I look past Dylan, seeing yearbook spreads on everyone’s screens. “From Freshman to Senior,” “Senior Superlatives,” “Pumas Give Back.” They’re pages designed to be mementos, commemorating years and friendships far behind us. It’s impossible to imagine opening this book and realizing I’ve forgotten much of what’s in it. “I hope we stay friends after we’ve graduated,” I say to Dylan.
“Me too.” Her voice is soft.
There’s no way of knowing for certain. Our lives will change next year, and we’ll change with them. It’s possible the places we fit together now will warp out of shape, matching our new worlds instead, their old contours existing only in yearbook pages. We might not be friends forever. But we’re friends right now.
I sit down next to her. “Do you want to talk about what happened with Olivia?”
Dylan’s eyes dim. “She was totally weird when I talked about visiting campus. I think I finally realized she only wants me around when she doesn’t have any better options.”
“She’s an idiot,” I say.
Dylan looks unconvinced. “Yeah.”
I don’t want college to be just bad memories and dashed hopes for Dylan. She deserves more. “You and I can visit Berkeley. Anytime you want,” I suggest. Hoping high school relationships won’t change isn’t realistic. But maintaining them while giving them room to grow could be. I want to be there, or even help, while Dylan finds her own way in college.
“There’s an art department open house in a couple weeks,” Dylan replies. “I was thinking of going and introducing myself to the photography professors.” There’s a pleased flush in her cheeks.
It fills me with pride. “We’ll do it.” I stand, ready to return to ASG and face my tardy.
“Hey, before you go”—Dylan smiles winningly—“care to contribute a quote?” She gestures to the yearbook page open on her screen.
I reread the title. “Seniors Reflect.” Had she asked a week ago, I would have scoffed and declined. Now I don’t find the yearbook quite so ridiculous. I guess graduation nostalgia is getting to even me. “Sure,” I say.”
I examine the page of quotes where seniors have recounted their favorite Fairview memories. With each entry I read, I find reminiscences I wouldn’t have chosen. Homecoming dances, bonfires, football games. It’s like seeing myself in the backgrounds of everyone else’s photos. I was there for the events they’ve described. They’re just not my high school experience.
I could’ve molded those moments into memories I’d cherish. But I didn’t. I don’t regret it. I had my own high school experience. I wrote the life I wanted from what I knew was important to me—all-nighters, working on the newspaper, competing with Ethan. Without my cherished moments in the midst of a ridiculous rivalry, I wouldn’t have found my relentless ambition or proved I could accomplish anything I put my mind to. They let me discover myself, and they changed me in ways I never expected. Ways like realizing I’m in love with my favorite enemy. And it was fun. I can admit that now. I had an absolute blast.
In ten years, I’ll want to open this book, I think. I’ll want to run into the people inside, to remember the ways they taught me who I am.
“Handing out issues of the Chronicle,” I say, remembering one delivery in particular. An empty locker hall. Lips, heat, surprise, and inevitability. Dylan nods, putting my entry onto the page. I glance at the clock. “I should really head to class now.”
“I’ll walk you,” Dylan offers immediately. “I have to pee anyway.”
We head for the door, Dylan grabbing the hall pass on her way out. She catches the eye of Mr. Pham, who waves us off without interest. It’s quiet on campus except for the voices of teachers from their classrooms as we walk. The sun glares off the concrete walls and walkways, the leaves overhead unmoving in the windless April afternoon. We say nothing, and it’s the comfortable silence of studying dates and pre-slumber sleepovers.
Across the quad, we see Ethan leaving the ASG room, his emerald eyes wandering the campus. He spots us, and his expression shifts from surprise into relief.
“Ugh.” Dylan shakes her head. “Of course he’s in the way. I hope I don’t see him when I visit you at Harvard next year.”
Her words sting. I want to include Ethan in the visits from Dylan I’m envisioning, all of us having dinner in Cambridge or walking amid our respective dorms. I know I can’t, not while our relationship is set for hiatus come September. It hurts to remember, and I wish Dylan understood instead of hating the person I’m falling for.
“Would it really be so terrible?” My voice is soft. Defenseless.
“Well, not the visiting you part—” Dylan cuts herself off short. Her eyes fly to my face, then to Ethan, who’s waiting near the ASG door. “Wait.”
“I wasn’t lying when I said people can change,” I say quietly. Dylan watches me with wide eyes. “I—we both have, and . . .” I fumble the end of my explanation, hoping Dylan understands and afraid of how she’ll react when she does.
She looks at me hard. “What’re you saying?”
I have a feeling I don’t need to respond, what with the grin I know is forming on my face while I look at Ethan and he looks at me.
“Alison Sanger, you have some serious explaining to do.” Dylan’s voice sounds like shock has overwhelmed any accusation in her. I laugh. We’ve reached Ethan, who’s idly spinning the ASG hall pass on his finger.
“I was heading to check the nurse’s office for you,” he says to me. “You were in third period, then gone.”
I let playfulness into my voice. “Worried?” I guess Ethan notices my coyness, because his eyes dart questioningly to Dylan. I nod.
He catches my cue, pulling me to him and planting a quick kiss on my temple. “Hardly,” he says with derision I know he’s faking. “It was purely political. If you were going to be out, I was going to push through my Grad Night budget.”
I put a hand on my hip. “Tough luck. I hope you’re ready to justify your profit margin, because I did the math and—”
“I’m sorry. What is this?” Dylan interrupts us. She gapes, looking between us.
“We’re dating. Isn’t it obvious?” Ethan replies, and I have to applaud him for his directness.
“This”—Dylan’s eyes widen—“is dating?”
Before Ethan or I have a chance to respond, an angry voice I instantly recognize calls out behind us. “You three! Class. Now.” I turn to find Principal Williams walking quickly down the hall, formidable in a steel-gray pantsuit. I have to take wardrobe notes from this woman. “Last I’d checked, none of you have a high school diploma yet. Don’t think I won’t flunk you.”