All Together Now by J.D. Strunk

Best friends Muriel and Clarissa prepare for their community’s annual ritual, and reflect on its implications.

Image generated with OpenAI

Muriel tugged sharply at the collar of her dress in a vain attempt to loosen the frilly fabric crowding her neck.

“I think Ms. Dove gave me one of the Twelves’ dresses,” Muriel said, moving in front of the dormitory’s lone full-length mirror. “There’s no way this was sized for a Thirteen.”

“The Twelves don’t wear dresses, silly goose,” noted Clarissa, appearing next to Muriel inside the mirror. “We wore shorts last year, remember?”

“Oh, right,” recalled Muriel. “Good point.”

“It probably just belonged to a smaller Thirteen,” added Clarissa, with her usual thoughtfulness. Some of the kids in Muriel’s class could be sarcastic or snotty, but Clarissa never was. She had always seemed older than her age, in that way.

Within the mirror, Clarissa’s eyes remained on Muriel’s troublesome collar, but Muriel’s eyes had since moved to Clarissa. Clarissa had a soft and pretty face, and was well-liked by the entirety of the Thirteens. Muriel had always been secretly thrilled that they were best friends, though she had never gathered the nerve to tell Clarissa as much. Coincidently, Clarissa’s dress fit her perfectly – it wasn’t bunching up around her neck, or anywhere else.

Clarissa glanced at the large circular clock on the dormitory wall. “We need to get going,” she said.

Muriel sighed. “I guess it’s only two hours,” she said, turning away from the mirror. “Then I’ll be able to breathe again.”

Clarissa smiled. “For another year, anyway.”

The two girls left the dormitory side by side, entering an autumn day that was cool and clear. The brick path to the auditorium was overflowing with both children and adults, and Muriel was shocked when Clarissa gave a furtive wave to a Fourteen – a handsome boy Muriel had only ever seen from a distance.

“Clarissa,” chided Muriel. “What are you thinking?”

“Oh, come on,” said Clarissa lightly. “It’s not illegal to wave.”

“But… how do you even know him?”

“I don’t, really. He just stares at me sometimes. I caught him looking the other day, and ever since we’ve been waving at each other.” Feeling Muriel’s disapproval, she added, “Discreetly.”

Muriel was speechless. It seemed so unlike Clarissa to flout the rules, and so openly, at that. But there was something else, mixed in with her shock. Could it be… jealousy? Confused by her own feelings, she thought it best to change the subject altogether.

“Do you think it’s true what they’ve been saying about the outgoing class?” she asked Clarissa. “Did they really lose someone this past year?”

“Well, it’s certainly possible,” said Clarissa. “Remember when that Seventeen died falling out of the tree when we were Fives?”

“No,” said Muriel, quite honestly. “I don’t.”

“Well, we were pretty young. But it does happen, on occasion.”

“So then… what do they do? The rest of the class? When someone…”

“Well, it’s not like they can graduate early. They just have to try and move on.”

“Oh,” said Muriel solemnly. “How awful would that be? To lose someone you’ve known since birth?”

Both girls were contemplating just how awful as they approached the hulking auditorium, where the line to enter snaked past the Big Oak and down toward the fire station. The rest of the Thirteens must have already been inside, as they were nowhere to be seen. As such, Muriel and Clarissa took their place at the end of the line. Muriel was well aware it was her fault they were late – the whole dress business had kept them in the dormitory long after the others had left. Not that she was terribly broken up about it. While she had other friends in her class, Clarissa was the only one she would ever want to sit beside for two hours.

The line continued to inch slowly forward in fits and starts. Directly behind Muriel and Clarissa was an older class – though, how old, it was hard to tell. Muriel had always found it difficult to guess the age of adults. The only adult the Thirteens regularly interacted with was their dormitory porter, Ms. Dove, and Muriel knew her age – she was a Twenty-Four. Were she to hazard a guess, Muriel would have placed the class standing behind them in the mid-Thirties. There were simply too many lines on their faces for them to be much younger. Muriel always found it interesting how some people in the same class could look so different. One of the women in the class appeared particularly young and spritely, yet she was talking to a man who had already gone gray. But they had to be the same age: They would never dare converse, otherwise.

“Do you think our donors could be in that lot?” asked Muriel softly, nodding toward the adults. Even as she asked it, she was unsure whether she was making a joke or not.

Clarissa gave a cursory scan of the group in question. “I suppose it’s possible.”

“But not likely?”

“Not likely.”

They reached the doors to the auditorium, passed through the bustling lobby, walked down a sloping aisle, and took their seats with the rest of the Thirteens. A loud static hum of conversation filled the venue as dozens of different classes continued to file inside.

“Where were you guys?” asked Thomas Malek, as Muriel and Clarissa took the two seats to his left. Thomas was a mousy boy with big ears and a well-deserved reputation for being an unabashed gossip.

“Don’t worry about it,” said Muriel.

Thomas glared at her. “Dress looks a bit tight, there, Muriel. Around the neck.”

Muriel shot Thomas an icy glare, and the boy turned abruptly away.

Just then, the lights dimmed twice, and the murmuring all but ceased. Soon thereafter, a procession of middle-aged men and women dressed in suits and gowns walked down the auditorium’s two aisles and climbed the three steps to an expansive stage. Each individual came to a stop beside a small bed. Next to each bed was a small metal bed stand, on which sat a paper cup.

Muriel leaned into Clarissa. “Or maybe our donors are up there?”

“Shhh,” said Clarissa.

Once each of the Fifties had taken their place by a bed, a man in a silver tuxedo entered from stage left. While not old, he did not seem much younger than those behind him. The man was known to the audience only as “the Director,” and he had performed this role as long as Muriel and Clarissa had been alive.

“Before beginning today’s ceremony,” began the Director, “I would like to address a rumor that has been traveling about our community.”

All through the auditorium, people looked at each other, palpable anxiety etched upon their faces. The Director did not usually speak to the audience, beyond officiating the ceremony.

“Unfortunately, in this case, the rumor is true,” continued the Director. “The Fifties lost a classmate this year: Adam Itzik. He was a fine man, Adam. And yes, the irony of losing Adam just months prior to graduation is lost on none of us. It has been a painful reminder of the old times, when grief was pervasive, and suffered by all.”

The director paused, whether to collect himself or for theatrical effect, Muriel couldn’t tell.

“I’m not sure if anyone here is old enough to remember,” he continued, “but when our system was first introduced, the year chosen for graduation was not Fifty.”

An excited murmuring filled the audience.

“It was Seventy.”

Small gasps peppered the auditorium. Muriel and Clarissa looked at each other, eyes wide.

“But clearly,” continued the Director, “at that advanced age, each class was bound to lose countless members prior to graduation. And sure enough, that was exactly what used to happen. Back then, fully one-tenth of any given class was liable to be lost prior to their class’s ceremony. Think of it! All that needless grief! All those friends, removed from our community, so suddenly, and so unfairly. And so, after a time, graduation was moved to Sixty, and then, later, Fifty, where it remains today.”

The audience’s murmuring faded, replaced with a pregnant silence. Presently, the Director filled it:

“Following this year’s loss, there was some talk amongst the aldermen of reducing the graduation age yet again, but this was ultimately abandoned. Though it is difficult to stomach, we must accept that, on occasion, a class may lose a member. Ours remains an imperfect system. But this is a clear reminder of why we have the system to begin with: Stick to your class, and there’s a very good chance you will never grieve a day in your life.”

A hearty applause erupted inside the auditorium, no small part of which was Muriel. But when Muriel looked toward Clarissa, she did not see joy – rather, she saw a tear running down Clarissa’s right cheek.

With his remarks finished, the Director proceeded with the graduation ceremony, which was the same as it had always been, year after year, since as long as Muriel could remember. It was always a bit dull – especially the biographies – but it was also nice, in a way. The routine of it all was comforting. And when the men and women of the Fifties finally took to their beds and drank from their small paper cups, Muriel cheered loudly with the rest of the audience, until, shortly thereafter, the curtain closed.

Exiting the auditorium, Muriel felt more circumspect than in years past.

“I know we’re only thirteen,” she said to Clarissa, as the pair walked back toward the dormitories, “but, in some ways, fifty doesn’t seem that far away.”

“I understand what you mean,” said Clarissa.

Muriel swallowed hard. She felt honesty bubbling up from somewhere deep inside her, and knew that, this time, she would not be able to keep it down.

“You know, Clarissa, I don’t think I could live without you.”

Clarissa grabbed her friend’s hand, squeezed it hard. “Lucky for you, silly goose, you’ll never have to.”