Commencement Day

 Tourmaline Tower rises 2,000 feet in the air, 160 floors of ombre pink and green, a sunset plunging into seafoam. Every year, Onsatious University holds its graduation ceremony on the rooftop, where the slightest breeze feels like you’ll be pushed over the edge, where they build a stage high, where thousands of students take the leap, hurling themselves over, cap in hand, gown waving in the wind. It’s the only way to graduate, the only way out.
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Hot dogs cost $48.50 a pack. A house—any house—anywhere costs $5 million. That’s the cheapest. A car is about $1 million, and a shirt costs $200 on sale. Only my generation’s parents can afford these things, so I live with mine. But they’re getting older, and my education cost them so much. But they wanted it for me. Only a handful of jobs exists all over the world. Not enough for everyone. The solution? A rooftop graduation to celebrate, commemorate, eviscerate.
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My knees wobble as the elevator climbs. My parents are in their seats above, on the rooftop. I’m crowded inside an elevator car. It’s too hot in my cap and gown. No one talks. No one breathes.
The doors open, and we line up around the edge of the roof. Someone dares me to look down. I try, but I feel dizzy, so I look at the stage instead, the rows of chairs before it, where we’ll file in, and I’ll sit. The ceremonies have shortened over time. No one wants to wait through speeches.
When the first name’s called, a classmate I know, tall and awkward, walks onto the stage, grabs his diploma, walks down the stairs on the other side, and over to a flower-strewn path that leads to the edge where he jumps. Usually, a few hours after graduation, the streets are littered with bent bodies. They’re swept into an incinerator. I imagine his elbows and knees, jagged and pointy. I picture my own body lying on the ground. Would it fall far?
They keep calling names. My heart beats, my stomach flutters, and then I see you, standing near the exit, near the place where the elevator goes up and down. Your gown is waving in the air. The wind has picked up. You mouth something about an escape. I can see the words forming. I can’t imagine any other than to jump from the roof, but I don’t want to do that, either. You wave your hand for me to come over, so I slip from my seat, ignore the stares. You whisper to me that you found a car and that you’re going to apply for one of the few jobs out there. You think you’ll make it. You think I’ll make it too.
You hear your name called and strip off your cap and gown and hold out your hand to me. I hear my name called and throw my gown up over my head, rip off my cap, and take your hand. Together, we fly down the stairs as fast as we can, every step a new breath, a vindication, a commencement.