Dylan looks only half convinced. “Yeah. I guess.”
It’s obvious she’s still upset, and honestly, so am I. Neither of us says anything. The music on in the store, some outdated radio hit, underscores the emptiness of the moment. In the midst of our silence, Olivia walks up, oblivious. Stowing her phone in her bag, she eyes the chalkboards disdainfully. “This place is so boring,” she says. “I have a friend who’s an amazing artist. You should hire her.”
Dylan laughs, which I ignore. “I don’t have the budget to hire anyone, Olivia. But thanks for the idea.” I grab a couple chalkboards for the sign-in table and walk to the checkout, pointedly not watching how Dylan drapes herself over Olivia, giggling in her ear.
I feel like I don’t know my best friend. Or really, I feel like she’s returning to the version of herself I remember from months ago. The thought presses painfully on the walls of my chest while I go through the motions of handing cash over to the clerk.
We’re graduating in less than three months. We’re supposed to be moving on, moving out of our homes and our high school selves. It’s what I know waits on the horizon for me. With every mention I hear of Olivia, every rebound like this one, I worry Dylan won’t graduate the same way I will. If she doesn’t, I don’t know what happens next. Maybe we’ll end up like Hector and AJ, wondering in ten years if we’ll reconnect.
Maybe we won’t even have that.
Thirty-One
PRODUCTION WEEK FEELS LIKE real newspaper journalism, like working long hours, juggling reporters, editors, and photographers, feeling the pressure of actual deadlines and responsibilities. It’s the opposite of the Chronicle during the school day, one hour of fifth period with everyone eating their lunches and doing their math homework. On Monday night, the first night of production for this month’s issue, I’m in my office, loving every minute and allowing the reunion to fade temporarily from my thoughts.
In the newsroom, everyone’s working on the iMacs lining the walls, the wide screens emanating cool computer light. It’s half past eight, and the windows frame dark views of the empty campus. Ms. Heyward checks in every hour from grading papers next door. Nearly the entire editorial staff is here, only one of the sports editors missing to cover an away match. The trays of takeout tacos someone’s mom brought sit picked-over on one table, and repetitive hip-hop plays quietly from the speakers in the corner.
I’m fact-checking Ethan’s story on my computer, googling figures and cross-referencing notes. Ethan’s out in the newsroom, engaged in conversation with one of the features editors, who’s supposed to be working.
When I search the spelling of one of his source’s names, I have to scroll through several results to find the confirmation I need. The name’s complicated enough I nearly don’t notice the headline of the result I find it under, instead focusing on the placement of every e and i. What catches my eye is the phrase preceding the name. It’s the exact wording of the quote I just edited.
Then my eyes flit up to the headline. My blood freezes.
I check my computer window a couple times. Google Chrome, not Microsoft Word. I scroll down and up a couple times, my mind numb, not comprehending. But I know what I’m reading. It’s this story. My story. But it’s on the San Mateo Daily Journal’s website. Ethan’s byline sits under the headline, tauntingly professional and perfect in the Daily Journal’s font.
Immediately, I realize what he’s done. He’s sold his story to a larger publication. School issues are community issues, so when Ethan presumably approached the local newspaper with a fully researched, well-reported story on Fairview High’s gym funding, the Daily Journal editor would have shrugged and gone for it.
The first time we discussed his coverage, Ethan fought my edits and I threateningly suggested he take his story elsewhere. Which is exactly what he did.
It crosses every line. It escalates our warfare past casual insults and competing on exams. He might think he’s made a nice move in the game of our rivalry, when really, he’s flipped the board. I feel my emotions cascading unstoppably, from confusion into sheer shock into rage.
I hardly even hear my door fly open when I charge into the newsroom. Ethan’s standing behind the center spread editor, reaching over his shoulder and pointing at some text on the screen. “Drop the word important,” Ethan instructs the editor. “It’s unnecessary, and it’s why the caption’s running over.”
“Ethan.” I raise my voice. “What the fuck.”
I feel quiet descend over the room. Everyone’s looking. Whoever’s working near the speakers even lowers the music. While the Chronicle staff is used to the level of hostility in Ethan’s and my relationship, it’s never like this. Even I’ve rarely heard the stony fury solidifying my every syllable.
Ethan turns to me, and I know he’s the only one in the room who knows why I’m angry. His eyes sparkle. “What’s up, Sanger?” The casualness in his reply is calculated, intended to irritate.
I cross my arms. Right now, I’m not interested in games. “You know exactly what,” I say.
Ethan says nothing. He maintains our eye contact, and the silence practically echoes in the newsroom. His lips twitch. Erin Goldberg, the managing editor, stands up abruptly, the metallic screech of her chair on the linoleum punctuating the moment. “Everyone out,” she says, forcibly upbeat. “Five-minute break.”
She ushers the gawking staffers into the hallway, and I shoot her a grateful glance. When I return my gaze to Ethan, he’s leaning on the desk, hands in his pockets. He looks hatefully delighted with himself, a Ralph Lauren magazine model who’s gotten away with murder. “The Daily Journal, Ethan? Seriously?”
“They were really eager for the story,” he replies with a shrug.
“I assigned you that story,” I say, fighting to keep my response focused on real points instead of flinging playground insults. “I gave you the resources to write it. I fought to get you in with the Ed Foundation. It was my piece.”
“Yet it’s my name in the byline.” The first hint of spite enters his voice.
I fume. “Were you ever going to tell me?”
“I knew you’d find it.” He’s flippant, having erased whatever malice I just heard. He pushes his hair back with one hand, and I’m reminded of our walk on the beach. I can’t believe I had a halfway respectful conversation with him then.
“And now I’m supposed to, what? Pull together some unfinished crap and put it on the front page of the issue we’re required to send to the NSPC?”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” Ethan says. “You can just syndicate my story.”