Try not to panic.

Above us,

a banner stretches the length of the arcade,

The best week ever logo

frames the words

Congratulations, Class of-

"Damn it."

Senior Week.

No one here is young enough to see me.

I fly through the arcade,

turning somersaults,

flailing my arms like a clown,

hoping someone brought

their little brother

or sister

or niece or nephew

or cousin.

But who would bring a kid to Senior Week?

Parents know better.

They hear the stories.

I am so screwed.

The boardwalk never seemed so loud,

so bright,

so complete

as it does tonight.

I'm here

but not.

They stagger through me,

drunk,

half naked,

high school behind them,

the future ahead.

Do they know how lucky they are?

Some do,