HOURS LATER, I’M STARING at my whiteboard. Faced with my overburdened funk, I decided tackling my work was kind of like a fever—unpleasant, yet sometimes necessary. Each individual task will keep my mind off the enormous accumulation of them waiting for me.
I’m doing financial budgeting for the reunion, figuring out how we’ll host two hundred people on $8,000. From my extensive internet research, I’ve learned costs stack up quickly. Every thousand dollars really counts. Which is why I need to know exactly what we have, not Principal Williams’s estimate. Adam Elliot has not replied to my four emails, and he’s the only one who knows the precise number.
It’s time for me to change that. Dropping onto my desk chair, I open my computer and pull up the enterprising journalist’s greatest ally—Google. Finding Adam’s cell phone number requires resourcefulness and fifteen minutes of vigorous searching. I prevail when I have the idea to search his name in connection with Harvard student organizations he was part of when he was an undergrad. Finally, I find his number listed on the flyer for a Harvard Sports Analysts Club event.
I call the number. On the second ring, he picks up.
“Elliot here.” The voice is low, round. Bro-y, basically.
“Hello,” I say. “This is Alison Sanger from Fairview. I think Principal Williams mentioned me. I’m taking over the reunion planning for your class. I sent you a couple emails regarding current finances but haven’t heard back.” One thing I’ve learned from journalism—other than effective googling—is not to let people cut you off before you’ve explained your purpose.
“Oh, yeah,” Adam replies distractedly. Hearing the whoosh of wind and the murmur of street conversation over the phone, I figure he’s walking from his Uber to drinks, client facetime, et cetera, et cetera—whatever’s keeping him from replying to my emails. “I think Williams left me a voicemail about that. What’s your name again?”
“Alison,” I repeat.
“Right. Why don’t you ping my assistant with your ideas. We’ll make final decisions and handle booking.”
I rub my eyes, forcing my voice level. “Actually,” I say, “Williams was pretty clear we would handle everything.”
“Look, kid—” Adam starts.
“It’s Alison,” I cut him off.
Adam pauses. I can practically hear him weighing his irritation with proper phone decorum. “Alison,” he amends, “I’m sure you’re bright, but I’m not certain a high school student should be in charge of an event this big.”
Fuming, I pace from one end of my room to the other. I’m grateful we’re on the phone, because if we were face-to-face, I wouldn’t have the wherewithal to hide my fury. Adam’s only ten years older than I am, and even he acts patronizing and reads incompetence into my youth. I wish I had a recording of this conversation to rub in Williams’s face.
Except it would get me nowhere with our obstinate principal. Just like it would only piss Adam off to point out I’m not the one who booked the wrong date with a nonrefundable deposit. I remind myself of the purpose of this call. I need information, and Adam won’t give me the numbers if I insult him.
Working my hardest not to hate this part, I put on the voice I use for college interviews and uncooperative sources. “Mr. Elliot, as such an influential and successful alumnus of Fairview, you surely have much more important demands on your time. I read in Forbes’s 30 Under 30 you’re expanding your cryptocurrency to the nonprofit world.”
Adam’s voice changes, becoming more welcoming. “Wait, I remember now. Williams mentioned wanting me to put in a good word for you at Harvard.”
“I would be . . .” I swallow. “Honored.”
“How about this,” Adam continues brightly, like of course I’d be honored, like it’s a foregone conclusion. “You handle the booking, then hit my assistant with regular reports on your purchases. Just to check your numbers. If everything lines up, you’ll get your recommendation.”
“Wow. Thank you,” I say, watching myself in the mirror through the doorway to my bathroom. While I force my voice into reverence, my expression remains flat. “So . . . if you wouldn’t mind, can you give me an exact account balance?”
“Hold on,” he says. I hear rustling over the line, which I’m hoping is Adam searching his email. His voice returns seconds later. “$7,855.66. I have a call coming in,” he continues hurriedly. “Follow up if you have any questions, kid.”
“Thank you—” I begin, but he’s already hung up.
Ignoring Adam’s parting comment, I return to my whiteboard. Once I’ve written the number in the reunion quadrant in heavy, clear numerals, I bite my lip. It’s even worse than Williams told us. We’re going to have to budget very conservatively. I begin outlining breakdowns on the board, putting projections to each item.
While I’m working, my phone buzzes. I ignore the faint noise, focusing on my mental math. Then it buzzes again, humming on the desk next to me. I exhale, annoyed to be interrupted. With the numbers in front of me, the task feels even more daunting. Nevertheless, I check my phone’s illuminated screen, surprised when I find Ethan’s name on the messages.
Curiosity gets the better of me. Ethan and I don’t text unless strictly necessary. I pick up the phone, flicking Ethan’s messages open with my thumb.
Found a venue I’m interested in. The Willingham Hotel.
I have a walkthrough scheduled with the coordinator tomorrow. I’ll let you know how it goes.
I reply immediately.
What time?
My message floats up into the conversation window not even a minute from when I got Ethan’s. I know he’s there. I know he’s reading. But there’s no reply. Not even the typing bubble on his end. With queasy anger, I realize what’s going on here. What Ethan’s orchestrating. He wants to meet with the events coordinator on his own, establish the relationship, and usurp me from securing the venue despite our uneasy compromise to plan everything together.
He’s made one mistake, however. He told me the name of the hotel.
I walk quickly to my computer and google the Willingham Hotel without bothering to sit down. It’s nearly eight, which means the events coordinator won’t be in the office. Instead, I find the front desk number—no Harvard undergrad organizations required—and call.
When the receptionist picks up with a calmly welcoming “Willingham Hotel,” I check whether the events coordinator went home, the thought occurring to me this is exactly why Ethan chose to text me now. The receptionist confirms the coordinator is gone for the day, which is when I unravel a version of the truth. My partner forgot to write down the time of the walkthrough he scheduled tomorrow—he’s awful with numbers—and could the receptionist please find the events coordinator’s calendar and check when Ethan Molloy is supposed to come in?
It works. Following one very obliging “Hold please” and several minutes, the receptionist’s voice returns to the phone. She tells me our appointment is tomorrow at eleven. I thank her profusely and hang up, a little thrilled I got what I needed.
Refocusing on the finances, I feel myself smiling. Despite how much I don’t want to be working with Ethan on the reunion, the thought of his face when I meet him in front of the Willingham Hotel right on time tomorrow is the tiniest sliver of a silver lining.
I feel a quiet rush of validation. Whatever Adam Elliot thinks, I’m clever and professional enough to coax cooperation out of him, and to outthink Ethan. I pick up my dry-erase marker, filling in blanks and checking boxes. Right now, the numbers on the board don’t feel quite so daunting.