I remove my cardigan.
“Lady Macbeth—” Ethan continues, then falters, his eyes falling on the shirt I’ve revealed I’m wearing. They fix there, on the white tee I borrowed from Avery yesterday with SWEET WIENERS emblazoned in black block text on the front. Ethan’s mouth hangs open for a moment. Nothing comes out, not even his well-reasoned defense of his controversial viewpoints on Macbeth. The corners of his lips tip up precariously, like he’s teetering on the edge of a laugh.
Checkmate. Final point: Alison.
Ethan looks away, evidently working hard to keep my shirt out of his eyeline. He finds his composure and his train of thought and continues. “Lady Macbeth wouldn’t have been queen without having Macbeth to manipulate.”
While Mr. Pham responds, I sit back in my seat, feeling free. Watching Ethan return to his notes, pretending everything’s normal, I smirk. I have the win I needed. Now I’m ready to move on from this ridiculous rivalry. From here on out, I’ll treat Ethan with cool professionalism and dispassionate normalcy.
Twenty-Five
I IGNORE THE STARES and hushed laughter I earn for my shirt throughout the morning. Only Dylan questions my wardrobe choice directly. When I find her in the fifteen-minute break between second and third period sitting on the blue benches where we usually meet outside the Chronicle and yearbook rooms, she levels me a dry look and asks if I lost a bet to Ethan.
Ethan, for his part, crows compliments, telling me the look suits me and wondering loudly where I found the fine T-shirt I’m wearing. I receive his remarks with indifference, often not even bothering to answer while we walk from class to class, crossing through the backpacked crowd. In ASG, when he challenges my proposal to run a s’mores booth at the bonfire this Friday to raise money, I calmly debate him until Isabel sides with me. During lunch in the newspaper room, he positions himself near me to talk to Christine Reed about how “unprepared” he feels for this week’s French exam. Naturally, he makes sure to mention how much he’s studied, a typical, time-tested Ethan intimidation tactic.
Instead of joining the conversation the way I usually would, I focus on the news edits I’m working on. I enjoy the feeling of Ethan eyeing me, expecting a reaction that never comes.
By fifth period, the Chronicle, I can tell he’s had enough. I’m meeting with the editorial staff to report on how everything’s going before next week, which is production week for the NSPCA issue. We gather in front of the whiteboard while the rest of the staff works on writing their pieces on the computers in the back. This meeting is crucial, the final check of whether the editors have filed their photo requests, given writers deadlines for revisions, and planned for any content they’ll receive last minute.
The editors pull chairs into a semicircle surrounding me. They sit in their usual order, with news on my right wrapping around to sports on my left. Ethan perches on the long table next to Julie Wang, who’s playing idly with the drawstring of her Fairview volleyball hoodie. Ethan’s not an editor, but he sits in on these meetings regardless, which I grudgingly permit due to the importance of his pieces in every issue. This month’s is no exception, what with his fifteen-hundred-word gym-funding story.
When the discussion turns to the final meeting item, the front page, Ethan interjects, cutting off Tori Sundaram, who’s itemizing the stories we’ll need space for—the school board meeting, changes to campus security. “I’ll be above the fold,” Ethan declares. It’s not a question, though it could have been. We haven’t even begun discussing which story will occupy the prestigious above-the-fold position. Tori looks unamused.
I know he’s being presumptuous on purpose. Nevertheless, I nod. “I agree.” I turn back to Tori. “Then below, we’ll probably do—”
“Oh, and,” Ethan cuts me off, eyes narrowing, “I was thinking I’d have the above-the-fold photo and the jump to center.”
“Yeah, we’ll see,” I say noncommittally, wanting to remain conciliatory.
Ethan’s not having it. “I’ll need the inside pages for word count, and color befits the story. We’ll do graphics—you know, timelines, budget breakdowns—in addition to photo illustrations.” He waves his hand.
I know he’s expecting me to refuse. He has the glint in his eye he gets when he’s preparing rebuttals to my rebuttals. While he’s not wrong—his story will work excellently as pitched—he’s only proposing his ideas this rudely because he wants the fight. Which I refuse to give him.
“Sounds good,” I say. With Ethan’s glare on me, I turn nonchalantly to the news editors. “Will you start designing the layout? Fifteen hundred words, graphs, photos, jump to center.” The editors nod, jotting down notes. “I think that’s everything. I’ll be in my office if you have any questions.”
I walk directly to my office, where I open my laptop on my desk. Ethan appears immediately in the doorway. I pull up the photo request spreadsheet I was reviewing, hoping he’ll go away.
Predictably, he doesn’t. He picks up the blue Post-it note cube on my desk, peels a few off, then sticks them sloppily on my window.
Gritting my teeth, I keep my eyes on my computer. “Was there something else you needed to discuss about your story?”
“No,” he replies. But I don’t hear him leave.
“Great. Well, I have spreadsheets to review . . .”
Out of the corner of my eye, I see him pull off one more Post-it note. This time, he presses it to my desk, right next to my computer. I exhale. This is testing even my newly resolved patience. “You’re ignoring me,” Ethan says simply.
I look up, surprised. It’s not what I expected him to say, not one of his provocations or passive insults. He sounds not exactly vulnerable, but not calculated, either. There’s an implied question in his statement, one he genuinely wants answered.
But I’m not interested in explaining myself. “I’m not ignoring you.” I keep my voice lukewarm, the epitome of neutrality. “We’ve had every class together, and I’ve spoken to you seven times today. Eight, if we count right now.”
Ethan’s features flatten with displeasure. “You know what I mean.”
“No, Ethan. I don’t.”
“You’re . . .” He gestures emptily.
I wait for the end of the sentence, prompting him with raised eyebrows when he doesn’t continue.
“I’m what?” I ask. I could finish the phrase for him. I’m working. I’m wishing you’d put down my Post-its. I’m honestly wondering what you’re hoping to get out of this conversation.
“You’re . . . cool toward me. I don’t know.”