Ethan’s expressionless, evidently unimpressed. “Yale, Stanford, Brown, NYU.”
“Any chance you’re committing to Yale?” I ask, glancing into the hallway where Clint left, hoping to find him returning. I’m dismayed to find only the Millard Fillmore’s mottled-flesh-gray carpet and incongruous collection of framed photos.
The harsh laugh I hear from Ethan in answer is one I’ve heard often. He stands a couple feet from me, one leg hooked lankily over the other. “No,” he says. “I’m guessing you’re committing to Harvard as well?”
“Obviously.”
His lips twitch at the word. He cocks his head and crosses his arms. “So,” he says.
I wait for him to continue. In a combination of horror and delight, I wonder if he’s come up with a contest for who’ll claim his or her Harvard place and who’ll commit elsewhere, giving up our dream college to the other. It would kind of be the ultimate loser’s task.
Ethan doesn’t elaborate, however. “So what?’” I prompt him.
“Four more years of this.” His shoulders seem more squared, his posture more posed instead of comfortable. I can’t read his expression and decipher whether he’s unhappy at the prospect or weirdly excited to mar our college experiences with immature fighting and needless one-upping.
“You know,” I venture, “we could leave the competition at Fairview. Find new rivals at Harvard.” Part of me feels like the proposal is conceding defeat. The other part feels like it’s worth fighting for a well-rounded, freer college experience.
“I wasn’t referring to our competition,” he replies, eyes on me, emerald with whatever intrigue or anticipation lights them.
I steel my nerves. We’re edging toward the subject I’ve been dreading. There’s no use putting it off, pretending we can compare and compete with no other context. “What, then?”
Wry self-satisfaction infects Ethan’s smile. “Four more years of you pretending you aren’t into me.”
“Four years of you pretending you had a shot,” I say too quickly. Realizing I don’t sound confident, I continue. “How could I possibly be into you? I’ve hated you for years.” It’s a question for myself, and unfortunately not rhetorical. I’m desperate for the answer.
Ethan’s eyes narrow, his smile disappearing. I know immediately I’ve pissed him off. “You know what I think? I think you are into me.” He pushes himself off the archway and steps closer to me. “Right now, this very minute, you’re wondering about us and you’re afraid to admit it.”
“Why would I be afraid? I don’t care one iota what you think.” I hear venom in my voice exceeding even what I usually reserve for Ethan.
He flashes me an uncommon grin. It’s not a game move—it’s an emotion. “You’re right,” he muses, like he’s realizing. “It’s not my judgment you’re worried about. It’s your own. You’re afraid, after all this time, this whole rivalry, of your feelings changing. You’re afraid of who you’ll be if they do.” He’s close enough now he could reach out and touch me. I know he won’t.
I have no response. I hate that I don’t have a response.
“Admit it,” Ethan says.
The demand pushes me too far. Hot resentment rushing into me, I decide this entire discussion was a mistake. “I don’t have to admit anything to you,” I bite out. “We’re not friends, remember?”
I don’t owe Ethan any explanations. What we have isn’t real. It’s not worth interrogating or diagramming or reconstructing. It’s not worth a minute more. I grab my bag off the floor and walk directly out of the room.
Forty-Three
I RETREAT INTO THE lobby, where I drop onto the elaborately gaudy green couch. There’s a pale, redheaded boy on one end, reading, and in front of the check-in counter, a young woman waits for Clint. I ignore them, needing to cool off. I shouldn’t let Ethan’s words get under my skin the way I did. I should have had a comeback ready like I usually do. It’s clear to me why I didn’t. He was right. Everything he said was right. I don’t know what it means to like Ethan. How could I, someone so driven, so mature, develop feelings for someone I hated?
Hate.
The question unfolds into many. Can it possibly be real? What if it isn’t? What if it is? How could I start a relationship at the end of high school?
I’m interrupted in my introspection when the girl comes over from the desk to the boy reading near me. “I don’t know where the clerk is,” she says. “We have to check in, though, because we only have thirty minutes before we need to leave if we’re going to see the Golden Gate Bridge during sunset.” She has light brown skin, and her dark curly hair is in a ponytail. She’s looking around the room like she has a hundred other places she wants to be.
The redheaded boy glances up and smiles. I notice he’s reading what looks like a dictionary. “Patient as ever, Juniper,” he says. “Why don’t you just arrogate to yourself the check-in process?”
The girl—Juniper—scowls. I see right through the expression. Under her frown, there’s something softer, like she’s charmed and trying to hide it. “Now’s not the time to be cute, Fitzgerald.”
“Hey, we have five days together,” Fitzgerald replies. “I’m not forgoing a single opportunity for cuteness.”
I stifle a groan. The last thing I needed while fighting off feelings I don’t want is front-row seats to whatever this is. I grimace when Fitzgerald grabs Juniper’s hand. She snatches it back, blushing. “No flirting,” she says.
“None?” He eyes her playfully. “But I’ve stored up a plenitude of prurient comments for this sojourn in particular.” He’s got to be doing the SAT-word gimmick on purpose, I find myself guessing, a little annoyed with myself for letting their conversation draw me in.
Juniper shakes her head. “Still impossible, I see.” She spins suddenly, searching the check-in desk with frustration. “Seriously, where is the receptionist? We don’t have time to waste.”
I chime in, wanting to help out despite my dark mood. “Clint, the manager, went into the kitchen. I’m sure he’ll be out here soon.”
Juniper faces me, her scowl disappearing. “Oh, thanks. Are you staying here?” she asks me.
“No, I’m just here for a meeting.” Already, I’m regretting interjecting. On the other hand, I reason, conversation with these two is definitely preferable to returning to Ethan, or worse, the doubts occupying my head.