Chapter 74: Buried for Later

The reunion committee chose the school.

Apparently, Giovanni and Alexander weren’t the only ones who wanted to see the place again.

The hotel received a respectable number of votes.

The restaurant came second.

The estate barely survived consideration after several former classmates began arguing over transportation and parking.

But the old school won comfortably.

The reason appeared in the class group chat shortly afterward.

THE TIME CAPSULE.

Alexander stared at the message.

Then called Giovanni.

"You remember that?"

"Unfortunately."

"What did you put inside?"

"I’m not telling you."

Alexander frowned.

"We’re opening it anyway."

"Then you’ll find out."

"Ha. Ha. You just don’t remember." Alex jabbed.

"I remember."

"You’re lying."

"I’m not."

"Then why should I believe you remember yours?"

"Because I was responsible. I’m valedictorian."

Alexander laughed.

"You were seventeen."

"Exactly."

"That isn’t evidence."

They buried the time capsule near the old science building during their third year.

Everyone contributed something.

Letters.

Photographs.

Trinkets or any object they valued.

Predictions.

Promises.

The class adviser had made them agree not to open it until their reunion.

Apparently, someone had actually remembered where they buried it.

More remarkably, the school hadn’t built a parking lot over it.

"Do you remember Mr. Arturo?" Giovanni asked.

Alexander smiled.

The caretaker.

"Still alive?"

"According to the group chat."

"How old is he now?"

"Old enough that asking might be rude."

Mr. Arturo had been caretaker, emergency handyman, unofficial lost-and-found manager, and relentless enemy of students who walked across freshly cleaned floors.

He also knew every student who secretly entered the school grounds after hours.

Which meant he knew practically everyone.

The reunion committee had already invited him.

So had several former teachers.

That opened another floodgate.

Their mathematics teacher, Mrs. Lourdes Ramos, had possessed the terrifying ability to detect an incorrect equation from across the room.

She also refused to let anyone say they were simply "bad at math."

"You’re bad at giving up too early," she’d once told Samuel after he’d failed another quiz.

Samuel eventually passed.

Their English teacher, Mr. Daniel Flores, carried a red pen like a weapon and regarded unnecessary adjectives as a personal insult.

Giovanni had once submitted an essay that came back with a single comment:

You used four words where one would’ve survived.

Alexander still considered that funny.

Giovanni did not.

Their science teacher, Ms. Teresa Mendoza, was the opposite.

Enthusiastic.

Chaotic.

Forever conducting demonstrations that made the class wonder whether the fire alarm would survive another semester.

She’d taught them something Giovanni remembered far better than half the formulas.

If the result disagrees with what you expected, don’t change the result. Change your thinking.

Alexander went quiet when Giovanni reminded him.

"That aged well."

"Very."

Perhaps they hadn’t realized how much of themselves had been built in those classrooms.

The memories eventually wandered toward their third-year prom.

Alexander remembered the decorations first.

They’d transformed the school auditorium with fabric, rented lights, and enough artificial flowers to create a small botanical disaster.

Giovanni remembered the music.

Mostly because their scheduled pianist, Claire Villanueva, nearly refused to perform after discovering Miguel Santos, the guitarist accompanying her, had changed the arrangement without telling her.

"I thought she was going to hit him with the sheet music," Giovanni said.

"She should have."

"They dated afterward."

"Which proves nothing."

"It proves teenagers are strange."

"You were one."

"So were you."

The talent portion had been surprisingly good.

Claire played piano.

Miguel accompanied her on guitar.

Beatrice Ong sang.

Lucas Herrera performed a dance routine with Mara Velasco that got them teased for months, despite their insistence that they were only friends.

They eventually married other people.

The prom king had been Adrian Castillo, whose victory surprised absolutely nobody because Adrian had spent the month campaigning as though national office were at stake.

Prom queen was Elena Marquez.

The same Elena who apparently still owed Alexander an umbrella.

"I voted for her," Giovanni admitted.

"Why?"

"She threatened to stop lending me books."

"Corruption."

"Effective campaigning."

Then there had been the dancing.

Alexander, Giovanni, and Dominic had all attended.

Dominic had taken the evening far more seriously than either of them.

Of course he had.

"He practiced," Giovanni remembered.

Alexander laughed.

"He absolutely did."

"Denied it."

"Also absolutely."

Dominic had wanted everything perfect.

His suit.

His hair.

His entrance.

Even the photographs.

At seventeen, it had been funny.

Now, looking backward, Alexander wondered how many traits they’d dismissed as harmless because they were young enough to believe everyone would eventually grow out of them.

Still, the night hadn’t belonged only to Dominic.

Alexander remembered being dragged onto the dance floor by Elena.

Giovanni remembered Claire abandoning Miguel midway through a song because he’d stepped on her shoe.

And both remembered Patrick arriving at their table with a plate piled high enough to feed several people.

Some things apparently never changed.

By the end of the week, reunion preparations had become unexpectedly serious.

Alexander bought nothing.

At least, he told himself.

He already owned suits.

There was no reason to purchase another simply because he’d be seeing people who remembered him with braces.

So he chose something from his closet.

Changed his mind.

Chose another.

Then became irritated with himself for caring.

Giovanni, meanwhile, approached the entire thing with suspicious enthusiasm.

He had his suit altered.

Confirmed the route to the school.

Asked whether Mr. Arturo required transportation.

And somehow volunteered foldable tents in case the weather turned.

When Alexander learned about that, he called.

"You’re enjoying this far too much."

"I missed graduation."

"You gave the valedictory speech."

"I missed everything after graduation."

That silenced him.

Giovanni continued more quietly.

"Everyone else got a summer to say goodbye."

Alexander remembered the moving trucks.

The bicycle being loaded.

Giovanni trying to hold back tears while half the neighborhood asked where his family was going.

"Fair."

A pause.

Then Giovanni asked, "Are you still thinking about not going?"

"No."

The answer came easily this time.

"Good."

"Don’t sound so pleased."

"I’m not."

"Liar."

Giovanni didn’t bother denying it.

Alexander looked toward his yearbook, which had somehow remained on his coffee table all week.

"What did you put in the capsule?"

"Still not telling."

"You definitely don’t remember."

"I do."

"Prove it."

"No."

"What if it’s embarrassing?"

"Then you’ll enjoy yourself."

Alexander narrowed his eyes, even though Giovanni wasn’t anywhere nearby.

"And mine?"

"You’ll find out."

"You know what I put in."

"I might."

"Gio."

A soft laugh came through the phone.

Alexander stopped.

He couldn’t remember Giovanni laughing this much when they’d first reconnected.

That realization did something strange to his chest.

Before he could examine it too closely, his phone vibrated with another notification.

The reunion committee.

FINAL ATTENDANCE CONFIRMATION

A long list followed.

Patrick Lim.

Elena Marquez.

Samuel Reyes.

Claire Villanueva.

Miguel Santos.

Beatrice Ong.

Adrian Castillo.

More familiar names followed.

Teachers.

Mr. Arturo.

Then three names near the bottom.

Alexander Vance—Confirmed

Giovanni Mercer—Confirmed

Dominic Sebastian—Confirmed

Albert Santos—Not confirmed

Alexander stared at them.

Three boys who’d once ridden horses together.

Three friends who’d sat in the same classrooms, attended the same dances, and believed adulthood would somehow be simpler once they reached it.

Funny how that had turned out.

"Alex?"

He returned the phone to his ear.

"I’m here."

"Regretting it?"

Alexander looked at Dominic’s name.

Then Giovanni’s.

"No."

And surprisingly, he meant it.

Whatever waited for them inside that old school belonged to the past.

Alexander had no intention of letting Dominic turn it into the present.

"Pick you up?" Giovanni asked.

Alexander’s brows rose.

"I have a driver."

"You have a company driver."

"Elias can enjoy the evening off."

Alexander smiled despite himself.

"Fine."

"What time?"

Alexander gave it.

"Don’t be late."

Giovanni sounded offended.

"I was valedictorian."

"What does that have to do with punctuality?"

"Nothing. I just like reminding you."

Alexander laughed.

"Good night, Gio."

"Good night, Alex."

The call ended.

On the table, the yearbook remained open to a photograph of three boys who had no idea what would eventually happen to them.

Soon enough, they’d walk through those school gates again.

Not as the people they’d once expected to become.

But as the people they’d actually become.

And perhaps that was the entire point of going back.