“I didn’t want the job,” Ethan replies casually.
I whirl to face him. “Whoa, eyes on the road, girl,” Hector interjects. Guiltily, I revert my attention to the road, where I find I’m a bit close to the bumper of the Prius in front of me.
Recovering my composure, I ignore Ethan watching gleefully from the back seat. “As if you’d have gotten the job over me.” Part of me is glad Ethan didn’t go for editor in chief. Not because I have the slightest doubt I would’ve beaten him, but because I’m not certain the competition wouldn’t have ended in homicide.
“I guess we’ll never know,” Ethan says.
“No, we do know. You wouldn’t have won.”
He shrugs.
“You’re too self-absorbed to be editor in chief,” I insist.
Hector laughs, interrupting us. “You guys remind me of myself in high school.” I don’t have to see Ethan’s face to know his expression of doubt matches my own. Hector, fortunately, seems not to notice. “I was copresident of the Settlers of Catan Club with this guy AJ,” he continues. “The power struggles were constant. We were best buds, though.”
“I’m guessing you didn’t keep in touch,” I say, picking up on the past tense.
Hector’s face falls a little. “Unfortunately, I haven’t seen him in years,” he says, something distant in his still-upbeat voice.
“Unfortunate,” I echo, happily imagining a future where Ethan and I are as estranged. The feeling ranks right up there with the idea of getting my Harvard diploma, winning a Pulitzer, or establishing world peace. It’s one more reason I won’t be sorry when high school ends.
We round the corner onto my street, and I pull up in front of my house.
“Good job today, Alison,” Hector says, sounding like he means it. Putting the car in park, I get out, eager to escape the confines of the vehicle with Ethan, who does the same. “I’ll see you at the same time next week,” Hector adds. “We’ll work on unprotected lefts.”
I speak up immediately. “Well, could we—”
Hector shakes his head. “We can’t reschedule. You don’t have to thank me now,” he says, sounding extravagantly generous. “But one day, when you’re eating Blizzards and perfectly executing unprotected lefts, you and Ethan will remember the ten minutes you spent together in Hector’s car in driver’s ed. You can thank me then.”
It’s a conversation-ender if I’ve ever heard one. “Right,” I say glumly.
Ethan steps past me into the driver’s seat and shuts the door sharply, probably hoping he’ll slam my fingertips. He starts the car swiftly and drives forward. “Does Fairview still have the Settlers of Catan Club?” Hector asks before they’re out of earshot.
Walking inside the house, I head directly to my room, overhearing the laugh track of whatever Jamie’s watching and feeling relieved she doesn’t intercept me. My work is waiting for me in my room. The items on my whiteboard remain imposingly undone. I pause in front of my desk, feeling something disconcerting. Usually I like the pressure of long lists of objectives, pages of reading, projects planned in need of execution. I like the hectic days, the demanding nights.
Right now, I’m just overwhelmed. The sunset cuts through my window, seeming to taunt me with the hour I lost getting nothing done. What I didn’t need was to waste more time fighting with Ethan. His constant presence in my life is frustrating. Not the familiar frustration of Ethan, either, like traffic on the way to school and teachers with bad penmanship. Really frustrating.
It’s exhausting. In the past, our battles were energizing, even occasionally inspiring. Tonight, I’m only weary from spending the last hour going in circles, literally and figuratively, driving miles and miles and going nowhere.
Fifteen
HOURS LATER, I’M STARING at my whiteboard. Faced with my overburdened funk, I decided tackling my work was kind of like a fever—unpleasant, yet sometimes necessary. Each individual task will keep my mind off the enormous accumulation of them waiting for me.
I’m doing financial budgeting for the reunion, figuring out how we’ll host two hundred people on $8,000. From my extensive internet research, I’ve learned costs stack up quickly. Every thousand dollars really counts. Which is why I need to know exactly what we have, not Principal Williams’s estimate. Adam Elliot has not replied to my four emails, and he’s the only one who knows the precise number.
It’s time for me to change that. Dropping onto my desk chair, I open my computer and pull up the enterprising journalist’s greatest ally—Google. Finding Adam’s cell phone number requires resourcefulness and fifteen minutes of vigorous searching. I prevail when I have the idea to search his name in connection with Harvard student organizations he was part of when he was an undergrad. Finally, I find his number listed on the flyer for a Harvard Sports Analysts Club event.
I call the number. On the second ring, he picks up.
“Elliot here.” The voice is low, round. Bro-y, basically.
“Hello,” I say. “This is Alison Sanger from Fairview. I think Principal Williams mentioned me. I’m taking over the reunion planning for your class. I sent you a couple emails regarding current finances but haven’t heard back.” One thing I’ve learned from journalism—other than effective googling—is not to let people cut you off before you’ve explained your purpose.
“Oh, yeah,” Adam replies distractedly. Hearing the whoosh of wind and the murmur of street conversation over the phone, I figure he’s walking from his Uber to drinks, client facetime, et cetera, et cetera—whatever’s keeping him from replying to my emails. “I think Williams left me a voicemail about that. What’s your name again?”
“Alison,” I repeat.
“Right. Why don’t you ping my assistant with your ideas. We’ll make final decisions and handle booking.”
I rub my eyes, forcing my voice level. “Actually,” I say, “Williams was pretty clear we would handle everything.”
“Look, kid—” Adam starts.
“It’s Alison,” I cut him off.
Adam pauses. I can practically hear him weighing his irritation with proper phone decorum. “Alison,” he amends, “I’m sure you’re bright, but I’m not certain a high school student should be in charge of an event this big.”
Fuming, I pace from one end of my room to the other. I’m grateful we’re on the phone, because if we were face-to-face, I wouldn’t have the wherewithal to hide my fury. Adam’s only ten years older than I am, and even he acts patronizing and reads incompetence into my youth. I wish I had a recording of this conversation to rub in Williams’s face.