Instead of spending even a millisecond more focusing on Ethan, I distract myself. I pull out my phone and text Dylan.
Where are you?
I wait for her response as the sun sets, slivering into nothing on the horizon. The temperature sinks, making me glad I brought the vest I’m wearing over my sweater. While the fire’s unlit, the beach is packed now. Laughter and errant shouts echo up from the dense crowd of my classmates. Already people have started coming over to purchase preemptive s’mores supplies, and I hand them paper trays of graham crackers, marshmallows, compostable skewers, and squares of Hershey’s.
When I feel my phone vibrate, I finish serving Jackson Parker and his freshman sister, then check the message.
It’s from Dylan. Finally. I frown, reading.
Ran into Olivia. I’m not going to make it. I’ll explain later.
I stare at her words, feeling uneasy. I’m not even frustrated that she flaked on me—with how many volunteers there are here, Isabel won’t notice. What gets me is the thought of Dylan dropping everything for Olivia. I don’t know if they’re fighting, or if this is like Starbucks and Dylan’s just rattled to have seen Olivia. Whatever it is, the fact her ex was enough for her to completely bail on this plan doesn’t bode well. It’s unnervingly in character, given how Olivia kind of consumed Dylan’s life. While I sympathize with Dylan post-breakup, it’s better for Dylan to leave Olivia in the past.
I’m composing a reply when I hear Principal Williams’s voice. “You supposed to be texting while running the stand?”
Looking up flatly, I find Williams watching me with amusement. The Fairview jacket she’s wearing appears impeccably clean, possibly new. Of course even her school-spirit attire is polished. Pointedly, I place my phone on the table. “Can I get you a s’more, Principal Williams?”
“Yes, thank you.” Williams nods once.
I hand her the paper tray of ingredients, then wait for her to leave, which she doesn’t. Instead, she watches the stretch of sand in front of us, her eyes sharp and unreadable. They narrow when two boys charge past us, one tackling the other until they crash into the sand, laughing.
“Knock it off or detention!” Williams shouts. They get up, dusting sand from their clothes, and rejoin the crowd, shooting her sullen looks. She shakes her head. “It’s unbelievable the stupid shit kids will get up to under your nose,” she says to me, then shoots me a glance I could possibly consider respectful. “Except for you, of course.”
“Of course,” I say. I can’t explain why she’s being candid with me right now. “Future valedictorians need to hold themselves to higher standards.”
Williams huffs a laugh. “Well, I hope future valedictorians, which I might say is pretty confident of you to declare in March—” I shrug, nonchalant. “I hope even future valedictorians let themselves have fun from time to time,” Williams continues, gesturing to the beach. “Enjoying a bonfire, for instance.”
“I’m enjoying it.” It’s true. While I probably wouldn’t spend my entire life selling s’mores on the beach, I like the feeling of contributing to student government and executing something I planned.
Williams looks unconvinced. Her gaze roams to the unlit pyre. “We didn’t have bonfires when I was in high school. We did have football games. I loved marching in the band.” Her eyes refocus on me, the spell of nostalgia gone and the Williams I know returning. “You and Mr. Molloy have done a competent job with the reunion, from what I understand. Just remember, it’ll be your ten-year reunion before you know it. You might want memories of high school to look back on besides studying, and exams, and . . . selling s’mores.”
I bite back instantaneous annoyance. I don’t know why Williams is suddenly reflecting on her time in high school or why she feels the need to talk to me about it, but I’m not interested in her projected regrets. You would think working on an actual high school campus would make her immune to teenage reminiscence. Apparently not. It’s like the very fact that I’m about to graduate makes the adults around me long for what’s behind them. Jamie, Hector, Williams—they all think they have some perspective I lack on my own life.
Will I have regrets? Possibly. I don’t really care. Right now, I know what I want. I’m decisive and capable, and every choice I make is with conscious thought. If I wanted to enjoy the bonfire or study less, I would.
“This future valedictorian happens to like selling s’mores,” I say, keeping my voice upbeat.
I’m distracted when I see Ethan behind her, heading this way. His expression is all conceited lines and haughty lips, his eyes restless, like they’re looking for something worthy of a glare. The knowledge I’m the intended target quickens my pulse, sending a confused concoction of emotions through my veins. Anticipation, anger, even a strange kind of relief, like walking into an exam I know I’m prepared for.
Williams must notice my expression sour, because she follows my gaze to Ethan. “It looks like Mr. Molloy is approaching,” she says, facing me once more. “I think I’ll reach a minimum safe distance.” I nod, and she walks off right as Ethan steps up to the stand.
He looks right at me, his eyes flickering side to side, searching. Before he opens his mouth, I know he’s desperate for a fight.
“You should have sold them for three dollars,” he finally says, pointing to the s’mores sign. His gaze remains fixed on me, and I wonder what other opening strikes he considered, then discarded.
I feel the undimmed itch to debate him, to play into his game, to allow my blood to boil. It’s been days, and the urge hasn’t faded. It hasn’t even weakened. Like I have all week, I fight it, repressing the impulses I wish I could change. Behind Ethan, the baseball coach is standing in front of the bonfire speaking to the assembled crowd. I catch only every other word through the crackle of his megaphone, but it’s clear the fire’s about to be lit. There’ll be a rush on the stand once it is, and I’ll be spared Ethan by a line of hungry classmates.
“Isabel and Kristin picked the price,” I tell Ethan, my voice meticulously measured. “It wasn’t my decision.”
Clearly not having a retort, Ethan circles to my side of the stand. I don’t budge, but I don’t order him out, either. “What did Williams want?” he asks, examining the system of trays and supplies I’ve arranged.
“Just a s’more.”
Ethan rearranges the box of graham crackers and the bag of marshmallows, reaching in front of me and reordering my precise assembly line without permission. “Looked like a pretty long conversation over a s’more,” he says, leaning on the table with lips curled. “I swear, Sanger, only you would come to a party and end up hanging out with the principal.”