Hector peers into his Blizzard cup. “You’re pretty much the same.” He looks up, pointing with his spoon. “Turn right here. I wonder if AJ misses our friendship at all,” he continues without skipping a beat. “It’s not like we had a friend breakup or anything. It’s just hard to keep in touch in college. You’ll see.”
I push down my frustration with Hector’s answer and execute a perfect right turn. Pretty much the same? I continue past mall complexes and a Costco, a Starbucks and a Safeway. We’re farther from home this lesson. Hector had me drive on the freeway, and we’re currently going in circles in a stiffly suburban neighborhood I don’t recognize. “Look, if you miss this guy so much, text him,” I say.
“I don’t know if I even have his number anymore.”
I shrug. “What do you and Ethan talk about?” The question flies out of me. Once again, I realize what I’m doing. Once again I’m trying to figure Ethan out. After our conversation at the bonfire, I’m even more fixated on understanding him.
Hector, finally distracted from AJ, considers this. “He describes his plans to destroy you,” he replies.
I sit up straight until I realize Hector’s joking. “Hilarious.”
Hector chuckles. “Nah, we just listen to music or run errands.” He catches my incredulous expression. “I know you think he’s demon spawn, but he’s really a pretty average kid.”
This information leaves me with no reply. What Hector’s saying is unexpected, nonsensical. Honestly, I wouldn’t be surprised if Ethan had described his plots to destroy me. But just listening to music? Being called average? They’re new pieces in a puzzle I don’t know the full picture of. Ethan’s not just inscrutable, he’s inconsistent. He’s smart and driven, obviously, yet he flirts casually and enters relationships without real commitment, and he’s oddly ordinary with Hector. Despite how visibly upset he was when I was ignoring him, our rivalry can’t really be important to someone like him. I’ve long suspected it, and it’s getting harder and harder to deny. Competition with me is as meaningless to him as checking out Isabel or running errands with Hector.
“You know,” Hector says out of nowhere, “you’re right. I’ll just talk to AJ at the reunion.”
I’m half listening until the final word. “The what?”
“It’s our high school reunion. That’s why he’s coming into town,” Hector replies.
I nearly roll through the stop. “That wouldn’t happen to be the ten-year Fairview reunion, would it?”
Hector taps his brakes. “Yeah. Why?”
“I’m planning the Fairview ten-year reunion. With Ethan,” I reluctantly add a moment later. Hector notices the pause, no doubt.
“No shit,” he says. Rubbing his couple-days’ stubble, he continues contemplatively. “You know, you and Ethan say you hate each other, but you sure do a lot together.”
“Not by choice!” I protest.
“Right,” Hector replies, nudging humor in his voice. “Neither one of you made any choices. Not in choosing your electives or your schedules, or in agreeing to plan this reunion. You just end up together, against your will, every time.”
I open my mouth, ready to fire back with the first argument I think of. I’m not choosing to do everything with Ethan, I’m choosing what I want to do, and Ethan happens to be there. I joined the Chronicle first, and he followed me. It’s not my fault Ethan’s interests and mine collide with unfortunate frequency. In the part of my brain trained for in-class debates, I know it’s a convincing, rational explanation.
Except it’s wrong. The falseness of it feels vaguely, even worrisomely unsupportable, like houses constructed on crooked foundations. If I’d wanted, I could have switched zero-period English and sixth-period government in my schedule to avoid Ethan. I could’ve chosen to continue with Model UN at the end of freshman year instead of joining ASG. I could’ve even declined to plan the reunion, if I’m really honest. Williams wouldn’t have actually excluded me from the running for valedictorian, and one alumni recommendation won’t be the thing that gets me into Harvard.
The fact I didn’t make those choices sits with me for the rest of the drive. It’s a question I can’t answer. Or one I’m just not willing to.
Thirty
I’M WAITING IN FRONT of Michaels, the craft supply store, scrolling College Confidential. It’s nearly the end of March, which means my Harvard decision is right around the corner. In some years, Harvard has released their decisions a couple days early. I’m hunting for clues in other hopefuls’ posts, dropped hints from interviewers or admissions officers, anything.
The clock in the corner of my screen reads 2:58. Two minutes until Dylan’s meeting me here. Finding nothing on College Confidential, I click off my screen.
I’m here to pick up components for the DIY decorations I’m planning on making for the reunion. Dylan volunteered to help out. I’m guessing she’s feeling guilty for ditching the bonfire on Friday, though she didn’t mention it. It’ll be just me and her—I’m excluding Ethan as payback for him putting the DJ deposit down without consulting me.
With everything going on between him and me, the question of Harvard feels even more urgent. It’s more imperative than ever I get in over him. Because despite the doubts Hector left me with, I want Harvard, no matter whether Ethan’s there with me. I want to work on the number one college newspaper in the country. I want to learn in the oldest lecture halls, want to prove I’m worth my dream.
While I’m waiting in front of the store, I hear car doors closing. I look up and find Dylan.
And Olivia. Dylan’s ex is wearing casually cool high-waisted shorts and a vintage band tee, her expression flat. Her eyes scan the craft store parking lot, like she wishes there were, I don’t know, a music festival there or something.
“Surprise,” Dylan says eagerly. “Look who’s going to help us.”
Olivia waves, unsmiling.
I can’t say it’s a welcome surprise. My plans for the day didn’t involve forcing polite conversation with my friend’s ex or dealing with whatever hanging out with Olivia will mean for Dylan tomorrow. Not wanting to be unpleasant, I iron friendliness into my voice. “I didn’t know you were still in town,” I say to Olivia.
“I’m going back to Berkeley tonight,” she replies with an edge to her cheerfulness. “How’s everything with you, Straight-As?”
Hearing Olivia’s old nickname for me, I clench my jaw involuntarily. If it were a compliment instead of a joke, I wouldn’t mind. It’s definitely not a compliment, however. Olivia’s habit of turning people’s passions into pressure points, things to feel uncool for, is one of her worst qualities.