I pull out my phone, finding texts from Dylan.
Where are you? We have to leave.
Alison??
I don’t know what’s going on with Dylan, but I have absolutely no objection to getting as far from this house—this bedroom—as possible. I send off a quick reply, telling her I’ll meet her at the door, then stand and reach awkwardly for my shirt on the floor. Ethan does the same, turning his back as he gets dressed. Neither of us says anything. I can’t even look him in the eye. I may never be able to look him in the eye again.
I head for the door, then pause. The sounds of the party are louder here, no longer muffled by Ethan’s sheets. My classmates are down there. The thought of them, or anyone, finding out what we just did . . . I can’t imagine it.
“This,” I begin, turning back to Ethan, “can’t leave this room.”
“For once I agree,” he replies quickly. “And, Sanger”—he looks away from me, like he’s ashamed—“This won’t happen again.” He says it like he’s commanding himself.
I know better than to trust Ethan, even if I want to. And I’m not certain either of us knows what this has become. But I’m not going to contradict him. I nod and walk out, hoping Ethan’s smart enough to wait five minutes before following me.
My legs feel unstable as I descend the stairs. My heart is pounding, my face feverish. I cut through the crowd, flattening my hair when I catch my reflection in the decorative mirror in the hallway. I look wild. A dangerous edge in my eyes. Something has changed, but I don’t know quite what. This is the reflection of a girl recently kissed by Ethan. A girl who wanted more of him.
I quicken my steps, continuing toward the front door, making my way through classmates who are blissfully unaware of what just transpired ten feet above them.
“There you are,” Dylan says. She finds me in the living room and immediately takes my elbow to usher us outside. “I’m so screwed. I posted a photo from the party, and Olivia saw. She was super jealous. When I told her I was celebrating because I got in to Berkeley, she just got pissed I hadn’t told her first. I need to get out of here and call her.”
I don’t trust my voice to be steady enough to reply. I settle for nodding sympathetically. Thankfully, Dylan seems too emotionally preoccupied to take in my disheveled state. She checks her phone, which is lighting up constantly with a stream of texts. It’s classic Olivia. She doesn’t always want to be with Dylan, but the moment Dylan does something without her, she snaps, making Dylan a villain for doing nothing more than what Olivia does on a regular basis. I don’t comment on how selfish and controlling Olivia is being, though. I don’t want another fight. Besides, after what I just did upstairs, I no longer think I’m qualified to give even remedial romantic advice.
When we reach the door, I catch sight of Ethan out of the corner of my eye. He’s entering the living room, heading to join Isabel and a crowd of ASG people talking by the fireplace. I can’t help noticing he hasn’t tucked his shirt in fully on his side, revealing a sliver of skin at his waistband. My hand was on that skin. I shiver at the memory, feeling the whisper of his breath on my neck.
Ethan says something to Isabel, who laughs. Just twenty minutes ago I was hoping they would get together and clear my path to valedictorian. Now . . . I don’t know what I want. Every truth I’d believed unshakeable is wobbling in my mind, threatening to crash to the floor, bringing down with it the very core of who I am. I hate Ethan Molloy. I can’t wait to be free of him, to leave him behind and never look back. Our relationship is nothing but competition with the only objective being showing my superiority at his expense.
But there’s more now. I . . . want him. I like the way he kisses me. I feel flushed remembering how close our bodies were. With every recollection, I recognize my detail-oriented brain betraying me. I’m used to compiling the components of student government funding proposals, of chemistry rules, of the War of 1812. This is not the War of 1812. This is me and Ethan in his bedroom. There’s definitely chemistry, but not the type I got the highest grade on in Honors sophomore year.
I’m furious with myself for the realization, but I know there’s something between us. Something other than rivalry or winning.
Something I don’t understand. Not even close.
The problem is, I don’t want to figure out this new whatever-it-is right now. I don’t have time, and I don’t know if I even want to follow my thoughts down this path. I have very real reasons for disliking Ethan—insults he’s flung my way, the self-satisfied way he carries himself, his attempt to screw me over with the newspaper. What’s more, I don’t know how much of what we did upstairs was one of Ethan’s games.
I decide I hope he does get together with Isabel. It would fix everything, close off every question. Then I wouldn’t have to wonder what our surprisingly heat-filled collision was to Ethan.
Or what it was to me.
Thirty-Eight
ETHAN AND I DON’T return to normal on Monday or on Tuesday. To outside observers I’m sure we look like nothing’s changed. Ethan reads on his phone in class, spends ASG scribbling notes in his copy of Hamlet like his thoughts have outpaced his pen, and jokes with staffers in the newsroom during lunch. I throw myself into my rituals and routines, making sure I don’t waste even a single minute.
When we’re called into Ms. Heyward’s room during the Chronicle class period on Monday for complaints from the Chronicle staff about the latest issue, we both do our utmost to push the other in front of the firing squad. Apparently, some of the editors took issue with me writing a new story in one night and publishing it without running it by anyone.
I explain what Ethan did, and Ethan gives a speech to Ms. Heyward about how I should have syndicated his story. Ms. Heyward isn’t moved by either of us. She lectures us on professionalism and assigns us each a five-page paper on journalistic standards as if we’re freshmen who’ve forgotten to cite their sources. To be talked down to by a teacher who wouldn’t have even known about my story unless someone complained to her would normally frustrate me beyond measure. But it’s a testament to how much making out with Ethan has messed with my head that I take Ms. Heyward’s lecture without a fight.
Only when Ethan’s alone with me do I know he’s as uncomfortable as I am. It’s obvious in the little inconsistencies. He doesn’t goad me or get competitive when Mr. Pham announces a graded practice AP exam at the end of the week. He doesn’t even make eye contact with me. I know why. Neither one of us wants to risk reigniting whatever happened in his room. We know if we did, it might finally consume us. Mutually assured distraction.
I have one very fortunate, if nerve-wracking, diversion. Harvard decisions come out on April 1—two days from now.