Dylan’s quiet for a moment. I’m guessing she knows me well enough to hear past the effortful neutrality of my voice. “Wow,” she says carefully. “That must’ve been intense.” I nod, though the intensity in my office wasn’t the type she thinks. “I’m sorry, Alison.” Camera in her lap, she loops her arm in mine. “I know you were hoping you wouldn’t have to deal with him once we graduate. Maybe you can treat Harvard like a fresh start and stay as far from him as possible.”
“I hope so,” I say.
It’s not necessarily an honest response. Faced with the void of the next couple months, the idea of competition—even competition as ruthless as Ethan’s and mine—isn’t unwelcome. Not to mention the unnameable reasons, the newer . . . interactions we’ve had recently.
“Yes,” Dylan says. “Finally.”
Not knowing what she’s referring to, I follow her eyeline and find the Fairview puma mascot walking onto the field. The large polyester cat hypes up the crowd with exaggerated hand motions. I pull out my phone to reread the Harvard letter, not interested in watching Christian Schwartz, the junior class president, do his mascot routine.
“Speak of the devil,” Dylan singsongs.
The implication of her words doesn’t hit me immediately. When I understand, my head leaps up from my phone, finding the puma doing jumping jacks on the rust-hued dirt of the first base line. “No,” I say. “No way.”
Dylan’s facing me, no doubt reveling in my expression. “Christian had some family obligation. I heard the cheerleaders mention it before the game,” she explains while I’m putting the pieces together in my head. If Christian’s not doing his usual mascot duty, Isabel would have needed to find a replacement fast. One of the only people whose elongated frame fits the suit is—Ethan. “My gift to you for getting into Harvard,” she concludes proudly.
In fascination and delight, I return my gaze to the dancing puma, now loving every part of its ridiculous routine. It’s obvious Ethan has no idea what he’s doing. He’s making this up on the fly, choreographing every wave and clap of his gawky paws without rhyme or reason. I’m honestly impressed Isabel strong-armed him into this. With this on her résumé, I think she’s the greatest class president in history.
He must have gone directly from my office to the equipment shed. It’s why he was on campus so late in the first place, I realize. I join the crowd in egging him on, cheering when he gives the kids in front high fives and laughing when he nearly stumbles over his own feet.
When the game resumes, Ethan walks over to the cheerleaders’ water station right in front of us. He removes his puma head, and I smile so hard my face hurts. His usually perfectly coiffed hair is flattened down and disheveled, his neck slick with sweat. I wonder if he’s wearing his blue button-down from earlier under there.
“Looking good,” Dylan calls out.
Ethan spins. His eyes narrow when he sees us.
“Sanger thinks so,” he says.
He’s smirking. I’m stunned by how direct the comment is, how public, and it doesn’t help he’s looking right at me. I can’t think of a reply.
“Gross,” Dylan fires back. “As if.”
His eyes flash to my friend and immediately return to me. I know with unnerving clarity he’s guessed exactly what’s implicit in Dylan’s reply. He knows I haven’t told her he and I hooked up. The knowledge is dangerous in Ethan’s hands—what knowledge isn’t?—and I’m flooded with momentary fear he’s going to drop the reveal on her right now.
Instead, he only shrugs, leaving me frustratingly grateful before he picks up his puma head and walks toward the cheerleaders congregating on the sideline. I’m 99 percent certain I’m out of the woods when he looks over his shoulder and winks.
I glance at Dylan, hoping she didn’t see, but she just rolls her eyes. I relax, reassured by her overt exasperation.
“He is definitely not one of the things I’ll be sad to leave behind with high school,” she says, picking her camera back up.
I cringe. For a moment, I imagine confessing Ethan and I hooked up. Hooked up twice. I couldn’t even blame her for how horrified she’d undoubtedly be.
“Sorry.” She frowns sympathetically, evidently misinterpreting my expression. “Maybe he won’t go to Harvard. Maybe he’ll go somewhere douchier. Like Yale.”
“Yeah, maybe,” I say, forcing hopefulness into my voice. It’s disingenuous, just like every time I pretended there’s nothing going on between me and Ethan. My nemesis puts his puma head on, returns to the sidelines, and picks up his impromptu cheerleading.
It’s no longer much fun to watch.
Forty-One
MY PARENTS ORDER MY favorite pizza to celebrate Harvard. The three of us eat in the backyard, the cardboard boxes piled on the ground in front of the firepit my dad decided to build three years ago and which we’ve used approximately twice. Jamie was at Ted’s house when I came home. Honestly, I was relieved she wasn’t there. We haven’t spoken since yesterday, and the thought of announcing my success to her definitely won’t help us reconcile.
Except for Jamie’s absence and the memory of Ethan’s . . . everything, the evening is exactly what I’ve been dreaming of.
“So, Alison,” my dad says, licking sauce from his fingers, “you happy?”
“I am.” It’s the truth. Even Ethan can’t change that. I’m proud of myself.
“No reservations about leaving California?” Mom asks.
“None.”
“What about leaving Dylan?” She leans back in her chair, passing the crust she doesn’t want to my dad.
I eye them, suspicious of this line of questioning. “We’ll visit each other.”
“How about your amazing parents? Will we be allowed to visit you?” She raises an eyebrow.
“She doesn’t have a choice,” Dad answers. “I’m looking forward to parents’ weekend already. We’ll get to hang out with her roommates, talk to random students in the dining hall . . .”
I roll my eyes, but it doesn’t sound terrible.
“Meet the people she’s made out with,” Mom adds.
“Oh, she’ll hate that,” Dad says.
The thought is mildly terrifying. “You think I’ll have multiple hookups by parents’ weekend? Isn’t that like a month into the semester?”
“We went to college once,” Dad says. “Hey, completely unrelated question, but where will Ethan Molloy be matriculating this fall?”