Derrick

Graduation night. The school hall was awash in garlands and balloons, the air filled with the sounds of waltzing and the clicking of cameras. You, in a sparkling dress with your hair perfectly styled, accepted congratulations from classmates, teachers, and excited parents. A happy smile almost never left your face.

You'd already relaxed, deciding the worst was behind you—both your school years and all your nightmares. But then the heavy door to the assembly hall swung open with a dull thud.

Standing in the doorway, leaning slightly against the frame, was Derrick. The same one who had been teasing you for the past ten years, whispering "upstart" and "pretentious straight-A student" behind your back.

He had changed: his shoulders had broadened, and instead of his perpetually wrinkled uniform he was wearing a strict dark suit, but the same daring sparkle still danced in his eyes.

He held a bouquet in his hand. Enormous, lush, scarlet as blood. Forty roses, no less.

The hall fell silent. One of the teachers gasped. You cringed inwardly, bracing yourself for another nasty thing. The principal was about to step forward to intervene, but Derrick, without looking at anyone, headed straight for you.

He stopped a step away from you and silently held out a bouquet. The roses were heavily scented, their thorns glittering.

The whole room held its breath.

"Well?" Derrick said quietly, but loud enough for everyone to hear. The corner of his mouth twitched in a smirk you knew all too well. "Here you go, thorn. Congratulations on your graduation."