chest ache with something complicated and hard to name: he was proud of it.

He was proud of being valedictorian. Proud of the sports awards. Proud of the speech that made people cry. Proud of the friendships he'd built and the person he'd become.

Proud of being Noam.

Which felt like the ultimate betrayal of Ash... except it didn't. Not really.

Because Ash had wanted this. Had wanted to be male, to have the right body, to be accepted as who he was. And Noam had given him that. Noam WAS that.

There was a soft knock on his door. "Come in."

Mom entered, still in her dress from the ceremony. "Hey. I wanted to check on you. Make sure you're okay."

"I'm fine."

"You're quiet." She sat on the edge of his bed. "Big day."

"Yeah."

"Your speech was really special, Noam. I meant what I said earlier—you were so poised and mature up there. And the content—" She paused. "The part about being different, about standing up for people who need help—that came from somewhere real, didn't it?"

"Yeah."

"I'm proud of you. Not just for the grades or the sports or being valedictorian. I'm proud of who you are as a person. The choices you make. The way you treat people." Mom touched his shoulder. "You've grown into someone really special."

"Thanks, Mom."

After she left, Ash looked at himself in the mirror again. Still in comfortable clothes now, but still the same person who'd worn the suit earlier. Who'd stood at the podium. Who'd walked across the stage three times for awards.

He thought about his other elementary school graduation. The one that felt like a lifetime ago.

He'd been eleven then too, technically. Graduating fifth grade. But he'd been a girl—or that's what everyone thought. Small, withdrawn, uncomfortable in his own skin. Had worn a dress that made him want to crawl out of his body. Had sat through the ceremony feeling disconnected from everything, knowing something was fundamentally wrong but not having the words for it yet.

He hadn't been valedictorian. Hadn't been an athlete. Had barely had friends. Had been the weird, quiet kid who drew in notebooks and didn't fit in anywhere.

The contrast was stark.

There: miserable girl in a dress, isolated and wrong.

Here: confident boy in a suit, surrounded by friends and family and accomplishments.

There: wishing the ceremony would end so he could go home and be alone.

Here: standing at a podium giving a speech that made people cry, that meant something, that came from a place of genuine connection to his classmates.

There: small and weak and everything he didn't want to be.

Here: 5'7" and still growing, strong from sports, becoming the man he'd always wanted to be.

The body he had now—this was the body he'd dreamed about in that other life. This was the childhood he'd fantasized about while feeling trapped and wrong and desperate.

And yes, he'd lost his adulthood to get it. Yes, he'd lost his freedom and autonomy. Yes, his parents had made a choice for him that he'd never wanted them to make.

But this body. This childhood as a boy. The right puberty. Being seen and accepted as male without question.

This was everything he'd wanted.

"My name is Ash," he whispered to his reflection. "I'm thirty-three years old. I'm eleven years old. Today I graduated from elementary school as valedictorian. Today I got awards for being good at baseball. Today I wore a suit and gave a speech and made my family proud. Today I was Noam Walsh, and it felt right."

He paused.

"My name is Ash. My name is Noam. Both things are true. Both things are me. And today—today I'm okay with that."

Four thousand, seven hundred and thirty-two days to go.

But today had been good. Today had been an achievement. Today had been proof that somewhere in the last nine years, he'd built a life worth living.

Not the life he'd chosen. But a life, nonetheless.

A life with friends and family and accomplishments. A life with the right body and the right gender and the right future ahead of him.

A life as Noam Walsh, graduate of St. Catherine's Elementary, valedictorian, athlete, friend.

A life as himself.

All versions of himself.

He looked one more time at the diploma on his desk.

This certifies that Noam Francis Walsh has successfully completed the fifth grade curriculum and is hereby graduated from St. Catherine's Elementary School.

His name. His achievement.

Next year would bring middle school, new challenges, continued growth. Sixth grade. Then seventh, eighth. High school eventually. The long road toward eighteen and whatever freedom might wait at the end.

But tonight, he was eleven years old, freshly graduated, with a closet full of awards and a speech that had made people cry.

Tonight, he was exactly who he was supposed to be.

Both Ash and Noam.

Surviving.

Thriving, even.

One graduation at a time.

He fell asleep still in his comfortable clothes, the suit hanging carefully in his closet for the next time he needed to look grown-up and professional.

One chapter of his life closed. Another about to begin.

Growing up, correctly and complicatedly, one milestone at a time.