IN THE CHRONICLE OFFICE on Friday, I’m reading Ethan’s revision of his gym financing story. It’s odd. He’s fixed everything I pointed out, input every note and comment. He’s even pushed the anecdote—his prized anecdote—to paragraph four and opened with the hard information, the way I often have to vigorously coerce him to on production nights.
What’s more, he’s done the edits sort of sloppily. Word-for-word copying of my suggested phrasing, extra spaces and periods left over from deletions. It’s still excellent work, still probably worthy of the NSPC Award. I’m not complaining I didn’t have to put him to medieval thumbscrews to get my way, either. It’s just odd.
Outside my office, the room is chaotic, notwithstanding it being the middle of fifth period. Robbie Kang, one of our strongest sports writers, is showing some wide-eyed sophomores YouTube videos. In one corner, a group of Model UN kids debate on the couch. The news editor is making out obviously with the business manager, while our advisor is out of the room. Then there’s Ethan, who’s hunched over his government study guide, which I resent. I wish I had time to review for the exam we have next period.
I walk out of my office, directly to the desk where he’s working. Marbury v. Madison, I notice on his study guide. Established constitutional review, the voice in my head reminds me, joined by the louder voice commenting, stupid Ethan and his studying. “Is this your final revision?” I demand, holding up the printout of his article.
He continues his reading, deliberately reminding me he’s enjoying studying time that I’m not. When he looks up, there’s confrontation in his eyes. “Yes,” he says. “Why?”
I’m not surprised to hear the edge in his voice. Our conversations have started at unusual levels of hostility lately, even for us. It’s not hard to intuit why. With this revision, every class, and now the reunion and driver’s ed, Ethan’s suddenly everywhere in my life. Every frustration he fills me with, every quality I find irritating, is a hundred times worse for my experiencing them a hundred times more often. I’m resenting this particular conversation knowing I have to see him again after school for a vendor meeting with our prospective DJ.
“It’s just not as good as your pieces usually are,” I reply. Instantly, I regret the phrasing. I hate when I pay Ethan unintended compliments.
He latches on to the opportunity I’ve given him. Grinning, he cocks his head. “Well, I’m glad I’ve established a high standard for my work.”
Point: Ethan.
I scowl, feeling my temper flare. If Ethan’s and my relationship weren’t especially volatile due to our constant proximity, I’d let the comment go. I’d leave the conversation and resume hating him from the privacy of my office. Unfortunately, I don’t. I can’t let anything go with him. My eyes flitting from his, I seize on the first opening I find. “You have . . . mustard on the sleeve of your oxford,” I inform him. “You look ridiculous.”
Ethan’s upper lip curls, inflecting his features with unmistakable scorn. He rolls his pen in his fingers like a dart. “Me? What about you? Your wardrobe looks composed of hand-me-downs from my mom.”
I glance down, regretting the gesture’s self-consciousness. This morning, I chose my blue knee-length pleated skirt and white sweater because I thought the outfit looked cute but professional. Knowing Ethan doesn’t like it just makes me happier with my decision. “Your mom’s a marketing exec for Google,” I say. I’ve met Mrs. Molloy once or twice. She’s nothing like her noxious son. “I’m going to take it as a compliment.”
“You’re a high school student, not a marketing exec. Do you even own a T-shirt?”
I’m distantly conscious of how dumb it is I came out here to question Ethan about his revision and ended up in a heated debate about our clothing. Yet I can’t help myself. “Do you?”
Ethan doesn’t reply right away. In the pause, I hear a voice behind me. “I, um—” It’s one of the junior editors, who I find watching me and Ethan with hesitation. “I need help with the page-design program.”
I refocus, annoyed I needed the interruption from features editor Julie Wang to return me to reality. I notice a couple other staffers watching our conversation, their expressions variations of nervous and annoyed. The other senior editors generally regard us as a necessary evil for the awards we help the paper win. The underclassmen haven’t gotten used to us yet. I fire Ethan a final glare, which he doesn’t notice, having returned to his gov reviewing. The familiar tremors of something beyond competitiveness begin to quake, but this time, I’m just in control enough to put them to rest.
I settle for flicking the tip of my pen onto the paper he’s reading. “Today,” I say. “Blitz.”
He doesn’t look up. “Fine.”