Last year had been a nightmare on graduation night, June 30, as the mosquitoes, drawn by the aroma of Jade East, lilac perfume, and Southern Comfort, descended on ninety-seven seniors without bias or mercy. I was a junior, so it didn’t matter to me if the seniors graduated in mid-July wrapped in gauze and the valedictorian got eaten alive by vampire moths. I thought it was stupid and unfair to sit perfectly healthy students in a stifling classroom the last week in August, and I told Richard so. “You can’t postpone the inevitable,” he said. “Before Labor Day, after Labor Day, it really doesn’t matter.” Richard could say that because he didn’t have a world-class pumpkin to develop. All he had to do was get his batting average up to .350. Max was bursting forth in great, glorious spurts. To leave him now was unthinkable. Who would spray the insects, yank the weeds, shriek at the hungry birds and rabbits, monitor weather conditions, and fend off blight? Do you put a racehorse out to pasture before the Kentucky Derby?
