Homework waits for me in my room, hours I’m behind on. I don’t hesitate. “Let me drop off my bag.”
Jamie grins, and I know the two hours of sleep I’ll lose will be worth it.
Forty-Eight
I’M CONTENT FOR THE next week enjoying the ill-defined relationship Ethan and I have. It’s definitely not dating, not the way our classmates do. We don’t hold hands or make out in the halls, he doesn’t meet me in front of my locker or eat lunch with me, and I don’t doodle his name in my notebooks or, god, change my phone background. Really, our relationship doesn’t much differ from before the kissing. We compete on every quiz, debate in every discussion. It’s perfect.
The only difference is sometimes I catch something hungry in his glares in class, and, on occasion, when our classmates are distracted, we find a private place and pause our reviewing for fifteen minutes.
Which is what we’re doing on Friday after school. We’re in my Chronicle office, where we went to check our grades online for yesterday’s calc midterm. Unfortunately, or fortunately, the newsroom was empty, and we got distracted in my office.
I’m perched on the edge of my desk, my legs on either side of Ethan’s waist. With Ethan’s lips pressed to mine, I murmur, “You’re stalling.”
“You’re the one who closed the blinds,” he replies instantly, his breath hot on my neck.
It’s a valid point. I hate when he has valid points. One more way our relationship hasn’t changed. I use a reliable countermove, changing the subject. Pulling back, I narrow my eyes suspiciously. “What will your task for me be if I score worse?”
Ethan’s eyes light up. “Now there’s a fun thought.”
I realize what he’s implying. While I don’t not enjoy the goading charge in his voice, I drop my hands. “I think we need to establish some new ground rules,” I say, picking his hand off my hip pointedly. “Nothing sexual.”
He glances down at where my legs are wrapped around his waist.
“Not for our tasks,” I clarify.
“So sexual stuff outside the competition is okay?” His lips curl. I grimace, realizing I walked right into his reply. My cheeks flame. Point: Ethan.
Instead of getting flustered, I scramble for the higher ground, lowering my hand to his belt buckle. “Obviously,” I say.
Ethan’s eyes widen. I’m highly conscious of where we’re positioned, the edge of the desk digging into my thighs, his hand on the wood next to me, him watching me intently from his height above me. I’ve pushed the conversation in this new direction, not knowing exactly where it leads. None of my previous relationships went this far, but it’s definitely not something I’m opposed to. Outside of school, that is. I think. With my hand on Ethan’s belt, I’m 99 percent sure I’m bluffing.
I don’t have the chance to confront the other one percent. Ethan and I jump apart when we hear the newsroom door open, the noise resounding through the wall of my office. I drop into my desk chair, pretending I’m working, right when my door opens.
“Dylan, how nice to see you,” Ethan says, slightly breathless.
Dylan doesn’t seem to notice. Walking in, she stands on the opposite side of the office from him, sparing him a sneering look. “Surely there’s someone else you could be bothering right now.”
Ethan picks up his shoulder bag. I notice he positions it strategically in front of his waist. “But Sanger is the most fun,” he says.
I imagine my cheeks changing from pink to fuchsia. Working very hard not to catch Ethan’s eye, I focus on Dylan. “Is it time already?” I ask.
“Um, yeah. You were supposed to meet me ten minutes ago.” Dylan’s voice holds irritation I now realize isn’t only reserved for Ethan. “It’s not like you to be late.” Her brow furrowed, she watches me with commingled impatience and curiosity.
“I take full responsibility,” Ethan interjects humorously.
Dylan’s eyes cut to him, visibly loathing. It makes me uncomfortable. While Dylan and I have practically made a two-person sport of hating Ethan, I’m suddenly no longer interested in her looking like she’s lining up shots on the goal.
I preempt her hurriedly. “Sorry, let’s go.” I give Ethan a final glance while I’m walking out with Dylan, which he receives with a flicker of the corner of his lips, playfulness in his eyes for only me to see.
I follow Dylan into campus. It takes effort to ignore how much I wish Ethan and I could continue where we left off. However, I promised Dylan I’d come with her to the final dress rehearsal for the drama department’s spring musical, The Wizard of Oz, which she’s photographing for yearbook. Figuring I could dust off my reporting skills, I decided I’d write the feature for the Chronicle since I’d be there anyway.
Dylan’s camera bag bounces on the hip of her black jeans while we walk. As we pass an underclassman couple on one of the benches, holding hands and sharing earphones in their hoodies, she turns back to me. “What did Ethan want this time?”
“Oh, nothing,” I reply, feigning carelessness. Dylan raises an eyebrow at my vague response. “We were just comparing calc scores,” I elaborate.
We fall into step on the short set of stairs separating the auditorium from the rest of campus. “I don’t know how you stand working with him.” Dylan shakes her head. “The extra time you have to spend with him on the Chronicle must be torture.”
“It’s . . .” I search for the right description. I wouldn’t call what just happened in my office torture. Nor what went on in Isabel’s bathroom. Nor the greatest make-out of my life in Ethan’s car on Wednesday. “Challenging,” I finish noncommittally.
“I’ll say.” Dylan laughs. She opens the auditorium doors, and we walk in. The theater is empty except for the crew members working the lighting board in the back and the director in the front row, jotting notes on his clipboard. Dylan and I slide into seats on the aisle. The musical’s just starting. Amy Davidson stands on stage, singing “Over the Rainbow.” Next to me, Dylan starts snapping photos. “Did you ever find out if Ethan’s going to Harvard?”
“He is,” I say. I still don’t know what we’re going to do when we’re on the same campus next year. He and I haven’t discussed it since our talk in his car.
Dylan frowns, face to her camera’s viewfinder. “My condolences.”
I’m eager to change the subject. “Hey, have you checked out Berkeley’s programs for photography?”
The question seems to confuse Dylan. She looks up, reading my expression. “A little,” she says. “Olivia says I should focus on requirements first.”