I draw back, actually stunned by how harsh and unprovoked the insult is. Ethan cozying up to our cool prospective DJ is a normal level of mildly annoying for him. Insulting me in front of her is a different degree of shitty. It’s unacceptable.
I can’t let it stand. Raising my voice over the synthesizer noise now streaming from Avery’s speakers, I lay into Ethan. “If people wanted your opinion, they would ask,” I say. “But they don’t because nobody wants to subject themselves to a conversation with you.”
Ethan sneers. “I have plenty of conversations with plenty of people.” He says it like it’s obvious, but I hear combativeness straining his voice.
I face him fully, ignoring Avery waiting awkwardly to my left. “Really? I’ve spent practically every waking minute with you this week, and I haven’t seen you have one conversation over five minutes long with anyone except me.”
“Yeah, well, being around you doesn’t exactly inspire friendliness.” His nonchalance disappearing entirely, he feverishly runs a hand through his hair. “This week has been my idea of hell.”
“If you’re miserable, Ethan, feel free to drop out of the reunion. Why don’t you just drop out of Fairview while you’re at it too?”
“One more week like this one, and I just might!”
Ideas dance through my head of annoying Ethan enough he genuinely drops out. The thought is wonderful. I imagine my gloriously Ethan-free days, editing with only cooperative writers who never have controversial opinions on the Oxford comma, getting 100 percent on every test because I’m not racing him and the clock, not being infuriated at seven every single morning when I first see his face.
It feels like victory. Like freedom.
While I’m envisioning this new world, though, I notice Avery out of the corner of my eye watching us skeptically. “I’ll send the contract over to you after my set, and we’ll finalize location and hours later,” she says stiffly, halting the retort I was preparing for Ethan. “Quick question. Do you have a supervisor I can correspond with on this?”
My victory fizzles out. I face Avery, shame rushing through me. “We’re the ones who will be coordinating everything. I assure you, you can email or call us anytime and we’ll be capable of handling your requests.”
Avery studies us a moment longer. “Okay. No problem. There’s one thing I forgot to mention, though. When I’m working for minors, I require a larger portion of the payment up front.”
I nod, mustering as much dignity as I can. I know what’s happening here. Our DJ didn’t forget to mention this deposit. She just saw Ethan and me fighting like kindergarteners, and she decided we were unreliable and immature. The horrible part is, I don’t even fault her. We were immature. I’m instantly angry and ashamed of myself for behaving exactly the way people expect I will.
“Of course,” I tell Avery, fighting to recover my composure. “Thanks so much for meeting with us.”
Avery nods once and returns to work. Ethan and I walk away from the truck, not speaking as we cut through the crowd waiting for their candy-decked hot dogs. I feel his glare on my back, following me onto the path over the emerald grass of the park’s hills. It’s obvious he’s not chagrined by our public outburst. I resent him all the more for it—silently this time.
Once again, it’s Ethan not caring enough and doing whatever he wants despite the reasons or repercussions. I honestly don’t know if I envy him for his detachment. The liberation must be nice, not holding himself to the cage of requirements and personal standards I confine myself in. On the other hand, without those requirements, I don’t know who I’d be. The emptiness from which Ethan’s impulsiveness seems to come is just a little terrifying.
A chilly wind is gusting over the park when we reach the curb, where Ethan and I instinctually separate and wait silently for our respective Ubers. Ethan stares at his phone while I watch the passersby, the dads in fleece vests walking golden retrievers and the kids playing tag. I don’t give Ethan the gratification of glancing over when his Uber, again, arrives minutes ahead of mine.
In the car on the way home, I feel my phone vibrate with a text from Ethan.
By the way, for losing the blitz, you’re wearing a T-shirt to school on Monday.
He’s obviously aiming to pick another fight. My fingers itch with the impulse to reply, to inform him what a shortsighted waste of a task this is.
For the first time, I don’t. We crossed a line today. One I’ve toed with him a long time. Competing with Ethan has always been a high-wire act of proving my worth while not appearing unprofessional. I’m aware of how constant bickering and infighting makes me look. I’ve just always felt I gain more than I lose when it comes to our rivalry. Now . . . I’m forced to reevaluate. What’s the point of beating Ethan if I end up looking less capable in the end?
It’s time I recognize how childish our competition is. I can’t allow another repeat of today.
My phone buzzes again. I flip it over, ignoring Ethan the whole way home.
Twenty-One
I’M IN MY ROOM on Saturday, working on homework while Dylan edits a photo on her computer. Or I should be working. Instead, I’m mentally preparing for the ten minutes I’ll have to spend with Ethan in driver’s ed. It’s my second lesson of three, and my nerves have lessened in comparison to my first lesson a week ago. My resistance to the idea of spending even one short drive with Ethan, however, has not. I’m fortifying the walls of my internal castle, constructing ramparts and a moat, raising the drawbridge, barricading the doors. Come what may, I vow I’ll remain completely cool and collected.
“How about this one?” Dylan swivels the screen to face me. I’m treated to a bare-chested Jake Freedman throwing a water polo ball in the indoor pool. We haven’t discussed her college worries since Monday, despite her having dinner here on Wednesday and us hanging out every lunch this week when I didn’t have Chronicle work.
“It looks great,” I tell her enthusiastically. “It looks a lot like the last three versions you’ve shown me.”
“It has to be perfect,” Dylan declares. She returns to editing, leaning in to examine her work. “This is the best photo in the entire yearbook.”
I can’t help smiling. I’d forgotten Dylan’s open enthusiasm for yearbook, which fell into Olivia’s “uncool” column. Dylan’s love of yearbook was one of those things she dimmed to make herself into the girl Olivia wanted. Watching her return to herself hasn’t been gradual or all at once, but rather in bright bursts like this one.
“I love yearbook.” Dylan sighs contentedly. “Where else would I find the excuse to unabashedly study Jake’s abs all day?”