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Hector

“Please hold your applause until the last student has crossed,” says the dean in his careful accent. “Hector Alvarez!”

Hector steps double-time to the oomp oomp of the brass, grips firmly, and exits the stage with a diploma and a hushed audience. So too do his classmates, until it comes to Diego–whose cousin can’t strangle a whoop of proud glee.

After that each family dares a little more, and before the dean presents the class, the place is a roaring, stomping tide.

“Hey,” says his awkward dad, outside. “Sorry we didn’t–”

“I totally understand,” says Hector, who totally understands.

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