I STEP OUT OF the car. The small parking lot overlooks a hill speckled with patches of grass and sloping down to the sand, which stretches out in a flat expanse pocked with footprints. The water is navy in the evening light, distant waves curling lips of foam and collapsing on themselves. I see the crowd forming for the bonfire halfway up from where the surf meets the shore.
When I reach the spot where people have started to congregate, I find the bonfire half built. The twenty-ish members of ASG members and volunteers here have started heaping wooden pallets onto the high pile we’ll ignite when the sun sets. Early partygoers wander up, receiving their necklaces in Fairview colors from Kevin Young, our enthusiastic freshman rep.
I know I have to set up the s’mores stand. First, however, I want to find Dylan. I search for her in the line of volunteers hauling pallets from pickups in the parking lot. There’s no sign of her, and I figure she’s not here yet or she’s finding parking.
Returning to the bonfire itself, I find Kristin Cole, our treasurer, who’s co-running the stand with me and who brought the ingredients. Dressed in leggings, flip-flops, and a windbreaker, she’s setting up the folding table on the sand. She straightens up when she sees me. “Hey,” she says.
“Hey.” I’m on friendly if somewhat removed terms with Kristin. She’s in my physics class, she plays soccer, and she’s been dating Bryce Wilson for two years. It’s funny how in the close-quarters, endlessly interconnected environment of high school, it’s possible to know fundamental details of a person’s life without being close to them.
I help Kristin set up the table and tape on the S’MORES SUPPLIES $2 sign Isabel painted in class yesterday. It’s lettered in dramatic gold-glitter paint, and it looks good, which isn’t surprising. You don’t get to be student body president without being an excellent sign maker. “You brought everything,” I say when we finish. “I’ll run the stand.”
Kristin’s eyebrows go up like she wasn’t expecting the offer. “Thanks, Alison. Text me if you change your mind.” I nod. Kristin doesn’t linger long, like I knew she wouldn’t. I saw Bryce in the crowd gathering, and I’m sure Kristin’s eager to enjoy the bonfire.
Opening packages of marshmallows, I search the sand for Dylan. It’s harder now since people have begun to fill the beach, some in Fairview face paint and color-coordinated clothes who’ve started an off-key rendition of the fight song, others forming loose groups near where the fire will be. The sun is setting, bathing the beach in orange.
Instead of finding Dylan, my eyes settle on Ethan. He’s dressed in “casual Ethan,” which consists of a crisp white polo under a gray quarter-zip fleece and chinos cuffed to the ankles. While I watch, he carries one of the wooden pallets with Isabel, who laughs at something he’s said. Ethan looks irritatingly pleased with himself.
When they toss the pallet onto the pile, Isabel’s phone slips from her pocket. Ethan springs to pick it up, earning him a smile from Isabel before she walks in the direction of the parking lot. Ethan’s eyes linger on her.
Since our conversation in my office, Ethan’s been his usual self toward me for the rest of the week—goading me, one-upping me, contradicting me every chance he’s gotten, and frowning whenever I’ve happened to glance in his direction. We’re a month and a half out from the reunion, and items seem to constantly come up—lighting, parking attendants, whether we’ll need extra servers. Ethan’s done everything he could to fight me on each and every one. Right now, though, he looks like his resentment’s entirely gone, like the footprints the wind’s covered over in the sand. I don’t know why, but it bothers me.
Instead of spending even a millisecond more focusing on Ethan, I distract myself. I pull out my phone and text Dylan.
Where are you?
I wait for her response as the sun sets, slivering into nothing on the horizon. The temperature sinks, making me glad I brought the vest I’m wearing over my sweater. While the fire’s unlit, the beach is packed now. Laughter and errant shouts echo up from the dense crowd of my classmates. Already people have started coming over to purchase preemptive s’mores supplies, and I hand them paper trays of graham crackers, marshmallows, compostable skewers, and squares of Hershey’s.
When I feel my phone vibrate, I finish serving Jackson Parker and his freshman sister, then check the message.
It’s from Dylan. Finally. I frown, reading.
Ran into Olivia. I’m not going to make it. I’ll explain later.
I stare at her words, feeling uneasy. I’m not even frustrated that she flaked on me—with how many volunteers there are here, Isabel won’t notice. What gets me is the thought of Dylan dropping everything for Olivia. I don’t know if they’re fighting, or if this is like Starbucks and Dylan’s just rattled to have seen Olivia. Whatever it is, the fact her ex was enough for her to completely bail on this plan doesn’t bode well. It’s unnervingly in character, given how Olivia kind of consumed Dylan’s life. While I sympathize with Dylan post-breakup, it’s better for Dylan to leave Olivia in the past.
I’m composing a reply when I hear Principal Williams’s voice. “You supposed to be texting while running the stand?”
Looking up flatly, I find Williams watching me with amusement. The Fairview jacket she’s wearing appears impeccably clean, possibly new. Of course even her school-spirit attire is polished. Pointedly, I place my phone on the table. “Can I get you a s’more, Principal Williams?”
“Yes, thank you.” Williams nods once.
I hand her the paper tray of ingredients, then wait for her to leave, which she doesn’t. Instead, she watches the stretch of sand in front of us, her eyes sharp and unreadable. They narrow when two boys charge past us, one tackling the other until they crash into the sand, laughing.
“Knock it off or detention!” Williams shouts. They get up, dusting sand from their clothes, and rejoin the crowd, shooting her sullen looks. She shakes her head. “It’s unbelievable the stupid shit kids will get up to under your nose,” she says to me, then shoots me a glance I could possibly consider respectful. “Except for you, of course.”
“Of course,” I say. I can’t explain why she’s being candid with me right now. “Future valedictorians need to hold themselves to higher standards.”
Williams huffs a laugh. “Well, I hope future valedictorians, which I might say is pretty confident of you to declare in March—” I shrug, nonchalant. “I hope even future valedictorians let themselves have fun from time to time,” Williams continues, gesturing to the beach. “Enjoying a bonfire, for instance.”
“I’m enjoying it.” It’s true. While I probably wouldn’t spend my entire life selling s’mores on the beach, I like the feeling of contributing to student government and executing something I planned.
Williams looks unconvinced. Her gaze roams to the unlit pyre. “We didn’t have bonfires when I was in high school. We did have football games. I loved marching in the band.” Her eyes refocus on me, the spell of nostalgia gone and the Williams I know returning. “You and Mr. Molloy have done a competent job with the reunion, from what I understand. Just remember, it’ll be your ten-year reunion before you know it. You might want memories of high school to look back on besides studying, and exams, and . . . selling s’mores.”
I bite back instantaneous annoyance. I don’t know why Williams is suddenly reflecting on her time in high school or why she feels the need to talk to me about it, but I’m not interested in her projected regrets. You would think working on an actual high school campus would make her immune to teenage reminiscence. Apparently not. It’s like the very fact that I’m about to graduate makes the adults around me long for what’s behind them. Jamie, Hector, Williams—they all think they have some perspective I lack on my own life.
Will I have regrets? Possibly. I don’t really care. Right now, I know what I want. I’m decisive and capable, and every choice I make is with conscious thought. If I wanted to enjoy the bonfire or study less, I would.
“This future valedictorian happens to like selling s’mores,” I say, keeping my voice upbeat.
I’m distracted when I see Ethan behind her, heading this way. His expression is all conceited lines and haughty lips, his eyes restless, like they’re looking for something worthy of a glare. The knowledge I’m the intended target quickens my pulse, sending a confused concoction of emotions through my veins. Anticipation, anger, even a strange kind of relief, like walking into an exam I know I’m prepared for.
Williams must notice my expression sour, because she follows my gaze to Ethan. “It looks like Mr. Molloy is approaching,” she says, facing me once more. “I think I’ll reach a minimum safe distance.” I nod, and she walks off right as Ethan steps up to the stand.
He looks right at me, his eyes flickering side to side, searching. Before he opens his mouth, I know he’s desperate for a fight.
“You should have sold them for three dollars,” he finally says, pointing to the s’mores sign. His gaze remains fixed on me, and I wonder what other opening strikes he considered, then discarded.
I feel the undimmed itch to debate him, to play into his game, to allow my blood to boil. It’s been days, and the urge hasn’t faded. It hasn’t even weakened. Like I have all week, I fight it, repressing the impulses I wish I could change. Behind Ethan, the baseball coach is standing in front of the bonfire speaking to the assembled crowd. I catch only every other word through the crackle of his megaphone, but it’s clear the fire’s about to be lit. There’ll be a rush on the stand once it is, and I’ll be spared Ethan by a line of hungry classmates.
“Isabel and Kristin picked the price,” I tell Ethan, my voice meticulously measured. “It wasn’t my decision.”
Clearly not having a retort, Ethan circles to my side of the stand. I don’t budge, but I don’t order him out, either. “What did Williams want?” he asks, examining the system of trays and supplies I’ve arranged.
“Just a s’more.”
Ethan rearranges the box of graham crackers and the bag of marshmallows, reaching in front of me and reordering my precise assembly line without permission. “Looked like a pretty long conversation over a s’more,” he says, leaning on the table with lips curled. “I swear, Sanger, only you would come to a party and end up hanging out with the principal.”
I reply without thinking. “Were you watching me, Ethan? It’s like you’re obsessed with me or something.” The moment the words fly out, I kick myself. I feel betrayed by my brain. It’s a relapse in the direction I promised I wouldn’t go. I need to pull it together and keep things detached.
“Of course I’m obsessed with you,” Ethan replies easily, catching me off guard. “Besting you is all I think about. Come on, Sanger. Tell me you’re not obsessed with me.”
Of course I’m obsessed with you. This isn’t the way our conflicts generally go. Ethan’s brought a rhetorical knife to a fistfight, though I’ll walk out before I concede this to him. I look sideways, knowing I need this conversation over—now. “I’m not,” I say firmly.
The lie feels hollower with every empty millisecond Ethan watches me, facing me while I keep my eyes on the unlit fire. Deep down, I know obsession lives within my relationship with Ethan. The times I’ve strategized how to one-up him, or resented something he’s done, or reveled in some victory over him—they’re uncountable, like the grains of sand on this beach.
I preoccupy myself sorting the change in the cashbox, expecting Ethan to retort.
He doesn’t. I feel him drop his gaze to the ground. There’s a fragile pause before he walks out of the booth without a word.
The realization washes over me, cold and uncomfortable. This isn’t fun. It’s not the consumptive fire of fighting with Ethan, the exhausting push-and-pull of every day spent feuding. Instead, it’s discontented emptiness, equally distracting and unpleasant. I’m not working myself into a sweat, I’m standing soaking in the cold. I was sure ending our rivalry would make me feel mature, even fulfilled. The fact it’s not working is one I don’t know how to deal with. But suddenly I’m scared that I’ve really ended the feud I’ve followed for years.
In front of me, I watch Ethan’s steps slow, then stop. Like he’s gotten a second wind, he spins and marches toward me. “You know,” he says when he reaches me, “it’s not easy to hear that you’re not obsessed with me, Sanger. I’ve worked hard.” His voice is light like he’s joking and slightly strained like he’s not.
I’m unequipped for how my heart leaps knowing he hasn’t thrown in the towel. Familiar muscles come to life in me, stretching, ready. I don’t stop them this time. “Well, Ethan, surely you’re no stranger to working hard and falling short of success.”
Slowly, Ethan grins. It’s wide, victorious, and elated. Behind him, the bonfire leaps into flame, and there’s fire in Ethan’s eyes. “There she is,” he says. The heat hits us, rolling over the sand and covering my skin. “If I wasn’t sworn to hate you until graduation, I’d say I missed this.”
“Good thing you’re sworn to hate me then,” I say.
His grin shifts into a smirk. “Good thing.”
“Hey, um,” I hear someone say, “do you sell s’mores or what?” Pulling my gaze from Ethan, I realize a long line has formed for my stand while he and I were locked in our staring match.
I spring into action, handing Benjamin Polinski a tray. Wordlessly, Ethan joins me behind the table, counting out change from the cashbox. We work in instinctual rhythm, this unlikely mirror image of our constant clashes. I can’t help myself once we’ve served five or six students. “Hey,” I say to Ethan, “remember when you thought this s’mores stand wouldn’t be a good idea?”
Ethan’s eyes narrow, but he looks pleased. “Still should have priced it at three dollars.”
“I told you. It wasn’t my decision.”
While we work, I’m conscious of every time Ethan bumps me with his elbow, closes the cashbox while I’m reaching for it, or preempts me in passing out a tray. They’re familiar nudges, peace offerings in the form of tiny declarations of war. The heat doesn’t fade from my cheeks until we’ve served nearly the whole line. I don’t know what just happened between us, but I know what I’m feeling now isn’t discontented emptiness. It’s not consuming exhaustion I remember, either.
It’s that, and.
And what, I don’t know.