Out loud. Really loud. The sound explodes from my phone speakers, cutting right into the film’s quiet scene. I fumble to switch off the audio, but my finger slips. Counting on it to make up for the day I’ve had, phone Ethan declares. He grins cheekily, and finally I successfully mute him.
The damage is already done.
“Alison,” my dad says slowly, “was that Ethan’s voice?”
“Hey, look”—I point to the screen—“The, um, bad guy is . . . doing stuff.”
My mom pauses the movie. Evidently, I’m more entertaining. “Have you been paying attention at all? That’s one of the good guys.”
“Right. That guy. Let’s keep watching.”
“Were you just playing Ethan’s Insta Stories?” Dad asks, a dangerously keen look in his eyes.
“By accident.”
Dad turns to Mom. “Something’s going on with her.”
“I agree. She’s been jumpy since she got home.”
“She’s definitely been distracted,” Jamie says.
I stand up. “I’m not—jumpy.”
“With all due respect,” Dad says gently, “you literally did just jump up.”
This was a mistake. I should’ve stayed in my room. “Not because of—anything. Especially not Ethan.”
“Especially not Ethan?” Mom repeats. “Did you hear that? It’s definitely not, in any way, about Ethan.”
“I’m just getting some water. How about we all drop this interrogation when I get back?” I head into the kitchen, ignoring the audience of smirks behind me.
Standing in front of the open fridge, I let the cool air chill my cheeks. With a quick glance into the living room to make sure my family’s turned back to the movie, I replay Ethan’s video three times, with the sound off. He doesn’t look bothered. His comment about his day could refer to our kiss, but it could also just refer to his story being left out of the paper. Not because he’s actually upset about the journalism recognition. I took a victory from him, one he’d counted on.
I realize I’m desperate for some indication of how he’s responding to what happened. Is he as confused and disturbed as I am? His easy smiles in the video betray no hint of a deeper agitation. If he hates me, I’d expect to find the regular manifestations of his anger, but I don’t. If he doesn’t hate me, then surely he’d seem less confident, more uncertain. I can’t read him at all, which is unusual.
A horrifying thought enters my mind. What if he’s already started his revenge? What if kissing me was nothing but his next mind game? Just a way to ensure I’m distracted and not getting ahead on homework while he’s off enjoying his party. It’s just the kind of awful thing I should expect from the guy who lied to me about his story. The possibility lodges in my stomach with more discomfort than I care to admit, making me question everything about myself over one heart-stopping, incredible—
No. I won’t let his retaliation work. I click to replay the video, hoping I missed something, but before it starts, a text from Dylan drops into the screen.
I’m outside. Busy?
I close Instagram immediately, suddenly hyperconscious of just how long I’ve spent on Ethan’s profile alone in this kitchen. I have to get over this, put Ethan out of my mind, forget every memory I have of the kiss. Focusing on Dylan is the perfect diversion, better than this disastrous movie night. Dylan doesn’t drop by unannounced without drama to share, usually of the Olivia variety.
I reach the front room, the sounds of my family’s movie drifting down the hall, and peer through the window to find Dylan leaning against her car door. Things have been a little off between us ever since our argument in Michaels. Neither one of us has brought up Olivia, and part of me is relieved she’s decided to confide in me again despite knowing what I think of her relationship. When I open the front door, Dylan practically jogs to the house, her eyes bright and her cheeks flushed.
“I got in,” she squeals before we’re inside.
I blink, trying to connect her words to Olivia. “You got into what?”
“Berkeley!” Her face breaks into a wide grin. “I just checked my email! My parents aren’t home yet, and I had to tell someone.”
“Oh my god.” My mind empties, all thoughts of Olivia—of everything with Ethan—vanishing. Dylan got into Berkeley. Her dream school. I feel her elation in my own chest, as real as if I’d just heard from Harvard.
Dylan’s eyes are almost glassy, like she hasn’t accepted this is real yet. “I know,” she says dreamily.
“Berkeley,” I repeat, just because it’s wonderful to say out loud. “This is amazing, Dylan. I’m so happy for you.” I’m not what one might call a “hugger.” I don’t hug friends goodbye when I’m not going to see them for three days, and I don’t like to look like the little kid constantly running into her parents’ embrace. But right now, a hug feels more than called for. I sweep Dylan into my arms. She’s stiff for a second, evidently surprised by the gesture, then quickly squeezes me back.
“It’s all because of you,” Dylan says when we separate. “If you hadn’t edited my essays and helped me study for the SAT, I’d never have gotten in.”
“No way,” I reply firmly. Dylan always does this. She looks for how to downplay her success and achievements. We’re opposites in this way, among others. I don’t press her when I know she’s trying to protect herself, like when she acts like photography is a joke and not her passion. I know her reticence comes from not wanting to expose such a personal part of herself to rejection and ridicule. It’s a habit Olivia encourages. The difference is Olivia is so good at acting like she doesn’t care that sometimes I wonder if she even does. I know Dylan cares, though. With this accomplishment, I don’t want her to hide her achievement from the world or herself. “This is because of you,” I tell her. “And because Berkeley was smart enough to recognize how incredible you are.”
Dylan averts her eyes, but her lips twitch, and I know she’s pleased. She collapses onto the blue armchair near the window. “I haven’t even told Olivia yet,” she says. “She’s in an evening lab until ten. I can’t believe it. We’re going to be at the same school next year. No more long distance. It’ll be just like last year.”
My stomach twists. I can’t ignore how quickly this achievement has been put in terms of Olivia. Getting into college is supposed to be a new chapter in Dylan’s life, not just a repeat of one that should have been closed by now. But I don’t want to fight again. “We should take a trip up to Berkeley,” I suggest brightly. “Maybe we can view their art and photography program.” I’m hoping a campus tour can show Dylan just how much there is to be excited for at Berkeley other than her former ex.