Eighteen
WE LEFT THE MILLARD Fillmore with Ethan in denial despite the $6,000 price tag, including food and drink. Exasperated, I issued him a challenge. Either he finds a comparably priced venue not booked on the date of the reunion in two months, or I’ll put down the deposit with Clint. It’s not like I care where we have the reunion. While I don’t love the idea of Ethan finding the place we end up using, I honestly don’t think he’ll succeed. I did the research, and I know there aren’t many options.
On Monday, I’ve put reunion planning out of my head in order to work on the homework I didn’t finish over the weekend. It’s only been a week since we got the reunion assignment, and I already feel myself slipping in my classes. I’m catching up on calculus in ASG when Isabel walks up.
“Alison?” she asks, and I reluctantly look up. “I wondered if you had your bonfire volunteers. We needed them Friday.”
My chest constricts. I completely forgot. With everything I have going on, and especially this week with the new impositions of the reunion and driver’s ed, Isabel wanting me to find help for the upcoming baseball season kickoff got buried under the thousand other things I had to do.
I’m not used to forgetting things. I don’t like the feeling. “Um, yeah,” I say, deciding to bluff. “Of course. Dylan Giordano’s doing it.”
Isabel waits while I pray she drops the subject and leaves me to my calculus. “Okay, great,” she replies. “I need two volunteers. Just give me the other name when you have the chance.” Her voice still holds her usual friendliness, but now with an unmistakable passive-aggressive push.
“I will.” I smile, my teeth clenched.
Behind me, I hear Ethan laugh.
I face him. “Can I help you?”
He’s looking relaxed in his chair, legs crossed, phone in his hand. “Can I help you? Overwhelmed, Sanger? Not enough time to devote to your duties as vice president?” He turns to our president, who’s still standing over me. “Isabel, you really ought to file a complaint.”
Isabel examines her nails. “Why don’t you two collaborate on getting volunteers? Then no one has to complain.”
“You don’t actually think forcing us to collaborate would create less complaints, do you?” I ask.
“Yeah, we do better with open hostility. Honestly, it’s healthier this way.” Ethan uncrosses his legs and fixes me with a glare.
Isabel rolls her eyes. “I swear, you two are worse than an old married couple.”
“Sure,” I say. “One of those old married couples who fight constantly and would be much happier if they got a divorce but they can’t until the kids are out of high school.”
“Who exactly are our kids in this scenario?”
I sigh. “The reunion, driver’s ed, the seven classes we share.”
Ethan’s eyes go comically wide. “Nine children. Wow. I assume we got married at the illustrious Millard Fillmore?”
Isabel walks off, clearly tired of this. “Speaking of the Millard Fillmore, have you found any other realistic venues?” I ask.
“I will.”
“You won’t, but please do waste your time trying.”
I close my homework folder and leave the room, giving myself the final word. I know I need to talk to Dylan now that I’ve signed her up to do work during a party I know she’ll want to enjoy. With the hallways empty, I cross campus quickly in the direction of yearbook.
I cringe entering the yearbook room. It’s not the clutter I object to—like the Chronicle, the yearbook room is decorated with incongruous pieces of furniture and wallpapered with random printouts. What earns my distaste is the cloying sentimentality of everything. The faux-inspirational quotes imploring us to REFLECT and LIVE EVERY DAY, the notes on the board for yearbook pages on “The Freshman Family” and “Pumas Forever,” even the dumb Puma Pride yearbook title painted over the door.
Mr. Pham, the advisor, looks up and acknowledges my presence, then returns to grading papers. I speed past his desk, still suspicious he’s the one who complained to Williams and indirectly stuck Ethan and me with the reunion.
I find Dylan in the far corner of the room. The yearbook desktop in front of her displays the “Seniors Reflect” page I’ve seen her working on. But Dylan’s attention is fixed on the laptop open on her knees. When I walk up behind her, I’m surprised to recognize the window she has open. It’s Naviance, the portal that compiles Fairview students’ statistics and their college admissions. Over the summer I used it to compare myself with every Fairview student admitted to Harvard.
“Hey,” I say. Dylan looks up sharply. Momentarily abandoning my purpose here, I can’t help my curiosity. I nod in the direction of the laptop screen. “Why are you on Naviance?” I examine the window closer and find Dylan’s on the page for UC Berkeley, which charts GPA and SAT scores for admitted and denied students. Berkeley is Dylan’s first choice, I know. It’s an hour from home and close to the San Francisco “scene”—and of course, it’s where her ex Olivia is a freshman now.
“I’m never getting in.” Dylan’s voice is flat, with an unusual worried undercurrent. It’s not that she’s careless when it comes to college. She’s just never fixated on her chances before. “I’m here,” she says, pointing to a place on the graph undeniably in the red.
I wince. The graph is not reassuring, but I know that’s not what Dylan needs to hear. “You’re not just your GPA and your SAT score,” I say delicately. “You have photography, and . . . other things.”
“Colleges don’t care!” Dylan’s eyes, wide and urgent, dart up to mine. I sense she’s close to freaking out.
I recognize the feeling. It brings me back to my own nights dwelling on my college chances, working myself up over Harvard threads on College Confidential, imagining worst-case scenarios. The nerves weren’t something I could be talked out of. I decide to redirect the conversation instead. “Why are you checking this now?” I ask. “College apps are in. There’s nothing you can do.”
Dylan pauses. Then she closes her computer. “No reason.” There’s no waver in her voice, no echo of her previous panic. I know she’s not being honest, but if Dylan doesn’t want to talk, it’s not for me to force her. “Why are you here?” She stows her laptop in her bag and spins her chair to face me fully. “I know how much you hate the yearbook room.”
“I need a favor,” I say. “I was supposed to find volunteers for the bonfire ASG’s throwing for the first baseball game, and I sort of . . . signed you up.”