I try to repress the tiny thrill of hearing Ethan awkward and ineloquent. “Have I ever given you the impression I’m warm toward you?”
His gaze darts from me, flashing furiously. “It’s—it’s not—” He folds a Post-it in half, creasing the center with one harsh motion. “This is different. You’ve been agreeable.”
I watch him pace in the doorway, stopping to scuff his dark suede shoe into the carpet, reaching one hand up to the white metal doorframe like he doesn’t know what to do with himself. “Let me get this straight,” I say slowly. “You’re complaining to me because I’m being too nice to you?”
His eyes snap to me, and I’m kind of unprepared for the intensity in them. “Yes, exactly,” he says.
The honesty in his tone and the fervor in his expression hold my voice prisoner for a moment. It’s the head-spinning sensation of taking a practice exam before you’ve even begun studying. Of finding evidence that upsets the entire thesis of your research paper. It’s paradigms shifting. I feel like we’re close to something. What it is, I don’t know.
“Look,” I start, “we have three months of school left. We work closely with each other on the newspaper, ASG, the reunion. Don’t you think it’d be better if we were mature about this and tried to get along?”
Ethan’s expression shutters, and he drops the folded Post-it onto my desk. “No,” he says. “I don’t.” He walks out into the newsroom. Against my judgment, I let my eyes follow him.
It’s a retreat. Ethan came in here and left without getting what he wanted. I’m not even playing our game anymore, and somehow I’ve stumbled into the way to win. The irony almost makes me laugh. If I’d known not engaging would bother him so much, I’d have tried it months ago.
Instead of returning to my spreadsheet, I remove the Post-its from my desk and window and drop them into the plastic recycling bin by my chair, suddenly exasperated. Without meaning to, I’m still taking pleasure in Ethan’s losses. It makes me question myself entirely. What if I’m not mature enough to end this? How will I know as long as not competing with him leaves me with the upper hand? I don’t trust myself enough to believe there isn’t a small corner of my brain enjoying exactly what I’m doing to him.
Three more months of this. I sit, hating the idea. Not fighting with Ethan is going to be as strenuous as fighting with Ethan. I remind myself it’s for the best, and I can handle three months.
Except, I realize, it won’t really be three months. The thought rushes over me like a wave of exhaustion. I’ve noticed hints of this one unnerving truth in Jamie’s new friendships with her old classmates, in the reunion I’ve been forced to plan—even in Hector’s reminiscences and hellos to Dairy Queen Daniel. High school holds a unique immortality for everyone. It clings on to your identity the way elementary and middle school don’t, or first boyfriends or first jobs. For whatever reason, high school lingers.
For me, every memory of Ethan will linger with it, haunting me even while I move on to college and what comes after.
Twenty-Six
“WHO’S GOING TO BE there?” Mom asks from the passenger seat. The sun isn’t yet setting, the sky the gray-blue of the hours before dusk. It’s Friday night, the night of the bonfire. I’m driving to the beach because Mom insisted I needed the practice, what with my driving test in only weeks, and I feel out of place in Mom’s sleek SUV when I’d gotten used to Hector’s small sedan. Despite the differences, though, I can’t deny parts of driving are starting to come more easily to me.
“There are going to be teachers, if that’s what you’re asking,” I reply.
She makes a dissatisfied sound. “I don’t mean supervision. I mean, like, people you’re interested in seeing,” she says leadingly. When we pull up to the stop, I glance right and find her eyeing me inquisitively. She’s wearing her black blazer and skirt from the office, having come home early, the way she often does on Fridays.
“You mean guys,” I correct, slightly annoyed.
“There’s a guy you’re interested in seeing?” Mom asks immediately.
I recognize the witness-stand trick she’s pulling on me. “You’re putting words in my mouth.” My phone vibrates in the cup holder, where it rests on an empty granola bar wrapper and the collection of change my mom keeps for meters. The interior of my mom’s car reflects her perfectly, professional in its clean cream-colored leather, yet with over-it details of empty water bottles and a hectically packed glove compartment.
“You going to get that?” Mom asks.
“No, Mom. I’m driving.”
She nods, looking satisfied. “Good answer.” She eyes the phone with an interest, even an eagerness, I really don’t like. “Besides, you probably don’t want to read your hot hookup plans for the night right next to your mom.”
“I do not have hot hookup plans.” I flush. It’s just like my mom, openly wishing her daughter would have an enthusiastic sex life. When she only smiles knowingly, I gesture to my phone. “I don’t. Really. Here, read me the message.” Hopefully it’s from Adam. We’ve been trading emails on updating the reunion website, which Adam refuses to give me the login for.
Mom needs no more invitation. She grabs my phone and keys in the password. I don’t dwell on how she knows it. While the light changes and I drive into the intersection, she reads the message. “It’s from Dylan,” she says. “She’s leaving in ten minutes, and she wants to know if you have a towel.” Mom looks up. “Why would you need a towel?”
“I don’t know.” I rotate in my seat to check for cars, then change lanes. It feels harrowing, but no one honks. “I’ll ask her when I’m not driving.”
“I’ll just ask her now,” Mom says. I don’t have the chance to protest. Out of the corner of my eye, I watch her type and send the message. When Dylan responds a moment later, Mom looks up. “There’s going to be skinny-dipping,” Mom informs me excitedly. “Did you know there was going to be skinny-dipping?”
“No, and I don’t care.” We’re close to the coast now, on residential streets of houses with tennis courts. I’m not surprised there will be skinny-dipping. While it’s not like I’ve been to plenty of bonfires over the years, the experience I’ve had throwing them for student government has taught me they have two parts. First there’s the school-spirit part, with cheerleading, red and white beaded necklaces, and of course, teacher supervision. Once the teachers leave, the bonfire turns into a regular party for whoever wants to stay. I guess this time with skinny-dipping.
“Oh, come on,” Mom chides. “Don’t be like that.”