WHEN SCHOOL GOT OUT, I went directly to the Chronicle, where I’m waiting for Ethan in my office. Everyone who’s had my position over the years has decorated the editor in chief’s office differently. Windows overlook the newsroom from two walls, but the other two are an empty canvas. I’ve opted, obviously, for purely professional décor, with past years’ prize-winning headlines hanging next to my desk and nothing but dictionaries and style guides on the shelves.
What I can see through my window, however, is in stark contrast to the orderly oasis in my office. In the high-ceilinged space, half-finished homework, lunch leftovers, and the last issue’s penciled-up page designs litter the folding tables running the length of the Chronicle room. Printouts of memes and funny typos paper the walls over the row of iMacs we use for design. Under the wall clock hangs the Fairview Chronicle sign we pasted up at the beginning of the year over the paper’s previous name, The Paw Print. The old name was derived from Fairview’s mascot, the puma. In a rare instance of agreement, Ethan and I found it offensively stupid, and I changed it immediately upon becoming editor in chief.
In my head, I review the edits I’m going to give Ethan. Reorganize opening paragraphs, return to construction consultant source for follow-up questions on cost estimates. Reduce pretentiousness overall. I don’t usually directly edit reporters’ work. It’s not in the editor in chief’s job description, which typically consists of keeping section editors on track and dealing with bigger-picture questions like the website we launched this year.
Ethan’s the unfortunate exception, for a few reasons. One, Ethan’s impossible to edit. When I’ve put his work under the purview of the news or features editors, they’ve inevitably stormed into my office on the brink of tears. Ethan’s not shy about telling editors he finds their ideas dumb. The problem is, he’s often right.
The other reason is the stories Ethan writes. He takes on the longer investigative reports and narrative features, the kind we submit for state and national journalism prizes. Despite how little I enjoy contributing to his success, I care about the paper. Everything we win reflects well on the Chronicle and on me.
The room outside my office is quiet. In the days before production weeks, nobody comes in here when school’s out. I’m jotting down headline ideas for Ethan’s piece when he walks into the journalism room. Write a headline for the devil, and what do you know.
He strides through the newsroom and enters my office without knocking. He never knocks. Either it’s ingrained into his psyche that the rest of the world’s just waiting for him to show up, or, likelier, he knows it annoys me specifically.
“I’ve gone over the structure, and you’re wrong,” he says, depositing his bag on the floor. “It’s as it should be.”
“Your lede is in the sixth paragraph, Ethan,” I say automatically, having anticipated his resistance on this point. “This is a news story, remember?”
“It’s hardly unconventional to organize long-form reporting like a feature,” he fires back, dropping into the chair opposite me and crossing one ankle over his knee. “Read The Wall Street Journal every once in a while.”
“This is not the Journal. It’s my paper. I’m your editor.” I lean back in my chair, relishing the moment. I can’t imagine even sex holds a candle to pulling rank on Ethan. “And while we’re on the subject of improving this piece,” I continue, “I’m not convinced you’ve done the research on every angle here.”
Ethan bristles. “I have what I need.”
“Do I have to remind you of the paramount rule of journalism?” I ask. I know I don’t. Ethan and I have gone to the same journalism conferences and summer camps for years. This past summer, we were both in DC attending an elite twenty-person rotation among major media groups. But besides pulling rank, patronizing Ethan is my other great joy. “You can’t just decide you know the story, then incorporate or ignore facts to fit your framework. You need to find every important fact, and then you’ll understand what the story really is.”
Ethan looks directly into my eyes, glaring. He says nothing. I smirk.
“You’re enjoying this way too much.” His voice is a dry edge.
“I don’t know what you mean.” I do, though. He’s not wrong. Which I would never in a hundred years admit. In between us, my open laptop hums like a third uncomfortable member of the conversation.
“Just because you’re technically the boss here doesn’t mean you’re my superior,” Ethan says. He’s visibly trying not to let his frustration tighten his shoulders. I know because he’s failing.
“Doesn’t it, though?” I raise an eyebrow, innocently quizzical. “I decide what is and isn’t published in the Chronicle. If you have an issue with that, you’re welcome to write for another, lesser publication.”
He can’t, of course. Publication in the Chronicle is the only way he’ll be eligible for the National Student Press Club Awards. Ethan’s won every year, and not winning his senior year would embarrass him. Ordinarily, Ethan’s embarrassment is something I’d encourage and wholeheartedly endorse. But every award the Chronicle wins is important to me, and Ethan’s reporting contributes to the paper overall. In this, unfortunately, I need Ethan and he needs me.
Granted, I don’t think Ethan actually cares about the award itself. Not what it represents. He’s never talked about studying journalism in college, or pursuing a career in media. He only joined the Chronicle sophomore year after I did, and to this day I’m convinced it was to spite me. No, what Ethan cares about is winning the award.
“I’ll do more research,” he concedes grudgingly. Point: Alison.
He’s fuming. I’m accustomed to Ethan’s varying levels of vexation, and this one’s near the top. I recognize the way he fidgets with the collar of his shirt, the tendon shifting in his neck.
I can’t blame him. Knowing we’ll have to work together planning the reunion has raised my own blood pressure. I don’t know if Ethan feels it too, but for me this added component of Ethan in my life feels like one more link in the chain of competition and obligations encircling my neck. It’s going to fray my nerves in new ways, I can tell.
Ethan’s features relax into their practiced neutrality. He pulls his laptop from his bag. Wincing the way I do whenever he produces the computer, I regard the cluster of stickers decorating the back. The name of a Thai restaurant, the logo for the San Francisco Short Film Festival, the campaign graphic of a candidate for the city council election four years ago, a quote from The Little Prince.
There’s no rhyme or reason to them. I don’t think even Ethan cares what they say. It’s easy to imagine people handing him each one and him sticking them on senselessly. The only one with the remotest connection to his personality is the sticker of the posturing and egomaniacal Kylo Ren. Still, it perplexes me, the lack of care he shows with his computer and the complete incoherence of what he purports to be interested in.
“Do you mind if I eat while we discuss the rest of your feedback?” His voice is nonchalant. “I didn’t have lunch because of the Williams meeting.”
Instantly suspicious, I narrow my eyes. It’s not like Ethan to ask for permission. In fact, he’s usually outwardly rude in our edits. I’ve watched him put his feet up on my desk while we’re working. I can’t deny him without reason, though, especially not when I have half a smooshed PB&J next to my computer.
“Go ahead,” I say warily.
Ethan extracts from his bag a plastic container holding his lunch.
It’s sushi. The sight’s bad enough. Then the smell hits. My stomach flips over.
“Want some?” he offers.
Of course. I don’t know how he even found out what caused my recent food poisoning, not to mention how he somehow obtained sushi in the ten minutes between the end of school and this meeting. It clearly took effort—effort that’s paying off in the grimace of revulsion I’m undoubtedly wearing. Point: Ethan.
“No, thank you,” I reply. Ethan happily pops one into his mouth, chewing for an exaggeratedly long time. I ignore him, focusing instead on my computer. “We’re going to push this information to the second through fourth paragraphs. Then the anecdote.”
While I talk, he continues eating, typing notes into his computer. He doesn’t object to any of my edits, which leaves me feeling uneasy. Ethan never lets anything go. I stifle the suspicion there’s a devious explanation for his cooperativeness.
He closes his computer. “I’ll have the revision done next Friday,” he says. I nod, and he stands up, sliding his laptop into his bag. “Oh, and for the reunion,” he adds, “it’ll be best if we divide up responsibilities. We see enough of each other already, wouldn’t you say?” There’s no hint of an insult in the proposition. It’s just a statement of fact.
“Absolutely,” I agree. Anything to avoid even a minute of extra interaction with Ethan on the weekends.
“So I’ll handle the venue, the music, and the menu. You do the decorations, the registration table, and the slideshow.”
“You’re joking.” It’s not even the implicit order in his phrasing that’s making me mad.
“I know, I know,” Ethan starts, leaning on the doorframe. “Slideshows are inherently stupid, but I’m pretty sure Williams will put us in detention if we don’t—”
I stand, irritated by how it feels like he’s like literally speaking down to me. “You just gave yourself the most important jobs.”
“And?”
“And I’m not letting you take all the credit for the reunion.” I know what he’s planning. He’ll take the complicated jobs, the ones involving multiple meetings and large-scale coordination and creativity, and then tell Williams I’m shirking my responsibilities.
Ethan sighs dramatically. “Fine,” he relents. “Which jobs do you want?”
“I’ll do venue, music, and decorations,” I offer reasonably.
Ethan’s reply is immediate. “No way. You can do venue and slideshow.”
“Ethan!”
“Alison!” he echoes, imitating the register of my voice. It’s such a horrible impression I’m half ready to drop the argument right here just to mock him for it.
“You’re not even trying to compromise,” I say instead.
Ethan shrugs, sweeping errant blond strands from his forehead. “Have you ever known me to compromise?”
I should have predicted discussing this with him would be entirely futile. Even so, I try one last time. “I’ll do menu, music, slideshow, and registration.” I’m being very reasonable. I’m honestly really impressed with how reasonable I’m being.
“No,” Ethan says. His eyes sparkle. I realize how much he’s enjoying our ill-fated negotiation, and it takes everything in me not to upend the container of sushi he’s picked up. Everything’s a game with him. Everything. I wonder if he’s keeping score the way I am.
“You know this means we’ll end up doing it all together,” I say in exasperation.
“I guess it does.” He pops the final piece of sushi into his mouth, looking satisfied. No, smug. Satisfied is the fulfillment of community service or the humble pride of a day’s hard work. Ethan looks smug. It’s like he knew this would be the outcome, and he enjoyed goading me there.
Knocking once on the doorframe, signaling the end of the conversation, Ethan turns to leave.
I refuse to permit him the last word. “Don’t forget, I’ll expect your revision next Friday.” It’s not my strongest parting shot, but it’s something. Wordlessly, he waves away the reminder. I watch his retreating back exit the newsroom.
Sitting back down, I mentally douse the fires of frustration heating my face. I turn to the next item on my to-do list, replying to editors’ emails regarding upcoming stories. But I’m still spiraling on the discussion with Ethan. I close the email I’m writing, knowing I’m getting nothing done. If this conversation was anything to judge by, collaborating with Ethan is going to be painful and utterly useless.
I should have worked harder to compromise on dividing responsibilities. In the quiet of my office, though, I know why I didn’t. I feel the familiar pull of the volatile thing I hide underneath and within outward professionality. There’s a recklessness in me when it comes to Ethan, one I see in giving up on test questions to win a blitz, and in dragging myself to school with food poisoning.
And in my dangerous refusal to compromise with him. It’s one way I’m unfortunately like Ethan.
We’ve never compromised in our lives when it comes to each other.