Dylan looks peeved. “Seriously, Alison? Am I your only friend in this entire school?”
“I deserve that,” I reply. “Please?”
“Nick’s on the baseball team,” she says, emphasizing his name disdainfully. “What with how our second date went this weekend, I really don’t want to build a bonfire in his honor.”
I didn’t even know Dylan went out with Nick this weekend, which makes me feel guilty. “Second date didn’t go well?” I ask sympathetically. I wasn’t exactly rooting for Nick himself, but I was hoping he would help Dylan move on from the hurt of Olivia dumping her.
“Second and final date,” Dylan confirms, indignant revulsion in her voice. “He kept asking questions about my relationship with Olivia.”
I frown, understanding what she means. Dylan’s been openly bi since eighth grade. Everybody knows, and with our proximity to San Francisco, it’s not like queerness is a foreign concept. But even in our liberal neighborhood, there are people who insist on making a thing of it. I guess Nick is one of those people. “I’m sorry, Dylan,” I say. “Really.”
Dylan sighs. “If I’m doing this”—she levels me a stern look—“you’re doing it with me.”
“I don’t have time,” I start to protest, until Dylan hits me with an imperious eyebrow. “Fine,” I relent.
“Fine,” she repeats. She faces her yearbook computer, studying the “Seniors Reflect” page like she plans on returning to work. I see her chewing on her nail, though, and the distracted nervousness has returned to her eyes. Remembering the fretful nights I had in October when I applied early, I think of how Dylan was the person I went to when the anxiety overwhelmed me. The person who distracted me with inane gossip and in-depth discussions of our favorite episodes of The Office. I need to be here for her the way she was for me.
“Hey,” I say, my voice gentler. Dylan glances my way. “It’s going to be okay. College and everything.” I’m not faking the conviction in my voice. While I don’t know if Dylan will get into Berkeley, I do know she’s genuinely smart and a really talented photographer. One way or the other, everything will be okay for her.
She musters a weak smile. When she turns back to her computer, I leave.
Walking in the hallways, I put together the pieces of the conversation. I’m not dumb. I know Dylan’s new fixation on Berkeley is because of Olivia. Having just gone on a disappointing date with Nick, Dylan’s clinging even harder to the idea of her ex. Dreaming of Berkeley with Olivia is putting a pressure on Dylan’s college decisions she’s never experienced.
While Dylan was there for me when I needed distracting from single-digit admission percentages and intimidating College Confidential research—and while I can be there for her—the truth is, we’re very different in our outlooks on college, even high school. Our priorities rarely align. I want ivy-adorned walls and opportunities in journalism, politics, finance, or whatever future I end up loving. Dylan wants more of the same, including, I guess, her ex.
Ethan is working on French homework when I walk into the ASG room. I purposefully don’t look in his direction, instead observing him out of my peripheral vision. Eyes narrowed, he’s highlighting in efficient, deliberate strokes.
It’s ironic how the only other person I know whose goals line up with mine—like the moon covering the sun in an eclipse—is the person standing in my way of achieving them.
Nineteen
IN THE CHRONICLE OFFICE on Friday, I’m reading Ethan’s revision of his gym financing story. It’s odd. He’s fixed everything I pointed out, input every note and comment. He’s even pushed the anecdote—his prized anecdote—to paragraph four and opened with the hard information, the way I often have to vigorously coerce him to on production nights.
What’s more, he’s done the edits sort of sloppily. Word-for-word copying of my suggested phrasing, extra spaces and periods left over from deletions. It’s still excellent work, still probably worthy of the NSPC Award. I’m not complaining I didn’t have to put him to medieval thumbscrews to get my way, either. It’s just odd.
Outside my office, the room is chaotic, notwithstanding it being the middle of fifth period. Robbie Kang, one of our strongest sports writers, is showing some wide-eyed sophomores YouTube videos. In one corner, a group of Model UN kids debate on the couch. The news editor is making out obviously with the business manager, while our advisor is out of the room. Then there’s Ethan, who’s hunched over his government study guide, which I resent. I wish I had time to review for the exam we have next period.
I walk out of my office, directly to the desk where he’s working. Marbury v. Madison, I notice on his study guide. Established constitutional review, the voice in my head reminds me, joined by the louder voice commenting, stupid Ethan and his studying. “Is this your final revision?” I demand, holding up the printout of his article.
He continues his reading, deliberately reminding me he’s enjoying studying time that I’m not. When he looks up, there’s confrontation in his eyes. “Yes,” he says. “Why?”
I’m not surprised to hear the edge in his voice. Our conversations have started at unusual levels of hostility lately, even for us. It’s not hard to intuit why. With this revision, every class, and now the reunion and driver’s ed, Ethan’s suddenly everywhere in my life. Every frustration he fills me with, every quality I find irritating, is a hundred times worse for my experiencing them a hundred times more often. I’m resenting this particular conversation knowing I have to see him again after school for a vendor meeting with our prospective DJ.
“It’s just not as good as your pieces usually are,” I reply. Instantly, I regret the phrasing. I hate when I pay Ethan unintended compliments.
He latches on to the opportunity I’ve given him. Grinning, he cocks his head. “Well, I’m glad I’ve established a high standard for my work.”
Point: Ethan.
I scowl, feeling my temper flare. If Ethan’s and my relationship weren’t especially volatile due to our constant proximity, I’d let the comment go. I’d leave the conversation and resume hating him from the privacy of my office. Unfortunately, I don’t. I can’t let anything go with him. My eyes flitting from his, I seize on the first opening I find. “You have . . . mustard on the sleeve of your oxford,” I inform him. “You look ridiculous.”
Ethan’s upper lip curls, inflecting his features with unmistakable scorn. He rolls his pen in his fingers like a dart. “Me? What about you? Your wardrobe looks composed of hand-me-downs from my mom.”
I glance down, regretting the gesture’s self-consciousness. This morning, I chose my blue knee-length pleated skirt and white sweater because I thought the outfit looked cute but professional. Knowing Ethan doesn’t like it just makes me happier with my decision. “Your mom’s a marketing exec for Google,” I say. I’ve met Mrs. Molloy once or twice. She’s nothing like her noxious son. “I’m going to take it as a compliment.”