š« parataxisš«
by: airauralintensity
a class rank series of vignettes from the rest of veronica and bernard's high school career
characters: veronica krauss, bernard flannigan, janet oswald wesley barabara and various livingston high students in supporting roles
ship: bernica
genres: romance, friendship, family
themes: slice of life, fluff without plot, everything changed when an actual plot attacked, light angst, character study, character growth, relationship study
chapter: 2/2
word count: 13.1k+
rating: T for implied mature situations
A/N (1.16.2023): An update to parataxis? In my 2023? It's more likely than you think.
Sorry for the four year absence. Would you forgive me if I told you that I genuinely spent all that time thinking about how to finish it? It's not my fault that the mostly-fluffy, chronological-yet-loosely-connected drabble premise I originally ideated spawned into something with actual plot :( It's all fun and games until you remember that you can't just introduce all these narrative roadblocks without resolving those by the end of the story, and that's what really ate up these four years. Hopefully you think the wait is worth it. :)
early Jan 2017
The third quarter begins nippy and frigid like it always does, but Veronica's car is warm when he closes the door to the passenger seat.
"I see you still refuse to pack your lunch," he observes as she carpools them to school.
"I see you're still on about that."
"You have more control over your diet if you pack your own lunch. Not to mention it is likely more nutritious than what the school buys from our lunch supplier and cheaper for the average student as well. I was there when we voted to renew our contract, andā"
"āOMG. You know what? You should totally run for the Board of Education! Then you'd have all the control you wanted over Livingston High's lunch programs."
Veronica doesn't have to take her eyes off the road to know that Bernard does not appreciate her sarcasm. She chuckles and relents, "You and I both know that if I had control over my own diet, my lunches would not be more nutritional than what the school supplies."
He silently reaches into his bookbag and takes out an insulated lunch bag coloured in deep maroon. She will not insult either of their intelligences by asking if he happened to replace his charcoal gray one over winter break.
Her skin feels too weak to contain the emotion that's thrumming in her body. She loves itāshe loves himāso she distracts them both because she refuses to be the only one experiencing heavy emotions at 7:33 on a Monday morning. "Have you spoken to your grandfather yet?"
Bernard settles back into his chair after leaving Veronica's lunch bag by her book bag in the backseat. "Not really. Some days I avoid him; other days he avoids me."
"That's new," she observes. "When Carol Patel didn't email you her edits for your Emma Willard paper, you cornered her at first block the next day to make sure she was even still alive."
"That's different," he defends. "This is my grandpa. He has never done anything like this to me before. I am so confused, so angry; I do not even know what I would say to him if we broke the tension."
He looks and sounds pretty collected for 'so confused, so angry'. Granted, the only time she saw him lose his temper, she technically had committed a federal offense, which is perhaps not the best bench mark.
"You can start by asking, 'Why?'" she offers instead.
"I already know why. He has an irrational fear of death-by-skiing."
"I mean, how irrational can it be if it's actually happened to him?" Bernard gives her a look. "Okay, not helping."
"Even when I returned from the ski trip unimpaired, he just grunted at me and went up to his room. That was one of the best weeks of my life, and I cannot even talk to my closest living relative about it! To top it all off, I am unsure that he thinks he did anything wrong to begin withā¦"
Veronica hums. "You know what they say. 'Every villain is the hero in their own story.' Maybe this is something you're just going to have to forgive without first hearing an apology."
"That is incredibly frustrating."
"So's family."
The car goes quiet and contemplative until they pull into one of the parking spots set aside for Student Council members. Bernard waits for Veronica to retrieve her things from the back seat; when she reaches for her new insulated lunch bag, the rush of affection swells in her chest once more.
"Hey," she calls out before they get too close to the school entrance. There is a lively bustle of activity as parents drop off their kids and students reunite to tell stories of how their breaks went. This is really their last moment of privacy until the end of the day.
When Bernard doubles back to her, she smiles at how his nose and cheeks easily pink from the cold. "That ski trip was one of the best weeks of my life, too."
His gloved hand reaches for hers, and she lets go of her lunch to feel him squeeze tightly, the most affection she can expect from him in public even after all these months.
"I'll meet you back here at 3:15?" she asks with a smile on her face.
"See you later."
...
Veronica pulls up to the Flannigan estate, and Bernard hesitates before he opens the car door.
"I guess today is one of those days where you're avoiding him?"
Bernard thinks about this and determines, "No, but I have a feeling he is not avoiding me today either."
Veronica sucks in a breath through closed teeth. "Good luckā¦ Do you want me to call you later after we finish our homework?"
"That would be most welcome."
When she reaches across the center console to place a comforting hand on his thigh, he recalls that last month they learned he is not one for a lot of contact in times of great distress. He has surmised since then that he can handle a little more when the one providing said contact is Veronica.
He looks her in the eyes and gives her a wan smile as he rests his own hand on top of hers. She easily flips her palm to grip his hand and squeeze reassuringly, and he leaves the car after he squeezes back.
He walks up the path to his door, taking note of the front lawn as he goes. The lawn has not been trimmed since Veronica last helped him with that, sometime this past autumn. This is imperative to note because the lawn is not the front door behind which is an inevitable confrontation. It is a good lawn. He used to catalogue the bugs he found there in a field journal that his grandmother encouraged him to start when he was four.
With a final nostalgic sweep of the yard, he opens the door and finds his grandpa waiting for him. "Sit down, boy," he directs with a gesture to the chair opposite from him at the dining table.
Bernard does so out of respect, not obedience, and he feels the need to make that clear. However, "Ah, so you are capable of doing what yer told."
Bernard stiffens. "I comply with reasonable requests."
"What's more reasonable than trying to keep you safe?" Oswald asks with a raised eyebrow, a smirk hovering on the edge of his lips. His sanctimonious attitude has never bothered Bernard before, but he has also never betrayed Bernard's trust like this before either.
"Treating me with respect."
Oswald's nostrils flare. "That's rich coming from someone who disobeyed a direct order. I didn't wantcha to ski, and you did it anyway."
"Is that what you think this is about? Do you think I am angry because you tried to prevent me from skiing?"
Oswald is shocked that that may not have been the only reason, but he refuses to acknowledge it. "Look me in the eye and say it has nothing to do with it then," he says flippantly.
"Grandpa," Bernard grinds out, on the brink of finally getting everything off his chest. "One of the many reasons I admire and respect you is that you always leveled with me. As I matured, so did the way you interacted with me. It gave me independence without untethering me from my support; it encouraged the growth of my critical thinking without sacrificing my trust. It is an understatement to say I am the person I am today because of you.
"But you went behind my back to sabotage my belongings, and you lied to my face about it for so long. It denigrates the mutual trust and confidence that we have built together. The issue here is the duplicitous way you went about making me comply with your wishes, not the wish itself. Can you understand how betrayed that made me feel? I do not want to experience it again, and at your hands no less. Please do not make me."
When Bernard looks up from the tabletop to meet his grandfather's gaze, too many emotions flicker across his whiskers, too fast for Bernard to discern. He can only wait for his grandfather's next words to learn how the elder feels.
For Oswald's part, he is still angryāso angryāthat Bernard couldn't grant him this one peace of mind, but he never wanted to hurt the kid like this either. He will never be sorry for doing whatever it takes to protect Bernard, but his grandson isn't asking for an apology.
He clears his throat. "Let's get one thing straight: I respect you, boyo. I regard yer trust and confidence with great esteem. In future disagreements, I will make sure you know that."
Bernard sags as though he had finally put down a heavy burden he has been carrying around for weeks. In a way, he supposes he has. "Thank you, Grandpa," he says with an earnest and pleased smile.
Oswald nods and dismisses Bernard to do his homework. Not long after his room door shuts, however, he hears Bernard's voice on the phone, no doubt in conversation with his girl. He moves to the kitchen, washing vegetables to prepare dinner. The rote motions are perfect for letting his mind focus on crafting his arguments for the day Bernard somehow learns Oswald interfered in his race for the Board of Elections.
He will never be sorry for doing whatever it takes to protect Bernard, even if it means sabotaging their own relationship in the process.
mid Feb 2017
Yale sends out notice of admission emails instead of envelopes, which makes its dissemination less of a climactic affair than Veronica would prefer; but she loves everything about Yale, this included. Having applied Early Decision, she's been expecting to hear back since the end of January.
It would be an understatement to say she is anxious. If she were being honest with herself, she's been acting a bit bitchy lately, but she can't help it. Every day that passes with her mailbox devoid of that all-important, fate-defining email causes her stress to skyrocket and her attention to decimate. It is only her immaculate academic track record up to this point that bolsters her teachers' patience during this trying time, and she can't even begin to define what she's done to earn Bernard's grace.
It seems as though that grace has run out right before the last block today. "Veronica, I require your assistance at my dwelling this afternoon after class dismisses us."
Veronica shuts her locker door and comes face-to-face with what passes for excitement on Bernard Flannigan. To an untrained eye, it looks no different from his resting face, but she is too familiar with the widened eyes and forced line of neutrality on his mouth to interpret it as anything else.
She normally thinks it's cute, butā"Can't. You know I need to get home as soon as possible to check my email."
If possible, Bernard's line flattens even further. "With your portable laptop, this task can be accomplished at my home just as well as at yours, can it not?"
She narrows her eyes. "I left it at home," she lies, testing.
"You can use my desktop."
"Your house is farther than mine."
"In terms of traffic. If we leave right as the bell rings, we can beat the Livingston High rush hour; then my house will actually be closer."
She regards him with suspicion a moment further before resigning. He's insistent about something that isn't net neutrality or the Paris Accords for once, and ultimately she wants to encourage this behaviour. When she agrees, the smile that spreads on his face does wonders to abate the sinking feeling of disappointment in her gut. She's probably not gonna get the Yale email today either; she might as well be with her boyfriend while she mopes.
...
She barely has the car in park before she's throwing herself out of her seat. She pays no mind to Bernard hustling to keep pace with her, laden with both of their bookbags and lunchbags. She bursts into the house that is never locked as long as Oswald is home (and when isn't he home?) and heads straight for the staircase, never once glancing at the rest of the ground floor.
With a few more steps, she's plopped in front of Bernard's computer and anxiously waiting for it to turn on. Why couldn't Bernard leave his device perpetually sleeping like normal people?
By the time the computer is ready for a password, Bernard is unburdening himself behind her. She swivels around in his seat impatiently. "Bernard! Unlock your desktop!"
He motions for her to get out of the seat. "Could you do me the honour of unlocking your own laptop while I sign out of my email?" he asks as he settles in and types.
Veronica doesn't even think about trying to keep up the lie from earlier in the day. She does in fact have her laptop, and she's already signed into her email there. She just has to flip it open, wake up the screen, refresh the open tab on her laptop that greets her, andā¦
She looks up with tears in her eyes, searching for Bernard, just to see him gesturing to his own desktop screen like a dweeb version of Vanna White.
"You got into Yale," she reads in a whisper.
Bernard straightens in his seat, proud and satisfied. "I did."
Her heartbeats sound like many things. "I did." Ba-bum. Of course. Ba-bum. Tai Yu. Ba-bum.
And louder than them all: Traitor.
Ba-bum.
"You didn't even tell me you applied!" Veronica explodes. She staggers to her feet, finger pointed and tears beading in her eyes.
Bernard stands as well, out of confusion more than anything. "Yes, because that is how surprises work," he defends. "Why are you upset? I am going to follow you to Yale."
Her face crumples even further, and she cannot take this anymore.
"I'm not going to Yale!"
He genuinely does not understand what she is saying, but he has no time to; Veronica turns on her heel and storms out of his room. It is only the excited shouts that turn into confused questions from downstairs that prompt him to move. He does not even bother reading the screen of her forgotten laptop for confirmation.
When he alights on the bottom floor, Veronica is begging her mother to let them leave. His grandfather looks bewildered, standing behind the dining table where eggplant lasagna and coffee cake (Veronica's favourites) are ready to be served. If either he or Veronica looked, they'd see Oswald had decorated the cake with 'Congratulations to Yalie Veronica!' in a looping icing script.
Veronica turns to Bernard when she hears him approach. "You. You stole my spot from me! If you never applied, I could have gotten in! I mean, why would Yale ever accept the #2 student in the class when they could have #1 instead? Where else on my list have you applied to, huh? I might as well kiss those schools goodbye!"
Despite the circumstances, Bernard cannot help but notice: even with splotchy cheeks and vitriol on her lips, Veronica is still beautiful.
In three long strides, he has a grip on her shoulders as tight as the coil in his chest. "You have to believe me, Veronica, when I say that there was not a single doubt in my mind that you were going to get into Yale. I wanted it for you more than maybe even you did. I would never intentionally jeopardise it for you. You have to believe me."
Ms. Krauss gasps at his words, finally understanding the situation, but he never directs his attention away from the heartbroken girl before him. Veronica doesn't want to hear it, he can tell, but she would be less inclined to believe him if he said it any later than this moment. Her eyes are rimmed red, and the lines of tears down her face must match the fracture lines of his breaking heart.
He wants to do something impossible, like rescind his application or wipe her cheeks with his thumbs, but Veronica squeaks out, "Mom, I want to leave." She holds eye contact with Bernard for one moment longer before turning around to beg her mother with her eyes.
He can do nothing else but stand motionless as the Krausses escape his home, so swift that Ms. Krauss forgets to collect the banner she hung up. Veronica's head is photoshopped onto a cartoon body wearing a Yale sweatshirt, and it is exactly the kind of cheesy, over-the-top thing his girlfriend would have pretended she did not enjoy but actually enjoyed immensely.
Looking upon the frozen smile of Veronica's photo, Bernard feels her pain hit him like she left it behind and he accidentally ran into it. The acceptance surprise party he planned for her had everything it needed except the one thing that mattered most.
...
It takes a long time before Veronica leaves her mother's arms.
They collapsed on their couch as soon as they got home, Veronica's heaving cries and her mom's supportive murmurs never escaping the tight cocoon of safety of their arms. When she can finally take a breath and it doesn't immediately leave her body in a sob, she breaks the stillness. "Bernard makes me feel worthless sometimes."
She is unsurprised by the way her mom pushes her to arm's lengthā"Come again?"ābut this is not a conversation she wants to have while making eye contact. Her mom luckily gets the hint to wrap Veronica back in a hug, and only then does she continue.
"It sucks not getting into Yale. There are no words I know in any language that describe how much it sucks not getting into Yaleā¦ But it's worse knowing Bernard did. He's the only person I've ever lost anything to. It's like he can do everything I can't."
The arms around her tighten, then Janet whispers, "Is this because of the class rank thing?"
There's no point in pretending it's anything else. She wouldn't have even met her boyfriend if it weren't for her righteous, selfish quest to avoid this very situation.
"Does he know about this?"
She shrugs, an almost futile movement from how secure her mother's arms are around her shoulders. "What good does telling him do? It doesn't change a single thing. He'll still be #1, he'll still have gotten into Yale, and I'll have neither of those things."
Janet doesn't want to say these next words, but she is Veronica's mother before she is her best friend. "Is that someone you want to be dating?"
Veronica shakes her head into his mother's cardiganed shoulder, a rejection as opposed to a response. "I've already decided it's not worth breaking up over. I love him, Mom."
"Yeah, but if worthless is how you feel when you're with himā¦ I don't think I want him around you, frankly. Come to think of it, the last time I held you like this was the class rank thing."
It's true that every single time she has doubted herself, it has been in connection to Bernard Flannigan. She had not ever developed strong insecurities until he came into her life.
She never felt beautiful or even fully accepted until he came into her life, either.
Veronica just shrugs again. It says something about their relationship that her mother accepts this as the end of the discussionāit never once was an argument, merely an open exchange of ideas. In any case, Veronica feels better just to have said it all out loud anyway. She didn't realise how much it weighed on her until she stopped carrying it by herself. She says as much as she loosens her hold on her mom, and Janet squeezes her one last time in a hug before letting Veronica go.
"I'm glad you said something. I never want you to feel like there's something you need to keep from me, for any reason. If there's one thing I learned from executive producing Law & Order for almost ten years, it's that we won't get resolution to a story until people start talking. I never want us to end up like some of the families we write about, you hear me?"
Veronica can't help the laugh that escapes her, and the vestiges of melancholy that remained after their heavy conversation finally evanesce with the sound. She'll never stop being amazed at how her mom can connect the show to every teachable moment she encounters, even if it is sometimes a stretch. For her part, Janet can't help but laugh along, just for the relief.
"I'm in the mood for some hot cocoa. Hm?" she offers, and Veronica eagerly nods at the distraction. She goes to the guest bathroom to wash her face and collect herself while her mom is in the kitchen. When she looks up from the sink, she can't help but scrutinise her appearance a little in the mirror above it. Maybe she's imagining things, but she feels like she looks different, like there's something in her face that just spells heartbreak of the highest magnitude. At last, she gives her reflection a wistful smile and leaves to wait for her mother at the kitchen island.
When there are two warm cups of chocolate drink between them, her mother breaks the silence. "Is it too soon to talk about what happens now that Yale is off the table?"
Veronica sends her mother a look over the brim of her cup as she takes a sip. "Yale isn't off the table."
Janet is so confused she doesn't even comment on the chocolate moustache Veronica now sports. "I thought you would make a back-up plan for if Yale didn't work out."
"There is no back-up plan. It's Yale or bust."
At once, her mother's face distorts in ghastly comprehension. "Are you deferring school for a year so that you can apply again next fall?!"
Veronica doesn't bother trying to hide her eye roll, but she eases it with a smile. "Yale isn't going anywhere," she explains, "and neither am I. I'll try to transfer in, or I'll apply again for grad school. This isn't my last chance. Until I'm a certified Bulldog, I'll just attend the best university I can get into and do my best there, too."
She says it simply, so matter-of-factly, and it makes perfect sense, but Janet is still floored. There are many times she's been impressed by her daughter, but this moment brings her pure, unadulterated pride. Veronicaāone-track mind, resilient, uncompromising Veronicaāwould not have been able to utter those same words a year ago, and she's not that good of a mom.
"I change my mind. You can keep Bernard around."
Veronica chooses not to comment on the fact her mom knows she didn't have much say in the matter to begin with and asks instead, "What makes you say that?"
"Maybe he isn't your roadblock; maybe he's your rival. That kind of competition can be good, especially for someone like you. It gives you a benchmark, pushes you to be better, makes you get creativeā¦" Janet gasps. "He's your The Wire!"
On some level, Veronica knows her mother has a point, but it's too soon for her to reframe today's events. She wants to feel bad for herself a little while longer. Instead of addressing her mom's advice, she teases her. "I wouldn't know. Someone insisted on this being a The Wire-free household."
late March 2017
Bernard hears back from every school he applied to. It was not a royal flush; interestingly enough, none of the California schools accepted him. He is alright with this. California is a long way from home, and he has many good options regardless.
His grandpa takes them out to dinner at the only non-chain restaurant in Livingston to celebrate. Despite the novelty of the experience, Bernard does not particularly want to be here; but as soon as Barabara shows up, he ascertains this was more for his grandpa than it was for him, and he will not begrudge them an occasion to spend in each other's company.
"Your grandfather has told me all about your accomplishments, Bernard," Barabara compliments after the waiter takes their orders. "You should be very proud."
"Thank you." He aims for genuine modesty, but it rings hollow even to his own ears. Luckily, Barabara does not seem to take offense. "Do you have any idea which school you want to attend?" she continues pleasantly.
Bernard wipes his sweaty palms on the thighs of his pants. "Ah, not yet. I wish to confer with Veronica first." The two of them have made amends since the Yale catastrophe of last month, but the topic of matriculation is still taboo between them. "All of my schools have a May 1st deadline, so I still have some time to decide."
"Ya know, none of the schools he's considerin' are even in this state? And good riddance! It would have been a disservice to the world if my boyo here couldn't spread his wings at a university outside of Dirty Jersey!" Oswald intercedes boisterously.
The inside of Bernard's ears tickle in the way they do when he recognises what he is hearing from somewhere but cannot remember where. It almost bothers him, but the conversation continues around him. It's easy to put it out of mind, especially once the waiter comes back with their appetizers and drinks.
Midway through the meal, his grandfather lifts his cream soda. "I want to propose a toast!"
Barabara has her iced tea in the air even as she questions, "What for?"
Oswald turns to his grandson, and the obvious pride in his face makes Bernard feel guilty for being terrible company all evening. Even if he really were just an excuse for the two septuagenarians to spend time together, that still makes him the reason they are out tonight.
"To Bernard K. Flannigan!" Oswald cheers. "We will be hearing his name for years to come!"
Realisation finally hits him, and he freezes mid-toast: those same words were in Barabara's damning endorsement (or lack thereof) at the eleventh hour of his campaign for the Board of Ed. He would know; he read it every night before he went to bed for a month straight.
Something about this reminds him an awful lot of the ski trip he almost did not go on, and he wishes it did not. The edges of his vision fade out; he shivers involuntarily. His grandfather notices and dares ask him what is wrong.
It takes everything in him to keep his voice even. "Grandpa, were you the one who wrote the endorsement?"
Oswald looks genuinely confused, and the swift release of the tight heat in Bernard's chest almost makes him delirious. He must be mistaken.
Then his eyes flick to Barabara unbidden, and her face is the unfortunate confirmation he did not want to find.
"When I was running for the Board of Education position last year, I didn't get the endorsement from the Livingston Weekly," he says to the tabletop, voice firm and just loud enough. "'Although we cannot in good conscience endorse him for this position, we have no doubt we will be hearing his name for years to come. In fact, we think that it would do Bernard a great disservice to shackle him with a four year Board of Education commitment instead of allowing him to spread his wings at an out-of-state university.'"
The quote comes easily to him, as though he were reading them from a page in front of him instead of from the corner of his mind where he keeps the rusty-barbed memories of his greatest failure, right next to the moment from when he was seven and his grandpa told him why his parents weren't coming home.
As for his grandfather, angry defensiveness replaces mild confusion on his face. Bernard hasn't seen him this red since the general elections last November. "You would have been stuck here for the next four years instead of going off to college!"
He does not even notice he is crying until Barabara reaches out with a handkerchief. He ignores the gesture but not her. "Did you publish my grandfather's endorsement because you thought you were doing me some sort of favour as well, or was it because you legitimately believed I would not be a useful member of the Board? If it is the latter, I could understand that, but that would mean your good luck wishes were complete farces. If it is the formerā¦"
He does not even know how to begin articulating how wildly inappropriate and superfluous that reasoning would be coming from her. His mind pivots to another direction. "Did you know that Veronica did not get into Yale? Yale. Her dream school. If it were not for me, she would have been able to get in. I am the reason she did not get in!"
"Now, Bernard, you know that's not how that works." The slight admonishment sounds eerily maternal in Bernard's ears, and it rackets up his unadulterated anger into pure loathing.
The anger he felt at himself, the injustice he felt on behalf of Veronica; all of it is now directed to them. He is borderline desperate in his anguish. "I would not have even bothered with Yale if I had gotten the Board of Education position. I would have been able to apply to a plethora of quality schools! I would not have applied to Yale, and Veronica could have gotten in!"
"Boyo, quit talking to Barabara that way," his grandfather warns with a hard glare, and Barabara reaches out to lay a calming hand on top of his. "Oswald, perhaps it would be better to tell Bernardā¦"
"There is something to tell?"
After a tense moment where the two targets of Bernard's wrath have a silent conversation with their eyes, his grandfather turns to confess to Bernard. "Iā¦ convinced Barabara that the paper should not endorse you. I didn't tell her what to say, but she did ask me why."
Barabara cut in, skittish and behooving. "Oswald didn't write a single word of that non-endorsement, Bernard. I promise: that was all me. If there is someone to be angry at, it should be me."
Bernard hears her, but his attention is focused on his grandfather. There may have been an admission, but there was no apology; and that is what pushes Bernard past his breaking point. "You promised," is all he can let himself say before he storms out of the restaurant.
...
Veronica opens the door to a distraught and broken Bernard in a scene uncomfortably reminiscent of last December. Before her own face muscles can even react enough to frown, he steps forward and begs her, "Tell me where you are going to college. Tell me it is as far from Livingston as we can get."
She grabs hold of his hands, jerking as they were in consecutive, aborted movements before him, to invite him into the house, and she does not let go. She wants to ask a million questions, but instead she answers his. "I got into Harvard, so I guess there."
She leads him to her room, seats him on the short side of her bed. It's not an intentional ploy, but it forces them closer. Bernard is silent the whole time, deep inside his own head, and then he nods in slow, desperate movements. "Harvard. That sounds perfect. I can go to Brown; that is not far away at all."
"You said you want to be as far from Livingston as you can get."
"As far from Livingston as we can get," he distractedly corrects her, obviously still focused on whatever brought him here in the first place.
Veronica allows herself a moment for his words to warm her heart before giving their joined hands a little shake to make him present again. "Do you want to talk about it?"
His jaw tightens, and she thinks he isn't going to say anything, which would of course be totally okayāher mind is already whirling with episodes of Law and Order to show him because hey, if it works for her mom, it might work for Bernard tooābut then he grits out, "My grandfatherā¦ Remember how the Livingston Weekly did not endorse me last year? He is why. He made a deal with the Editor-in-Chief to actively prevent me from winning."
Veronica has no trouble remembering. For a while there, the endorsement against him felt like an endorsement against her as well.
"I only found out tonight because we were celebrating hearing back from the last school I applied to, and his toast echoed the newspaper almost word for word. He did not write it himself, apparently, but that does notā¦" Bernard's perfect posture slouches with a sigh. "He might as well have."
Her heart breaks for him. Their weeks and weeks of effort and campaigning were for naught thanks to the single only person in this world closer to Bernard than she is. She can barely imagine how betrayed he feels.
"I'm going to hug you, okay? Not for you; it's for me."
He nods his permission, but when her arms wind around Bernard's shoulders, his own wrap around her waist twice as firmly.
His head drops to the juncture of her neck like it's become too heavy for him to carry, and it is a weight she is more than happy to burden.
She does not react at all when the cries start, not a squeeze of her arms or a tilt of her head or even a murmured comfort.
There is nothing to do or say.
Veronica isn't facing her clock, but she knows it's been a while by how her posture and arms ache. She finally dares to reposition them, and Bernard breaks his hold, just like she knew he would. She lets her arms settle at his waist without any pressure.
She hopes he cannot tell how her eyes skim over his face, cataloging every freckle that's disappeared from the flush of his despair and the way his eyelashes clump together from weakened tears. It is a tragic yet treasured sight.
One she is still eager to erase. "I'm going to get you a towel."
She points to the tissue box on her work desk before she leaves the room, letting him do with that information what he will. When she comes back with a warm, damp washcloth, his cheeks are less ruddy and his legs are pulled up to the bed in a crossed position. His jacket is off and laying next to him half-folded on the bed.
Despite the circumstances, deep affection crests through her at the sight.
He thanks her as he accepts the towel, clearing away the evidence of his dolor until he faces her again. His eyes look tired in the way she imagines a general's would. How many battles must be won until the war is over?
Veronica hopes he sees more love than pity in her smile as she holds his face in one hand. When her thumb stokes gentle swipes on the apple of his cheek, his eyelids flutter shut. Still standing, she leans down to leave a buss right above his eyebrow, and his eyes open as she pulls away.
"I'm sorry, Bernard. I'm sorry that your grandpa did that to you, I'm sorry that you had to find out the way you did, and I'm sorry that your relationship probably won't be the same after thisā¦ But thank you for telling me. Thank you for trusting me. Whatever happens next, I hope you knowā¦" She licks her suddenly dry lips, nervous in a way she wasn't even when she told him she loved him for the first time. "If you knock on my door, I will answer. Every time."
The tiredness in Bernard's face hardens to something serious and focused by the end of her little spiel, but she is still surprised at the way he holds the wrist of the hand still cradling his face and slides his palm up her arm just to tug her down to sit next to him on the mattress.
"Veronica," is her only warning before he pulls her in for a kiss, heavy yet heady yet hedging at once.
He ends their embrace, but she cannot even find it in herself to be disappointed once she is greeted with the first smile she has seen from him all night. It's not the brightest she's ever seen from him, but it's genuine and directed at her.
With that, the mood improves dramatically. The single lamp she has on, which seemed before to only emphasise the shadows in her room, is now more than enough light.
"Is your mother not home? I do not recall noticing her on our way in."
Veronica wisely refrains from mentioning that he wasn't noticing much of anything earlier with how distraught he was. "She's overnight on set for some production emergency. Why? Do we need privacy?" she insinuates as a joke.
Bernard is unimpressed, as always, but his glare collapses immediately under his bashfulness. "Actually, I wanted to ask her if it would be too much of an imposition to sleep in your guest room tonight."
She gasps exaggeratedly. "Bernard Flannigan! On a school night, no less?"
Unfortunately, her ribbing has gone too far. "Ah, yes. You make a good point. My backpack is at homeā¦"
"I was joking! I was joking," Veronica clarifies before Bernard can get too sad again. "You did your homework already, right? Nothing you need to do at the last minute?" At his confirmation, she gives him an easy smile. "We can swing by your house in the morning to pick up your bag. Even if you happen to run into your grandpa, there's no time for it to be awkward because we'd have to get to school. It'll be fine."
Bernard still looks wary, so she tries a different tactic. "Please. Stay."
She can see in his body language the moment he convinces himself to agree, and she inwardly cheers. Maybe she'll have him watch some Law and Order episodes anyway, since they're both done with their homework and all.
Bernard, evidently, has other plans. "I guess I'll go get ready for bed then. It's almost ten o'clock," he says after checking his watch.
Something about the way he starts uncrossing his legs to move off the bed makes her frenzied. Wanting. "The, um, the bed in the guest room is pretty uncomfortable, isn't it?"
Bernard halts in his confusion, but at least he halts. "Perhaps in comparison to my own bed," he accedes, "but certainly preferably to, say, the couch or the floor."
There is a negative amount of tact in how she blurts out, "My bed is a lot nicer than the floor." Immediately, she scrunches her face in embarrassment, taking a deep breath for five seconds.
When she opens her eyes again, Bernard has that look from before, something that cannot be described as tender yet does not scare her in the slightest. It is enough to distract her from the debris of her broken confidence, but her mind still spins with a way to take it back.
Bernard doesn't let her. "Veronica, would it be an imposition to rest with you tonight?"
With his steady gaze singularly arresting all of her faculties, it takes the combined effort of every cell in her body to shake her head no.
She can do no more than watch as he takes her hands and brings them to his lips for a slow, firm press, maintaining eye contact all the while. "I did not get to reciprocate before, but thank you," he says lowly, chin resting against the spot he kissed. "Not just for the hospitality, but for always sharing a piece of yourself with me whenever I feel broken."
She realises something that night. Bernard Flannigan may be the only person Veronica Krauss has ever lost anything to, but there is a far longer, more important list of things unmistakably won. Things happily found.
Things freely given.
late April 2017
Bernard, the reincarnated citizen of the 19th century he is, elects to submit his matriculation paperwork manually.
He keeps up a steady stream of conversation the entire trip to the post office, one he insisted on making aboard the Yellow Submarine now that the weather has reached above the 55-degree threshold for long-distance tandem riding which Veronica set at the beginning of last fall. She is pleased the weather didn't get too warm too early in the year, and her good mood is further elevated by Bernard's.
They are greeted before they even open the door.
"Oh my god! There are only two men in this entire township that own a tandem bicycle, and none of you are yelling at me yet, so that means: it's my man, B! Bernard K. Flannigan of Long Acre Drive! Long-time Acre Drive, no see! ā¦ Get it? Like, 'long time, no see'?"
"Salutations, Postal Worker Wesley." Bernard nods politely at the happy man who leads them eagerly into the building. Wesley does a hurried little dance-shuffle-walk thing to beat them to the counter as Bernard explains his business today. Wesley is acting like he hasn't seen Bernard in ages.
"B, come on. I haven't seen you in ages! The least you could do to make it up to me is call me 'Wesley'. Ooooh, or 'Wes'," he suggests with stars in his eyes.
"I'll call you 'Wes'," Veronica pipes up.
"V-Krauss in the house! She gets me."
At Veronica's amused look, Wesley confesses in a stage whisper, "I've been holding onto that nickname for over a year."
She takes this as her opportunity to investigate. "I get that I've abandoned the modern post system for its virtual counterpart, but I was under the impression Bernard hasn't."
"He might as well have!" Wesley takes a pause from inputting Bernard's mail into the system to throw his arm over his eyes melodramatically. "The last time he was here was in October to vote!"
They wrap up at the post office to the sound of Wesley begging them to come back from time to time. Outside, Veronica steps in front of the bike rack where Bernard locked up the Yellow Submarine, preventing him from accessing it and progressing with their day.
"Why have you abandoned the post office for email?" she accuses. He has frequently cited his desire for online privacy and his wish to support one of the few government agencies that do not rely on taxpayer funding as his reasons for abstaining from relying on email, so it would be incongruously out-of-character of him to renege on those commitments unless he had a very good reason.
"I would never abandon the post office for email! Need I remind you about my desire for online privacy andā"
"So why haven't you been to the post office in over six months?" She cuts him off easily, suspicion still lacing her words.
"I simply have not had anything to send until todayā¦ Why are you so upset about this?"
That's a great question, but that's not what they're talking about right now. "That doesn't even make sense, Bernard. You used to go, like, once a month!"
"I also used to date Tai-Yu," Bernard reminds her patiently, and her entire argument blinks into nothing along with her combative attitude. She doesn't have anything to say to that, so she silently steps aside so Bernard can access the bike lock again.
He steps forward, occupying the space she previously did, but does not bend down. "Why are you so upset?" he asks again, gently and without looking at her.
Veronica lets herself take the time to think. Neither of them would be satisfied with a half-assed response. Several cars drive by on the non-busy street before she can get out, "I guess I didn't like the idea that I didn't know you as well as I thought I did." She pauses, then pouts. "It sounds way stupider now that you've made me say it out loud."
She sees Bernard face her out of her peripheral vision, but she keeps her eyes on the empty road. After a few more seconds, he finally unlocks the bike.
When they take the Yellow Submarine places, she is content to ride in the second saddle, though Bernard does offer her the steering wheel every once in a while to remind her it's an option. She's usually grateful not to have to pay so much attention, but today she wishes Bernard offered. She'd be able to direct them back to her car; she'd be able to go straight home.
She is hit with the uncomfortable consideration that Bernard may know her better than she knows him when he brings them back to her car anyway, parked in front of his house just like she left it earlier in the day before she made the atmosphere between them all weird.
She times her disembarkment to his just like he taught her; but as soon as he can keep the bike upright and steady on his own again, she aims for her car. "Right! Well," she calls out while walking backwards. "I think I could use a nap after all that biking, so I'm just gonnaā¦" She points over her shoulder to the driver's seat with her thumb in lieu of finishing the sentence.
"Did you still want to get dinner?" Bernard's even voice is not quite enough to hide his reminding tone.
"Dinner?"
"Earlier, en route to the post office, I suggested we celebrate Earth Day by eating at that vegan restaurant that opened downtown. You seemed amenable at the time."
It says something about how bad Veronica feels that she does not immediately jump at the chance to have a normal date night with Bernard. An evening he ideated, nevertheless!
When her hesitation leaves him without an answer for too long, he tries a different approach. "What if we make the dinner an anniversary celebration, instead?"
The non-sequitur catches her off guard enough to want to snark, "Uh, the anniversary of when that one senator established Earth Day?"
Bernard takes her sarcasm in stride. "Ours. I asked you to be my girlfriend at the junior prom, remember? That was this date last year."
With a jolt, Veronica realises he's right. She just completely forgot because they decided not to attend senior prom this year. They wanted to avoid a debacle like what happened at Homecoming; and after trying it twice, they determined the setting really wasn't their thing. Besides, it's more important that the Senior Class President attends rather than the Student Body President; and she knows Britton Lowry was there.
Bernard breaks her out of her thoughts when he walks towards his house to put away the tandem bike. She follows him as he chains Yellow Submarine to the bars of the porch right alongside his and Oswald's personal bikes. By unspoken agreement, they sit side by side on the weather-worn wooden bench against the house wall.
Veronica stares at the Flannigans' overgrowing yard, embarrassing herself with the memory of the time she mowed it because she thought it would impress Bernard or catch his attention.
Bernard breaks the silence first. "We do not exchange the words often, but I have never been under the impression that you do not love me. I am sorry if I did something to ever insinuate the reverse may be true."
Her head jerks to face him. "I don't think you don't love me!"
His posture somewhat relaxes at the ardent defense, but his words are still halting, tired. "Can you explain the awkwardness to me, then? You do know me as well as you thought you did. You were right about me and the post office, and you love being right."
She lets out a mirthless laugh. He's right, of course, butā¦ "I guess it's not actually about your postal habits."
As soon as she says it, it doesn't feel right to her. "Well, it is, in a way," she backpedals. "You went once a month to send Tai Yu your cassette tapes. You were there so often you and Wes formed this really weird, one-sided friendship. It's justā¦" She struggles to get the next part out, not because she doesn't have the words but because she hates how pathetic they make her sound. There is a phantom vibration of a lawnmower's thrumming engine under her palms.
Palms that Bernard starts holding.
"Have I impacted your life in any similar way?"
Bernard balks at the question, and her mustered courage deflates with the sight. "Nevermind; it was a dumb question. It doesn't matter. Actually, I'm kinda hungry. You wanted to get dinner, right?"
She takes her hands out of his grasp to ostensibly check for the vegan restaurant's hours on her phone, but Bernard stops her. "Veronica."
She won't look at him, but she scooches closer on the bench, telegraphing her wants instead of voicing them. His body spasms in hesitation, but then an arm tentatively wraps around her shoulders. She closes her eyes at the warm feeling settling in her chest that has nothing to do with his shared body heat and rests her head on his shoulder.
"I have become a much better chef thanks to you."
She burrows into his hug. "How's that?"
"Over half of the lunches I made for you this semester were not meals I already knew how to make."
She bolts out of his hug. "You're kidding," but this is not the kind of thing Bernard jokes about; she knows it even before he nods. "They all tasted great, though. Not anything like a novice's attemptsā¦ There's a compliment in there, I promise."
"Well, I would like to consider myself as someone capable of following directions. It was just a matter of researching dishes I thought you would enjoy and applying what skills I already had towards their execution."
Veronica has a favourite meal like an average person does, but she has no particular dietary restrictions or preferences otherwise. She has largely seen meals as a means to an end rather than an experience to optimise, yet she has genuinely enjoyed everything she ate since Bernard started making homemade lunches for her in January.
Learning that he put active effort into making that happen, knowing that she could not have possibly helped the process since she herself did not know enough to assist, completely reframes the past four months' worth of sustenance into a clear and resounding demonstration of love.
Perhaps Bernard does know her better than she knows him, but more importantly he knows her better than she knows herself. The discomfort of before is easily overpowered by affection, and her following actions are similarly defined.
When she lets him go, his unmistakably upturned lips are still tentative and confused. She quickly pecks him there and assures, "We're good now, really. Sorry that I made our first anniversary kind of awkward, but you made me feel a lot better. Thank you, Bernard." Another peck. "I love you."
"I love you too, of course," Bernard states, like a foregone conclusion. "Although, I regret to inform you our dinner reservations have already passed."
"Aw, you even got reservations!" Veronica coos. "Who taught you how to be a boyfriend when I wasn't looking?"
"I needed lessons?!"
She grins at him, impish at first then softening into something more genuine. "Sorry again that I ruined your plans. Really. At least we got to spend the day together?"
His stomach grumbles in response. "Can we raise our standards to include 'at least we also ate a meal together'?"
She smiles and grabs his hand, leading him off the porch and down to her car. "How do we feel about dinner at Chez Krauss? Mom's making tacos."
"I feel favourably about tacos."
They drive in comfortable silence until Bernard asks, "How about me?"
"How about you?" she echoes mindlessly as she double-checks her mirrors.
"Have I impacted your life in any significant way?"
Her mom's voice echoes in her mind immediately. Maybe he isn't your roadblock; maybe he's your rival.
"Hm, not particularly," she says with a cheeky wink in his direction. Maybe she'll tell him one day, but today is not that day.
"Please keep your eyes on the road, Veronica!"
She doesn't even try to contain her giggles. That much about Bernard hasn't changed, at least.
...
When Veronica drops him off at home after dinner, Bernard finds his grandfather sitting at the kitchen table in a scene he is starting to associate with the beginning of all his worst memories.
His good mood from earlier falls sharply and disappointingly, but he is comforted to find that the latent sting of betrayal which tends to haunt him in his unoccupied hours is not quite so poignant anymoreānow that his papers are en route to Rhode Island, now that Veronica has already planned a parentally supervised vacation this summer to practise riding the train between Boston and Providence.
"Good evening, Grandpa," he greets woodenly after Oswald motions to the chair across from him. His grandfather stares at him rather inscrutably in silent response.
Bernard waits for something, anything, to indicate how his grandfather wants their next battle of wills to proceed. With no forthcoming clues in the coming minutes, he decides his chance is now.
He takes a deep breath, fortifies his thoughts and his resolve, then begins.
The crux of the issue is thus: Bernard will always wonder what it might have been like if he won. Despite how Veronica's manipulation is the only reason he was aware of the open position, it did end up being a dream he wanted for himself. More importantly, it was one he chose, and that kind of surety and commitment is not something his seventeen-year-old self took for granted. He will never be able to forget that it was his own grandfather who crushed that dream for him; he will never be able to trust his grandpa to the extent he did before.
However, he does not want to spend his life hating his grandfather either, so Bernard will choose to forgive him.
A steep hill to climb when Oswald's only response to all of that is, "So you submitted the Brown matriculation paperwork today?"
Bernard endeavours to keep the silent, out-of-sight indented crescents on his palms the only indication of his annoyance. "I did."
Oswald nods then eases himself out of his seat with the help of the table. In Bernard's eyes, the action ages the man beyond years. He has never considered his grandpa old until just this moment.
He walks over to a chest near his recliner whose contents Bernard has never been particularly curious to know. Keen eyes watch his grandfather filter around until he takes out a large, worn manila folder. He stretches his arm out, folder in hand in an obvious request, and Bernard complies warily.
His frustration and breath leave him completely when he reads the print on the well-loved parchment within
EUGENE Q. FLANNIGAN
GRADU
PHILOSOPHIAE DOCTOR IN CLASSICUS
"I understand what yer saying," Oswald states, voice low but strong. "I hope you understand that this moment? Has made it all worth it."
Bernard hears him like his ears are pressed against his pillow at night and his grandfather is talking from beyond the closed door of his room, for all his attention still remains on the paper in his handsā¦ but Bernard does hear him.
"Can Iā" He clears his throat. "Can I keep this?"
Oswald gently closes the manila folder where it rests in Bernard's palms and pushes them back towards Bernard. "It was always yours."
mid May 2017
They're wandering around the mall after school because what else is there to do in Livingston on a weeknight?
Veronica is half-heartedly paying attention to Bernard's tangent about the lack of readily available recycling bins around town even after a year-long letter campaign to Town Hall when they pass by the storefront for Burlington. "That would look really good on you," she cuts him off, motioning to a mannequin wearing a simple but smart business casual outfit.
Bernard rears his head to look at her. "What publicity stunt are you trying to arrange for me this time?"
She shoves at his shoulder easily. "It's for graduation, silly. You gotta wear something under the gown, you know."
"And you know that I was already the long-time owner of several items of formal wear before we started dating, right?"
She puts her hands up in the universal sign for surrender. "I'm just saying!"
"I would similarly like to 'say' that you would not be nearly as tolerable of fashion suggestions coming from me."
"Hmmm, maybe; maybe notā¦ Wanna give it a try, Bernard?"
He looks at her like she suggested switching his preferred method of transportation from the bicycle to the skateboard for aesthetic effectābewildered and a little offended. "I do not appreciate this joke."
"It's not a joke! I haven't picked out my outfit for graduation either."
"Wear something you already own. That is the most sustainable option."
She knows once he begins bringing up sustainability that she's lost him in the practical sense, but she still thinks this would be fun. "Okayyy," she drags out, "then let's just pretend you're shopping for me. What kind of look would you want to see me in?"
"It is my understanding that the fewer comments men have about what women wear, the better."
Veronica is not above whining, and luckily Bernard's patience and tolerance is not as high as his constrained demeanour may suggest. "Fine! Fine." He turns to the nearest storefront, prepared to just point at the first women's outfit he sees to get the fruitless exercise over with, but the number on the mannequin is not something he could ever imagine Veronica wearing. The colours are too saturated, the construction too daring.
His lips press together as he senses himself begin to take this more seriously than he originally preferred.
He scans the storefront one more time and determines, "I do not think there would be anything here you would feel comfortable donning."
Veronica happens to agree, but she admits to herself she would have tried on whatever suggestion he ends up making as long as it's well-intentioned. At worst, they can both laugh about it, she figures.
Bernard stalks purposefully past tech kiosks, a few specialised stores, and every mall's requisite GNC until they come upon a new place that sells primarily women's wear. A quick glance outside passes whatever litmus test he set up in his mind, so he walks in.
Veronica follows him through the racks with a smile. Yes, there's something very amusing about Bernard perusing tops and dresses with the same critical eye he reserves for when he's reviewing a topographical map of Livingston to plan a bike route to somewhere he hasn't been before, but it is also rather adorable to see him taking her little game so seriously. The thought doesn't often cross her mind so girlishly, but Bernard is so cute sometimes.
"This is suitable," he announces abruptly.
She comes back to awareness to find him holding up a baby pink dress to his discerning gaze that she honestly falls for on sight. She plucks it out of his hands with an excited squeal. "I'm gonna go try this on!"
It isn't until she's in the dressing room about to put on the dress that she considers Bernard might not have been holding the right size, but the zipper zips up smoothly. She already knows she's walking out of this store with the dress in hand, sustainability be damned.
She peeks her head out of the door to look for Bernard and is pleasantly surprised to find him right across from her stall. She fully and eagerly steps out into his sight. "Well?"
His eyes scan her up and down in a curious mix of clinical distance and genuine affection that only someone like a Bernard Flannigan in love can pull off. Does it say something about her that this is more flattering than if he had regarded her with open interest and desire?
"Very suitable." He nods decisively, and she flushes with the praise. If Bernard is curious, she is even more so for loving him because of it.
"I like it, too." She does a little twirl so that she can see herself in the various mirrors stationed around the hallway of dressing rooms. Despite lacking accessories and wearing booties that worked fine in her casual outfit but simply look clunky with the dress, she can still see the potential. "I look like Jackie O!"
"Does that make me your JFK or your Aristotle?" Bernard asks. When she flicks her gaze to him through the reflection of the mirror, she sees he is already looking at her.
Maybe it's that, maybe it's the dress itself, maybe it's the high of knowing things are good in both of their worlds for the first time in a while; but Veronica feels reckless. She turns and enters his space with coquettish steps, wrapping her arms around his neck and letting her elbows rest at his shoulders while her wrists cross somewhere beyond his head. "I'd prefer it if you were the Martin Ginsberg to my Ruth Bader instead."
He rests his palms on her waist with hesitant and feather-light touches, and with delight she remembers hot and clumsy caresses at that same spot back in March. She just has to slant herself forward a bit, and she's pressed against him. He leans on the wall to bear their weights, and her hands shift to hold his nape and shoulders.
She doesn't kiss himāthe venue is too public; he wouldn't like itābut she can see in his eyes that he knows she wants to, and that's enough.
After several heartbeats of heated eye contact, Veronica leans back. The recycled, conditioned air of the store rushes to cool the new space between their bodies. "I'm gonna get the dress," she informs him as she twists to face the mirror again. "You've got good taste."
Bernard nods robotically, his hands still lifted like there is something he should be holding, and that too is enough.
She closes the door of the dressing room behind her and regards her reflection once again. There's a wide smile on her face and a flush on her neck that washes out the pink of the dress, but she feels beautiful. Satisfied. A tad anticipatory.
Ever since she was 11 and coverage of the Citizens United vs. FEC Supreme Court case was on TV, the movie of her future that played in her head had a very specific ending, draped in black robes and bearing the responsibility to the nation on her shoulders. The happy ending has never changed, but the parts she wants spoiled now are the things she admittedly did not care about before: the supporting characters, the rises and falls of the story arc, even the theme songs.
Things like those were mere filler for her movie, not worth her consideration despite knowing they were necessary to complete a film, butāfor the first time everāshe can't wait to experience them.
Later, she lets these thoughts flow in a stream of consciousness over a shared food court snack before she drives them home, not really expecting much from Bernard but at least hoping for some empathy.
He nods seriously at the conclusion of her rambles and simply notes, "It is the Year of the Rooster."
ā¦ That one has to be a joke, right? She sticks her tongue out in any case. "Whatever, Bernie."
beginning of june 2017
Veronica had entertained the thought of collaborating with Bernard on their speeches. It's not often that the Top 2 students of the class are friends, much more dating, so it would have been an opportunity for a unique graduation experience for those in attendanceā¦ but the two of them are quite through with unique high school experiences. By unspoken agreement, they had ended up keeping their speeches secret from each other entirely.
Her first draft improved upon her immature movie allegory from last month, attempting to impress the balanced importance of both the journey and the destination while also highlighting the fact that it was a recent discovery for her. Being open to changing your mind is the way you'll find new joys and new challenges, both of them incredibly rewarding if you let it happen to yourself. It was well-meaning, insightful, and honest.
She had scrapped it immediately.
She knew better than to think her salutation would affect even half of the population in the audience. It could have wound up the next Chicken Soup for the Soul, and her words would have meant nothing.
Standing at the podium now, raised on a temporary stage on LHS' football field on a temperate Saturday in June and overlooking the assembly, she knows she made the right decision. These people do not care about her or what she has to say. Besides, the salutation isn't even the main event, anyway.
Instead, she wrote her speech for the only two (two-point-five? It was still hard to tell where she stood with Oswald) audience members that count. It's now or never.
"Raise your hand if you've heard of the phrase 'second place is the first loser'," she speaks into the microphone, raising a hand along with most of the audience.
"Now, keep your hand raised if you have actually felt like a loser for coming in second place. I'm talking: worthless, ashamed, the darkest moments of your life." Most of the audience lowers their hands. Of note, many of the athletes are the few left who didn't; and Veronica feels a sharp yearning to have given any of them the time of day before this moment. They would have had a lot in common.
"Finally, keep your hand raised if the person in first place, the person you lost to, is also your romantic partner."
Sharp gasps roll through the audience. Over half of the students turn or twist to get a look at Bernard, seated in the front row and staring unblinkingly at the stage. Veronica just smiles benignly at the crowd, allowing her eyes to meet her boyfriend's for a moment, before lowering her raised hand.
"I had this plan," she explains. "I was gonna rank first in the class, graduate as valedictorian, get into Yale, and work my butt off until the day I got sworn in as a Supreme Court Justice. It sounds too simple and far-fetched, but that didn't matter to me. What mattered was that one slip of cardstock from two Januaries ago.
"When I read that I ranked second, it was like my life was over. I felt hopeless, angry, vindictive. I was willing to do anything to set my world to rights again, so I made a new plan: I was going to plant someone into the Livingston Board of Education and influence them to vote to abolish the class rank system so that it wouldn't hinder my application to Yale. I'm sure you all recall how that went," Veronica adds sardonically at the excited murmurs of the audience.
"Well, over time, my selfish and manipulative plan took a back seat for something that's come to matter far more than my second rank: my first love. As long as I had him, and as long as I got into Yale, I could make peace with my ranking; so that's what I focused onā¦ Lo and behold, the guy who came in first place ended up being the guy I'd fallen head over heels for who ended up getting into Yale while I didn't.
"Multiple times have I felt second-rate and mediocre, and every time it has been because of the same reason. The only person I've ever lost anything to, and he's my boyfriend!
"It's a funny thing, being in love with the person who single-handedly keeps introducing you to new low points of your life. What do you do about that? I wasn't going to break up with him; I love him. I wasn't going to tell him either because what would that accomplish aside from making us both feel bad about something neither of us can do anything about? It's not like if he didn't go to Yale, I could go instead. It's just a lamentable situation, all around."
Veronica scans Bernard's stolid face and smiles directly at him. "I'm only telling you this now because, as of today, it officially doesn't matter anymore. High school is over. My class rank is just a number. Those days of angsting over all the ways I'm a failure are done." The relief in her words underscores her truth.
"There's a happy ending, sort of, to this story: I'm not giving up on Yale; I'm just gonna try again," she directs back to the audience, breezing through the explanation to get to her conclusion. "If you ask my mother, there's a moral to this story, too. Something like, 'If everything worked according to plan, I wouldn't have been able to find a creative, better compromise.'" She shrugs. "If you ask me, that's just how life goes." It's an anticlimactic end to her tale, true; but this is also her tale. It's not ending for as long as she lives.
"Soā¦ All that being said, thanks for coming to the Graduation Ceremony of Livingston High School's Class of 2017. Go Bears," she wraps up quickly, flouncing off the stage without any prompting and to middling applause.
Veronica takes her seat back next to Bernard with a weightless heart. She grins at his incredulous eyes and pressed lips, knowing he would love nothing more than to thoroughly dissect what just happened with her. She simply winks at him and takes his hand before facing the stage again. One glance at Principal Greely's face, and she could already tell he would have vastly preferred her original movie allegory speech. Maybe if he helped her out when she was desperate and pleading in his office all those months ago, he'd have gotten it.
...
The temporal distance between Veronica's speech and his own is bridged in a blurry construction of sight and sound, anchored by his girlfriend's sure and firm hand holding his own.
"And now I welcome to the stage the valedictorian for the Class of 2017, Bernard Flannigan," Principal Greely announces, but it isn't until Veronica snatches her hand out of his in order to loudly cheer and clap for him that Bernard realises he was cued.
He walks up to the podium with a confused heart, ignoring Principal Greely's eyes clearly begging him to give a normal valedictory. His speech is already prepared on the podium for him, and the pages promise an inherent instruction that encourages him to focus on those instead of the thousands of people whose attention he has.
He recites, "Good afternoon: administration, faculty, staff, family, friends, and classmates. Some of you may recognise me as the ambitious youth that attempted to run for the Livingston Board of Education last yearā¦"
He trails off, quickly scanning the rest of the speech he had prepared, and determines the contents far too insincere for him to proceed. He makes a point of looking out over the audience and finds Veronica's proud smile along the way. It emboldens him. She emboldens him.
He clears his throat and begins again. "I was highly encouraged to make that campaign the focal point of my valedictory; however, I shall not be providing that today. If you want an inspiring tale of forging forward despite loss, I encourage you to read any nonfiction book. There is no shortage of conquered adversities across cultures and throughout history with far greater stakes than the local elections. I would be happy to point you to some after the ceremony. Instead, I would like to take this time to respond to the sentiments of the salutatorian before me."
He takes a moment to harness his thoughts, the complicated swirl of emotions he is hosting between his chest and his throat, into something communicable. "Ms. Krauss posits there is no great significance to her journey of personal growth and self-validation, but I respectfully disagree. Beyond the impressive displays of resilience, passion, and creativity she recounted, there is a stronger recurring theme that I refuse to let remain unacknowledged; and that is the permanent and powerful presence of choice.
"At every junction of her story, Ms. Krauss had a choice to either accept the way things were or create the circumstances that suited her best; and she consciously and wholeheartedly chose action every single time. There is a lesson in her behaviour that I will not spell out for you, but her future speaks for itself. Matriculating into Harvard and protecting her dream are not insignificant outcomes."
He sighs, having finally reached the crux of his argument, the center of his maelstrom. "Neither is forgiveness."
Meeting Veronica's eyes, Bernards enunciates, "Chiefly, I am sorry, Veronica. You are right, there was nothing either of us could have done once the die was cast. You found your own absolutions to the offenses, but it does not negate the fact I caused offense to begin with. I will always regret itā¦ But by the same token, I will always cherish the fact that of the many choices you could have made, I was one of them. We were one of them. With your permission, I will never let you regret that. I want you to continue being someone who chooses action and remains confident in those choices."
This is the first time Bernard has seen tears in Veronica's eyes that are born out of joy. If he thought her beautiful in tragedy before, that pales in comparison to now.
A cough from an unseen faculty member reminds him they are not the only two people in the world, and he flounders. He had no plans for concluding his impassioned speech.
He skips to the last page of his original valedictory for inspiration and determines the contents applicable enough to proceed. "I understand that mine is not a universal, much more realistic, high school experience, but I share it with you today to underscore that fantastic things happen to unassuming people all the time. Ordinary things also happen to extraordinary people. In the end, this thing we call 'life' is merely a chronological sequence of events, so I encourage you to define your own meanings and significances in order to find satisfaction. Thank you for your time, and congratulations again to the Class of 2017. Go Bears."
A sharp burst of laughter comes from the first row, and Bernard smiles with unrestrained joy. Even when he wrote the first valedictory draft, he knew Veronica would love his belated, pseudo-insincere attempt at school spirit.
When he descends from the podium, Veronica is already out of her seat and pulling him into a hug that he returns, heeding neither pomp nor circumstance.
...
For post-ceremonial celebrations, Oswald had wanted to cook them a special dinner at home while Janet had wanted to whisk them away to the swankiest Manhattan restaurant she could I-know-a-guy-who-knows-a-guy her way into. They wound up unable to agree on anything other than the fact that both families should celebrate together.
Veronica, as always, had been the one to come up with the perfect compromise.
Janet is driving, Oswald is in the front seat protecting the picnic he prepared, and the two new graduates are in the back holding hands and collecting in their minds everything they want to say to each other without a stage and an audience to hear them. The potential awkwardness in the car is drowned out by an easy listening station and Janet's infrequent realisations of "I have to admit, Oswald. That smells pretty good!"
Janet finds a parking spot easily, and it escapes neither Veronica nor Bernard's notice that they wound up in the same spot where the two of them had parked this time last year.
Pier A Park is as lively as ever with people and pets. As the families set up the picnic, many even stop to offer congratulations. The weather is clear and refreshing, and the atmosphere is jovial if not a tad awkward. Janet and Oswald get along well enough for their children's sake, but they have the strong personalities of people who are used to getting their way. Their interactions amuse Bernard and Veronica more than anything else.
After everyone is full, Janet decides to go shopping, and Oswald is pressured (by Janet) into taking a walk. The two new graduates are left with the remnants of their meal and a patch of grass to themselves.
They lean back on their hands, the fingers of the hands in between them tangled together. Veronica looks over at Bernard to find him already looking at her. Before he could say anything, she beats him to it. "A handful of days from now, it'll be the anniversary of the first time I told you I love you."
Bernard nods, fully cognisant this conversation would occur even without the string of parallels between today and a year ago. Graduation was the last thing on their minds back then. "Indeed. I could not reciprocate the statement until later, and you accepted my untimely confession graciously."
"From where we are now, that month that I spent waiting doesn't seem so bad anymore."
There's a junction here, whether Veronica meant it or not. Although she did not mention it again in her speech today, one of the many instances when he made her feel less-than was within this memory. Should he explain himself? Should he apologise?
"I can say it again, if it would help."
Fears that he chose the cowardly response are immediately assuaged with her smile. "It certainly wouldn't hurt."
"I love you, Veronica." Easy, confident.
She hums in satisfaction. "Thanks."
"I do love you," Bernard repeats.
"I love you, too, of course."
They grin at each other one last time before they turn their attentions outward again, gazing at the crisp bends of the Manhattan skyline and enjoying the peace that can only come from being left alone in a sea of activity. They could fill the silence between them with so much right now: past wounds that may or may not have healed, revelations from their speeches today, the uncertain future ahead of them.
Instead, their grip tightens where their hands rest on the picnic blanket. Not all precipes exist to be jumped off of. Some are merely vantage points for the view.
A/N (1.16.2023): I started writing this in April 2019. I stopped working on it that July... then I didn't pick it up again until April 2022 LOL WHOOPS. If you happen to follow all my stories, you'll see this is a trend of mine ^-^;; But hey, my ratio of finished-to-abandoned fics is still really low! Besides, I finished this literally yesterday. I'm getting it to y'all with minimal delivery lead time š
Eternal thanks to mylifegamer1, Taylor, not-your-darling, TheroelWil98, and emilyjorn04 for following, favouriting, and reviewing through the years. I never forgot about you guys!