Except it would get me nowhere with our obstinate principal. Just like it would only piss Adam off to point out I’m not the one who booked the wrong date with a nonrefundable deposit. I remind myself of the purpose of this call. I need information, and Adam won’t give me the numbers if I insult him.
Working my hardest not to hate this part, I put on the voice I use for college interviews and uncooperative sources. “Mr. Elliot, as such an influential and successful alumnus of Fairview, you surely have much more important demands on your time. I read in Forbes’s 30 Under 30 you’re expanding your cryptocurrency to the nonprofit world.”
Adam’s voice changes, becoming more welcoming. “Wait, I remember now. Williams mentioned wanting me to put in a good word for you at Harvard.”
“I would be . . .” I swallow. “Honored.”
“How about this,” Adam continues brightly, like of course I’d be honored, like it’s a foregone conclusion. “You handle the booking, then hit my assistant with regular reports on your purchases. Just to check your numbers. If everything lines up, you’ll get your recommendation.”
“Wow. Thank you,” I say, watching myself in the mirror through the doorway to my bathroom. While I force my voice into reverence, my expression remains flat. “So . . . if you wouldn’t mind, can you give me an exact account balance?”
“Hold on,” he says. I hear rustling over the line, which I’m hoping is Adam searching his email. His voice returns seconds later. “$7,855.66. I have a call coming in,” he continues hurriedly. “Follow up if you have any questions, kid.”
“Thank you—” I begin, but he’s already hung up.
Ignoring Adam’s parting comment, I return to my whiteboard. Once I’ve written the number in the reunion quadrant in heavy, clear numerals, I bite my lip. It’s even worse than Williams told us. We’re going to have to budget very conservatively. I begin outlining breakdowns on the board, putting projections to each item.
While I’m working, my phone buzzes. I ignore the faint noise, focusing on my mental math. Then it buzzes again, humming on the desk next to me. I exhale, annoyed to be interrupted. With the numbers in front of me, the task feels even more daunting. Nevertheless, I check my phone’s illuminated screen, surprised when I find Ethan’s name on the messages.
Curiosity gets the better of me. Ethan and I don’t text unless strictly necessary. I pick up the phone, flicking Ethan’s messages open with my thumb.
Found a venue I’m interested in. The Willingham Hotel.
I have a walkthrough scheduled with the coordinator tomorrow. I’ll let you know how it goes.
I reply immediately.
What time?
My message floats up into the conversation window not even a minute from when I got Ethan’s. I know he’s there. I know he’s reading. But there’s no reply. Not even the typing bubble on his end. With queasy anger, I realize what’s going on here. What Ethan’s orchestrating. He wants to meet with the events coordinator on his own, establish the relationship, and usurp me from securing the venue despite our uneasy compromise to plan everything together.
He’s made one mistake, however. He told me the name of the hotel.
I walk quickly to my computer and google the Willingham Hotel without bothering to sit down. It’s nearly eight, which means the events coordinator won’t be in the office. Instead, I find the front desk number—no Harvard undergrad organizations required—and call.
When the receptionist picks up with a calmly welcoming “Willingham Hotel,” I check whether the events coordinator went home, the thought occurring to me this is exactly why Ethan chose to text me now. The receptionist confirms the coordinator is gone for the day, which is when I unravel a version of the truth. My partner forgot to write down the time of the walkthrough he scheduled tomorrow—he’s awful with numbers—and could the receptionist please find the events coordinator’s calendar and check when Ethan Molloy is supposed to come in?
It works. Following one very obliging “Hold please” and several minutes, the receptionist’s voice returns to the phone. She tells me our appointment is tomorrow at eleven. I thank her profusely and hang up, a little thrilled I got what I needed.
Refocusing on the finances, I feel myself smiling. Despite how much I don’t want to be working with Ethan on the reunion, the thought of his face when I meet him in front of the Willingham Hotel right on time tomorrow is the tiniest sliver of a silver lining.
I feel a quiet rush of validation. Whatever Adam Elliot thinks, I’m clever and professional enough to coax cooperation out of him, and to outthink Ethan. I pick up my dry-erase marker, filling in blanks and checking boxes. Right now, the numbers on the board don’t feel quite so daunting.
Sixteen
I HEAD INTO SAN Francisco the next day for the Willingham Hotel walkthrough. My Uber driver, Robert, remains quiet, nodding his head to the easygoing R&B he’s playing. In the back seat of his 2013 Honda Insight—I’ve learned more varieties of compact consumer cars from riding Uber than I ever wanted to know—I focus on meditative breathing in preparation for meeting with Ethan. The freeway flies by in the window.
We’re passing the Bay on the right. It’s beautiful, the spring sunlight glittering on the water, the wakes of boats crisscrossing foamy lines on the surface. Heading into the city, I watch the fences and greenery of the suburbs gradually cede to hectic street corners and finally the skyscrapers of the Financial District. It’s funny how I live close to the city, yet I feel like a tourist. It’s not uncomfortable, though. I find it refreshing to remember there’s a wider world out there than Fairview and fighting with Ethan.
We pull up to the curb, and I tip Robert on my phone. I have a small monthly allowance from my parents that goes almost entirely toward Uber rides and desperation coffee. When I run out of funds, I generally have to plead with Dylan to drive me to ASG events and study sessions. She got her license the second she could, and while she used to love any excuse to drive, now she’s started giving me lectures on how she doesn’t like to “enable” me.
When I get out of the car, the Willingham Hotel looms in front of me. Right away, I know the meditative breathing was for nothing. Ethan should have known this hotel is way out of our budget. I note the elegant columns flanking the front entrance, the carved stone ornamentation over every window, the spiraled hedges out front. The Willingham caters to investment fund managers courting clients, not overworked high schoolers organizing a reunion for inebriated alumni. Which Ethan could’ve deduced from reading the hotel’s website even once, like I did, instead of rushing in to outdo me.
I’m watching the valet gingerly open the doors of a Rolls-Royce when I hear my name behind me. “Sanger?” Ethan’s voice is skeptical, not quite surprised. I turn, finding him wearing one of his interchangeable preppy outfits, white shorts, canvas sneakers, and an untucked sky-blue button-down. His features are rigid, like he’s hiding frustration. “I’m almost certain I didn’t tell you when this meeting was,” he says.