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Even if it meant sharing that moment with hundreds of my “closest peers.”

After an embarrassing amount of sniffling and blotting my eyes, I finally got it together, and didn’t need to be told twice that our session was over. I practically jumped out of my seat.

I busted out the front door of the office building, the blast of humidity not enough to stifle my goosebumps. My navy-blue cruiser waited at the bike rack, sparkling in the setting sun, the rubber grips hot on my fingers from baking in the heat.

Playlist at the ready, I pressed my feet into the pedals, but slowed my roll, listening to the sounds of the world a little closer.

A cackle from the first voice carried on the breeze—no, wait, that was someone cracking up over a video they were watching on their phone. Spirited whispers from the second voice rose from the street—actually, those were from a group of kids walking by. Lively commentary from the third voice wafted through an open window—again, wrong, that was genuine excitement from the receptionists getting ready to go.

I was doing it again. Expecting the worst. Trying to distort the sounds. Unbelieving or undeserving of moments like this: Pure. Unambiguous. Quiet.

The Voices were bound to make a comeback, so maybe I should’ve been enjoying their absence instead? My headphones stayed put, looped around my neck as I listened—and actually enjoyed—the uninterrupted melody of summer as I biked to the Boardwalk for Grad Night.

The wind was easy on my ears as I barreled down a hill, zigzagging through the endless line of cars stopped in beach traffic, a pair of feet hanging out almost every passenger window.

As I careened around surfers balancing their boards on their heads and whizzed next to classmates shouting dibs for the best seat on the log ride, an unusual reflex tugged at the corners of my mouth. On an average day, I tried to drown it all out. But right now…I was one of them, simply enjoying every part of the moment, and I was smiling harder than a kid with priority in the surf lineup.

Javi waited at our usual meeting point, his silky black waves tucked beneath a wreath of flowers. With his frayed shorts, glossy black studs, and mismatched vest, he looked more Lost Boy than Shakespeare character.

He bowed deeply as I slowed to a stop. “I bid you good morrow.”

I slid off the seat and returned a curtsey, my olive-green peasant dress catching dried oak leaves in its floor-length hem. “Your flower crown turned out fab.” Slipping on my own band of faux florals, I eyed his empty chest while locking up my bike. “No camera?”

“Nah, some things are better left undocumented.” He winked. “Plus, I don’t think it’s the easiest thing to secure on a roller coaster, and I plan on riding both of them at least ten times.”

We hopped onto a pair of rotting wood train tracks that served as the unofficial border to the Santa Cruz Boardwalk—arms wide, one sneaker in front of the other, cheeks squinched from suppressing our laughter. The tiniest slip of a chuckle and one of us would suffer the devastating two-inch drop into a mix of sand, gravel, and bird poop.

Javi made it to safety first, holding out his arm until I was close enough to loop mine through. “Where to first, my lady?” He directed us around a group of dudes in minotaur masks, board shorts, and unbuttoned shirts, who had all stopped to gape at something in the middle of the walkway.

“I hate to pull us away from this grand performance”—I jerked my chin at the crop top-wearing pixies taking selfies around a maypole who seemed to be stopping traffic—“but I need to stuff my face with a Boardwalk dog. Stat.”

Javi steered us in the opposite direction, nodding sagely. “Good idea. Therapy can be a fun sucker. You need to replenish your energy with something fried.”

“You have no idea. I’d rather eat my feelings than another word of that therapist bullshit.” It was high five worthy, but my stomach plummeted alongside the rooftop roller coaster riders the instant I said it.

Javi tugged on my hand, drawing me to the check-in table, where my worries dissolved to nothing but a speck of powdered sugar on a mountain of funnel cake.

After collecting our wristbands and almost making it past the photographer—who forced us to pose under the deflating balloon arch—we lost ourselves amongst the merrymakers, the PA system’s Top 40 drowned out by clapping hands, melodic flutes, and clanging tambourines.

The crowd pressed in, all the buzz in activity luring us farther down the esplanade. Even without counting the hired courtiers, there seemed to be a lot of people for a closed event.

Then I remembered: we shared this evening with the graduating class of the other local high school.

Not everyone embraced Shakespeare, hence the group of half-tied togas and farm animal onesies that strode by, but everyone sure embraced their chance to be different. To welcome this next chapter as a whole new person, with a chance to actually live and fulfill their wildest hopes and dreams. Even the Boardwalk’s Paleolithic mascots—creepy cave man statues the size of full-grown humans that were sprinkled throughout the Boardwalk even though they had nothing to do with the amusement park’s theme—received a Congrats, Grad! garland or wig.

Walking along the sidewalk games, I was careful to avoid the eye of the persistent jester and the call of Hippolyta’s storefront sales pitch. Javi, on the other hand, found himself trapped between a neon counter and two Amazonian’s bosoms, and almost gave in.

“Let’s at least get my corn dog before we lose all our money.” I pulled him deeper into the midsummer night sea of seniors.

Javi slapped his hand over his heart. “Lose? You think I won’t win?”

I chuckled at that, having played and yes, lost, enough games of dime toss with him to know we’d go broke.

We reached the far end of the park, and I finally felt the air, not sweaty bodies up against me. Short of thrills, out here, the majority of attractions closed because they served young kids, the crowd started to let up and darkness found its place between the unlit rides.

Sporadic red flares dotted the black with the quick drags of those that flocked to its sooty pockets. My vision strayed from the smokers and glued on to a shack beneath the scaffolding of the Big Dipper. Its infamous words glowed angelic against the twilight sky: Hot Dog on a Stick.

Javi gave my shoulders a victory tug. “Well, I’ll be. It seems you have led me to a feast fit for a king.”