Every cell in my body is at war with itself. I want to turn him down, or I want to want to turn him down. I don’t know which. Either way, I don’t have the chance to muster the strength. In my head I hear, like a weeks-old echo, the clang of us making contact with the metal locker doors in the empty hallway. I smell Ethan’s off-white sheets, feel the uneven folds of his comforter under me while he pressed us chest to chest and kissed me. I—
My phone chimes on the gray plastic surface of my desk. Four p.m. In the same moment, I hear Ethan’s phone go off in his pants pocket. Of course he also set an alarm.
I say nothing. Neither does Ethan.
It shatters whatever spell was drawing us closer. I rip my eyes from him and reach for my phone, heart pounding in a whole new way. Out of the corner of my eye, I see Ethan pull his phone out. In synchrony, we log into our portals. I don’t let myself hesitate. I click through to the decision.
I am delighted . . . On the third word, I know. The rest of what’s written vanishes in a haze of euphoric realization.
Every exam I reviewed for until my eyes watered, every project I put hours into polishing, every night in the newsroom and resolution I fought for in ASG—it worked. I was as confident as possible facing impossible odds, and yet, it’s kind of incredible that I decided what I wanted and proved I was worth having it.
When I look up, I find my wild exhilaration mirrored in Ethan’s eyes, and everything changes. I’d been counting on graduation to end this rivalry. Counting on Harvard to free me from our competition. But I know from the way Ethan’s eyes dart now from his phone, to me, to mine—both of us got in. There’s no winner, only four more years together and no end in sight. It’s not just our competition we’ll have the alarming chance to continue, either—it’s the impossible attraction I’m fighting to pretend doesn’t exist.
“Congrats,” I say.
“Yeah, congrats,” he repeats.
We’re both awkward and uncomfortable. I don’t need my Harvard-worthy GPA to know it’s because he’s realizing exactly what I have. There’s no escape from each other now, no easy out. Ethan’s eyes, which had been fixed on mine for the past five minutes, now point determinedly everywhere else. He’s holding his phone, his whole posture off.
“Well,” he says, “I should probably call my parents.”
I nod. Without saying more, he walks out.
I don’t move, paralyzed under warring elation and foreboding. In the past whenever I felt pressured by my workload or frustrated with Ethan, I would imagine myself on the opposite coast under the towering trees and redbrick walls of Harvard Yard. Now I have no choice. I have to imagine Ethan there with me. It’s one more kind of fantasy he’s invaded.
He was right. We do need to talk about whatever this is. But I don’t know how, not when I was ready to kiss him again, thoughts of Harvard temporarily obliterated from my mind.
Forty
I’M HEADED FOR THE baseball field, for whatever reason.
When Ethan left, I called my parents, who were predictably delighted, and then Dylan. Over the sounds of cheering, I could hardly hear her telling me to meet her in the baseball bleachers where we would celebrate. While I don’t understand how Fairview baseball could be celebratory, I decided to join her. Today, I’m in no rush to return to the homework waiting for me. I’ve just achieved a nearly lifelong dream, and I plan on reveling in the feeling.
I walk in the gates to the field, finding classmates and parents lining up for the concessions stand and chatting in groups. Continuing into the bleachers, I hear the umpire calling pitches, the Fairview coach on the first base line beckoning players to the bat. People hold hot dogs and pretzels or play with their phones in the crowd. Dylan’s in the front row in an oversized black sweatshirt, camera raised to her eye, rotating the zoom lens with effortful precision.
“I admit,” I say, sitting down next to her, “This isn’t how I expected to celebrate getting into Harvard. Do we even like baseball?”
“I know.” Dylan’s camera shutter snaps several times in quick succession. “I’m sorry. But I have to take photos. Plus, I have a surprise for you later,” she adds.
I rub my arms in the midafternoon cold. “What?”
“Patience,” Dylan replies.
I know it would be useless to try to pry more from her. When Dylan digs her heels in, she’s immovable. Instead of wasting the effort, I settle in, turning my attention to the game. I read the names on the uniforms of players walking to the plate, recognizing Josh Campos from government and Noah West, who’s going out with Jason, one of the Chronicle sportswriters. When Nick Caufman strikes out, I cheer, earning laughter from Dylan and glares from the rest of the Fairview crowd.
Dylan elbows me gently when the inning ends. “Alison, you got into Harvard today.”
I watch the field, remembering the moment I read the letter. There was an instant of undimmed, worry-free excitement, free from the implications of Ethan following me to college. “I know,” I reply. “It feels weird. I mean, I know I put in the work. I know I deserve it. But I can’t believe college—Harvard—is really happening.”
When the words leave me, I recognize it’s not just weird I’m feeling. Away from Ethan, I’m finally able to be excited. While I wanted to definitively beat him, I have valedictorian to fight for. Besides, now I can actually start making plans and goals for college. I’ll want to be president of the Harvard Crimson, of course. Graduating Phi Beta Kappa is a must. I could even win a Rhodes Scholarship.
“We have a couple months left here, though,” Dylan says, cutting off my thoughts. “We need to make the most of them.”
I hear her nostalgia and find I’m unable to feel the way she does. When I imagine the next couple months, they’re formless. It’s the first time since the Harvard decision that I’ve contemplated the end of the school year, and I’m unnerved how empty it is. In the past I’ve had deadlines driving me, grades to gun for, extracurriculars and the overarching question of college to structure my minutes.
Without them, I feel like the pressure’s been released from my life, and the color’s fled with it. With nearly every goal met and no new ones impending until I go to Harvard, I don’t really know what I’ll do with the final months of high school. It’s easy to imagine what making the most of them means for Dylan, or Isabel, or Josh Campos. What does it mean for me? There’s valedictorian, but what else?
“I wonder if Ethan got in,” Dylan says, not helping matters.
His name fills me with the flush of emotions his presence did in my office, his eyes locked on to mine, his challenge echoing in the room. Redo. Right now. It’s half horrifying. I don’t want to identify the other half. “He did,” I say. “We were together when decisions were posted.”