The Diplomat's Tutor

Malia POV: At last, the day had come, rising on the horizon like a golden promise. Malia had fought like hell to get here, and now she stood regal on the stage in her purple graduation gown, her hair permed into radiant, curling locks. She looked good. She felt better. “…And as you step into the future," the speaker said into the microphone, “Remember these words from Rowling: 'You will never truly know yourself or the strength of your relationships until both have been tested by adversity.'" Malia had finished at the top of her class and become an expert in Aeonian Studies. She spoke the language more fluently than even her professors. Due to her heritage, she had grown up with Aeonian books in her house and learned the language from a young age—a rare thing. But she had never been there. Nearly no one had. Malia scanned the crowd of joyous faces. She found her Ma and Pop in the center row, holding hands. And next to them sat Meemaw, a sunbonnet in her hair, bawling. Malia laughed and then gasped when she saw Meemaw dab her eyes with her grandfather's white handkerchief—the one etched with a red rose. Years ago, the night before the draft shipped him overseas, Curtis Loreau gave it to Meemaw—who he called Shorty. She never saw him alive again. Meemaw rarely took the folded handkerchief out of the silver box on her nightstand, but she had today. —and Malia started to cry. “Class of 2022, please step forward to receive your diplomas." Oh, no. Get it together, girl, Malia thought as the tears streamed down her cheeks and the students began to walk. Why did the handkerchief touch such an emotional nerve in her? The way Meemaw clutched it for comfort awakened a dormant pain. The speaker spoke another name; the students moved again. Malia thought of her boyfriend, J.C. She thought of his cashmere sweater—which she had actually stolen. It didn't carry that same ineffable feeling. How could it? J.C. said he loved her, and yet… Where was J.C., by the way? She looked for the familiar shape of his brawny shoulders. He wasn't sitting next to her parents or Meemaw. Another name rang out. Malia stepped forward, careful not to trip on her gown as she studied the crowd and didn't find him. She thought she had seen him. Two of him, actually. But the two older men, standing next to each other in gray suits, wearing aviator sunglasses, only resembled him. Maybe J.C. was standing in the back? Nope. Maybe his work had held him up. That happened. Malia imagined Meemaw's brown, paper-soft fingers stroking the green stem of the red rose on the white cloth with a faraway look in her eyes. “Malia Peele." Malia took a deep breath. The tears stopped. She stepped forward and saw a hand holding a rolled-up diploma, tied with a red ribbon, reaching out to her. She reached to take it, her eyes fixed on the ribbon, somehow seeing the red rose—which zoomed up. No, she was falling down. You're falling! Malia thought. Catch yourself— She tripped on the podium and tumbled, grabbing the commencement speaker by his side and nearly bringing him down to the ground with her. The crowd gasped, then laughed, then went silent. A perfect meme moment. Embarrassment plus the internet equals forever. She slowly got up, and the crowd politely clapped. She shook the speaker's hand and sped off the stage, keeping her head down. She never imagined she'd be so glad that J.C. ditched her. She slammed into someone. Two someones, actually; the two men she had seen earlier in gray suits, wearing aviator sunglasses. “Sorry, excuse me," she said and tried to squirm past them. The blonde man reached out his arm, stopping her, and the bearded man said, “Malia Peele?" She froze. “Um, yes? Oh, my god, Are you security or something? That fall was not on purpose, I swear." “No. Let's never talk about that again," the bearded man said, and the blonde man stifled a laugh. “Oh. Yeah, sure. My thoughts exactly." “Would you please come with us?" Malia glanced from face to face. They looked like plastic-figurine men. “Why? What is this about?" she said. “We'd like to discuss the matter in private," the bearded man—who did all the speaking—said. Malia looked around. Her family emerged from a gap in the crowd. A crease of concern showed on her father's face as he approached. Malia felt safe. She crossed her arms. “Who are you guys, anyway?" “The State Department," Beard said matter-of-factly. Blonde flashed a badge. “Oh," Malia said. Silence lingered as the men stared down gravely at her like cold statues behind mirrored glasses. Then Blonde smirked. Beard chuckled and put his hand on Malia's shoulder. “Relax. You're not in any trouble." Malia sighed in relief and bemusement. Malia's father stepped forward. “Is everything alright here?" he said, putting his arm around Malia. Beard's gaze stayed fixed on Malia. “We want to discuss an opportunity that may interest you." He leaned in and said conspiratorially, “It's about Aeonia." Malia considered the men again. “Take off your sunglasses." They removed their glasses. She read their faces. Both big guys. Eerily ageless, 30 to 55. No ill intent in their eyes. “Okay, thanks. Those shades were creeping me out." Bearde smiled, and Blonde gestured toward a black SUV parked outside, visible through the window. Malia started walking. The men and her family followed.