PRODUCTION WEEK FEELS LIKE real newspaper journalism, like working long hours, juggling reporters, editors, and photographers, feeling the pressure of actual deadlines and responsibilities. It’s the opposite of the Chronicle during the school day, one hour of fifth period with everyone eating their lunches and doing their math homework. On Monday night, the first night of production for this month’s issue, I’m in my office, loving every minute and allowing the reunion to fade temporarily from my thoughts.
In the newsroom, everyone’s working on the iMacs lining the walls, the wide screens emanating cool computer light. It’s half past eight, and the windows frame dark views of the empty campus. Ms. Heyward checks in every hour from grading papers next door. Nearly the entire editorial staff is here, only one of the sports editors missing to cover an away match. The trays of takeout tacos someone’s mom brought sit picked-over on one table, and repetitive hip-hop plays quietly from the speakers in the corner.
I’m fact-checking Ethan’s story on my computer, googling figures and cross-referencing notes. Ethan’s out in the newsroom, engaged in conversation with one of the features editors, who’s supposed to be working.
When I search the spelling of one of his source’s names, I have to scroll through several results to find the confirmation I need. The name’s complicated enough I nearly don’t notice the headline of the result I find it under, instead focusing on the placement of every e and i. What catches my eye is the phrase preceding the name. It’s the exact wording of the quote I just edited.
Then my eyes flit up to the headline. My blood freezes.
I check my computer window a couple times. Google Chrome, not Microsoft Word. I scroll down and up a couple times, my mind numb, not comprehending. But I know what I’m reading. It’s this story. My story. But it’s on the San Mateo Daily Journal’s website. Ethan’s byline sits under the headline, tauntingly professional and perfect in the Daily Journal’s font.
Immediately, I realize what he’s done. He’s sold his story to a larger publication. School issues are community issues, so when Ethan presumably approached the local newspaper with a fully researched, well-reported story on Fairview High’s gym funding, the Daily Journal editor would have shrugged and gone for it.
The first time we discussed his coverage, Ethan fought my edits and I threateningly suggested he take his story elsewhere. Which is exactly what he did.
It crosses every line. It escalates our warfare past casual insults and competing on exams. He might think he’s made a nice move in the game of our rivalry, when really, he’s flipped the board. I feel my emotions cascading unstoppably, from confusion into sheer shock into rage.
I hardly even hear my door fly open when I charge into the newsroom. Ethan’s standing behind the center spread editor, reaching over his shoulder and pointing at some text on the screen. “Drop the word important,” Ethan instructs the editor. “It’s unnecessary, and it’s why the caption’s running over.”
“Ethan.” I raise my voice. “What the fuck.”
I feel quiet descend over the room. Everyone’s looking. Whoever’s working near the speakers even lowers the music. While the Chronicle staff is used to the level of hostility in Ethan’s and my relationship, it’s never like this. Even I’ve rarely heard the stony fury solidifying my every syllable.
Ethan turns to me, and I know he’s the only one in the room who knows why I’m angry. His eyes sparkle. “What’s up, Sanger?” The casualness in his reply is calculated, intended to irritate.
I cross my arms. Right now, I’m not interested in games. “You know exactly what,” I say.
Ethan says nothing. He maintains our eye contact, and the silence practically echoes in the newsroom. His lips twitch. Erin Goldberg, the managing editor, stands up abruptly, the metallic screech of her chair on the linoleum punctuating the moment. “Everyone out,” she says, forcibly upbeat. “Five-minute break.”
She ushers the gawking staffers into the hallway, and I shoot her a grateful glance. When I return my gaze to Ethan, he’s leaning on the desk, hands in his pockets. He looks hatefully delighted with himself, a Ralph Lauren magazine model who’s gotten away with murder. “The Daily Journal, Ethan? Seriously?”
“They were really eager for the story,” he replies with a shrug.
“I assigned you that story,” I say, fighting to keep my response focused on real points instead of flinging playground insults. “I gave you the resources to write it. I fought to get you in with the Ed Foundation. It was my piece.”
“Yet it’s my name in the byline.” The first hint of spite enters his voice.
I fume. “Were you ever going to tell me?”
“I knew you’d find it.” He’s flippant, having erased whatever malice I just heard. He pushes his hair back with one hand, and I’m reminded of our walk on the beach. I can’t believe I had a halfway respectful conversation with him then.
“And now I’m supposed to, what? Pull together some unfinished crap and put it on the front page of the issue we’re required to send to the NSPC?”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” Ethan says. “You can just syndicate my story.”
Ethan’s strategy suddenly fits into place in my head. I hear it in the leading way he proposes syndication. It’s not a suggestion—it’s the whole point. I remember Ethan’s pushiness in the editorial meeting the other day, the way he pressed for the front-page position and the jump to center. He was ensuring I made his story the focus of the issue, knowing it would be impossible to replace. When he decided to take his piece elsewhere, he didn’t tell me so I wouldn’t have time to prep a new feature. Which, of course, he doesn’t want. Ethan needs his story in a high school paper to be eligible for the National Student Press Club Awards.
Beneath my fury, I admit I’m impressed. I have to hand him this one. It was carefully planned and perfectly executed. The flicker of respect I have for him pulling it off is yet another insult. Nevertheless, I can’t help grudgingly admiring him.
“I can’t win best newspaper with a syndicated story,” I say.
Ethan cocks his head, pretending to consider. “You might. It’s better than being disqualified for having an insufficient number of pages. Let’s face it”—his eyes narrow on mine—“my story could be enough for you to get an honorable mention. If you replaced it, though . . .” He leaves the sentence unfinished, forcing me to play out the scenario myself.
He’s right. I hate how right he is. If I replace his piece with unpolished filler, we’ll win nothing. There’s a slim shot at some prizes with his syndicated story, but it would reflect badly on me, the editor in chief. The judges, some of the best journalists in the country, would know I centered our issue on something syndicated from the local news.
It’s why he did this. Not the prestige of having his reporting in a professional paper, not the production week curveball it’ll cause. He did it just to make me look bad. What’s more, I realize, remembering Erin and everyone in the hallway, he’s done it without regard for the rest of the Chronicle staff—some of whom, the sophomores and juniors, could’ve put our publication-of-the-year award on their own résumés and college applications. I don’t know if he’s overlooked how his move will affect them, or he just doesn’t care. Either way, it’s just like him.
“You’ve crossed a line.” My voice vibrates with fury.
“No.” Ethan steps forward from the desk, closer to me. He’s slightly taller than I am. I don’t know why I notice it now. He’s wiped the smugness from his expression and watches me with a mask of determination. “I’ve won,” he says. The hint of a grin flits over his lips. “I hope you’re mature enough not to be a sore loser about it, Sanger.” He flings the word in my face, repeating the reason I gave him when he wanted to know why I wasn’t competing with him.
He looks down on me, eyes electric, enjoying his victory. I hold his gaze. I refuse to show him how defeated I feel. When finally he walks past me, crossing close enough our shoulders nearly knock, I realize I was clenching my jaw so hard my teeth hurt.
I hear the door close, the sound harsh in the empty room. I’ve won. Working over his declaration in my head, I reflect on the past few weeks. I’ve been so focused on Harvard and valedictorian that he was able to hit me out of nowhere on this new front. My chest heaves. My pulse pounds furiously enough my veins ache.
While I’m wounded, though, I’ll never concede Ethan’s won. Not to him, not to myself. I’m left with one goal.
Forget maturity. I’m getting revenge.