“Sorry, Principal Williams,” I say.
Williams neither stops nor responds. When she passes us, Ethan’s hand finds my waist.
I give Dylan an apologetic glance. “I’ll explain later, Dylan, I promise.” Wordlessly, my friend nods. I follow Ethan into ASG, leaving her in the hallway. When I look over my shoulder, she’s still staring from the doorway, her expression stunned, yet not entirely unhappy for me, either.
Fifty-Seven
THE WEEK FLIES PAST in a flurry of exams and final reunion prep. Ethan wins the AP French blitz, and in penance, he has me call Adam for final budget approval. It turns out Ethan’s no fan of him, either.
Dylan helps occasionally, joining me while I make the centerpieces, finish the slideshow, and pick up the fairy lights to hang in the hotel ballroom. Every event needs fairy lights, Dylan advises me. I have a feeling she only participates in my errands in order to interrogate me on the details of how Ethan and I happened. While she says she’s working on “liking Ethan more,” I suspect they enjoy bickering with each other too much to fully give it up. I understand the feeling.
The day of the reunion, everything’s finally ready. The menu is set. The Millard Fillmore is prepared. Ethan’s delivering the last pieces of décor, and with only hours until doors open, I’m in my room about to leave. I have to run to the electronics store in the mall to grab the adapter to play the photo slideshow. The Millard Fillmore’s AV system is so outrageously outdated it doesn’t work with any of the numerous adapters I’ve accumulated over four years of ASG proposals and in-class presentations.
I have my dress in a garment bag, ready to change into when I get to the hotel, and I’m picking up my heels on my way out the door when my phone rings. Ethan’s name flashes on the screen. I hit answer. “Did you hang the streamers on the northern and western walls?” I ask unhesitatingly.
“Yeah, I did.” Ethan’s voice is impatient. “Sanger, we have an emergency.”
“Don’t tell me Clint is still insisting on the signature lemonade.” I pause in my doorway, dress in one hand and phone in the other. Ethan and I eventually sampled the lemonade. It’s saccharine sweet and dark yellow, a hue disturbingly reminiscent of urine.
“It’s not the lemonade,” Ethan assures me. “I’m a hero—nay, a god—and convinced him to put it out for the hotel guests instead. The DJ’s sick, though.”
“Avery? How sick?” I ask. We’ve only hired her for a couple hours. If she naps now and comes armed with cough medicine or ibuprofen, she could get through it. We’ll double her tip.
“I didn’t exactly ask for details. She mentioned food poisoning,” Ethan replies.
“Surely by tonight—”
“I say this with no judgment for choices you might have made in the past,” he cuts me off, “but reasonable people don’t enjoy leaving the house while vomiting.”
“So we have . . . no music.” The realization settles into the pit of my stomach. It makes me want to vomit. While it’s not my reunion, I feel responsible for the event. For Hector, for his friend AJ. For people in whose shoes I’m starting to imagine myself standing a decade from now.
What’s more, I still want to win valedictorian over Ethan.
“Correct,” Ethan says. “I did get the deposit back, and Avery asked a few of her friends if they were free. The only one available is . . . well, I watched his videos on YouTube, and he’s honestly atrocious, but I don’t know if we have a choice.” Ethan’s voice is measured, and I find myself grateful he’s good under pressure the way I am. Even so, I hear a hint of stress in his explanation.
“Maybe . . .” I start, my own nerves mounting and my head spiraling. I straighten myself out with practiced focus. “Maybe everyone’s going to be drunk enough it won’t matter.” Checking the clock on my desk, I notice I’m running late. I’ll need forty-five minutes to reach downtown San Francisco from the electronics store. “I’m on my way now,” I say, rushing into the hall.
“Okay,” Ethan says in my ear. “I’ll figure out pricing with Avery’s friend.”
Heading for the stairs, I pass Jamie’s door. “Ethan, hold on.” I pause, feeling inklings of inspiration, like remembering the right formula for a complicated physics question. “I have another idea. I’ll call you back.”
I hang up and walk into Jamie’s room. It’s a little less messy, the books she’s been reading stacked neatly on her nightstand and her Columbia sweatshirt folded on her dresser.
“Hey, Jamie?” I say. She’s on her computer, and I see the Fairview website open on her screen. It distracts me from why I’m here. When Jamie spins in her desk chair, looking up, I nod in the direction of her computer. “What’re you doing?”
“Oh, nothing. Just an application.” While Jamie’s ebullient as ever, there’s a waver of self-consciousness in her voice.
I come closer. It’s a job application. “You want to work at Fairview?”
Jamie shrugs stiffly, playing it off as casual. I know carelessness on her, though, and this isn’t it. “Well, I heard from Nurse Sharp they’re hiring a new college and career center coordinator. I think it might be something I’d like.”
I blink. It’s not what I envisioned for Jamie, yet it doesn’t feel out of place. I remember how insightful she was about my goals and my ideas for the future, and how she helped Mara with her grad school application essays. “I think you’d be fantastic,” I say earnestly.
Jamie’s unable to hide her excitement. “Thanks. I’ll be really leaning into the whole regressing-to-high-school thing, huh?” There’s gentle sarcasm in her question.
“I wouldn’t call it regressing,” I say. Still smiling, Jamie shifts her eyes to her room’s open window, where the sunset is streaming in. This job is a new direction, which is okay. Jamie’s writing new narratives instead of the pages she’d planned.
“Was there something you came in here for?” Jamie asks suddenly, facing me again.
“Yes,” I say, remembering. “I need a huge favor.”
Fifty-Eight
THE GUESTS ARE ARRIVING when I finally pull up to the reunion. The sidewalk in front of the Millard Fillmore is packed with people in cocktail dresses and dinner jackets, exchanging handshakes and hugging old friends while they walk in. Even the outside of the hotel looks somehow done up for the occasion, the crumbling Victorian facade strangely romantic under the streetlights in the night.