ETHAN AND I DON’T return to normal on Monday or on Tuesday. To outside observers I’m sure we look like nothing’s changed. Ethan reads on his phone in class, spends ASG scribbling notes in his copy of Hamlet like his thoughts have outpaced his pen, and jokes with staffers in the newsroom during lunch. I throw myself into my rituals and routines, making sure I don’t waste even a single minute.
When we’re called into Ms. Heyward’s room during the Chronicle class period on Monday for complaints from the Chronicle staff about the latest issue, we both do our utmost to push the other in front of the firing squad. Apparently, some of the editors took issue with me writing a new story in one night and publishing it without running it by anyone.
I explain what Ethan did, and Ethan gives a speech to Ms. Heyward about how I should have syndicated his story. Ms. Heyward isn’t moved by either of us. She lectures us on professionalism and assigns us each a five-page paper on journalistic standards as if we’re freshmen who’ve forgotten to cite their sources. To be talked down to by a teacher who wouldn’t have even known about my story unless someone complained to her would normally frustrate me beyond measure. But it’s a testament to how much making out with Ethan has messed with my head that I take Ms. Heyward’s lecture without a fight.
Only when Ethan’s alone with me do I know he’s as uncomfortable as I am. It’s obvious in the little inconsistencies. He doesn’t goad me or get competitive when Mr. Pham announces a graded practice AP exam at the end of the week. He doesn’t even make eye contact with me. I know why. Neither one of us wants to risk reigniting whatever happened in his room. We know if we did, it might finally consume us. Mutually assured distraction.
I have one very fortunate, if nerve-wracking, diversion. Harvard decisions come out on April 1—two days from now.
On Tuesday night, the eve of the decision, I’m in my room scrolling through College Confidential. In the past days, I’ve found it hard not to obsess over the threads where people inquire about their chances, posting résumés of extracurriculars, grade point averages, service programs in other countries, or inspiring charitable work. I’m chewing my nail, reading the post of one Hailey in Ottawa, when my email chimes.
The message is from Adam Elliot. I open it without reading the opening lines of the notification in the right-hand corner of my computer screen. I’ve continued to send Adam comprehensive updates on the reunion planning—he continues to rarely if ever reply. I have my doubts he reads them, doubts the cursory opening of this one hardly remediates.
From: adam@blockr.com
To: alison.sanger@fhs.edu
Subject: Fairview Reunion
Glad you’re managing to stay within budget.
I roll my eyes. Adam never misses a chance to condescend to a high school student.
I know Harvard decisions are tomorrow. I wish I could tell you something reassuring, but admissions are very competitive. While I put in a word for you and Ethan, it’s ultimately going to come down to how qualified the admissions officer finds you.
There’s nothing else. I close the email, wishing I hadn’t read the reminder of how difficult achieving my dream is. I don’t need reminding. In general, and especially when I’m with Ethan, it’s easy to tell myself I’m going to get into Harvard. Easy to outwit and out-reason the possibilities my college hopes won’t go the way I’ve planned, to knock them down before they grow fearsome. I’m not faking. I really am confident. Just . . . no one is confident all the time.
Alone in my room on the eve of decisions, I can acknowledge it’s entirely possible I could fail. And I’m not practiced at failing.
I close out of College Confidential and grab my homework. While my desk lamp casts slanted shadows on my floor, I inhale and exhale, forcing Harvard and Ethan and condescension and uncertainty from my head. I open my French folder and reach past the neat pile of notebooks on my desk for a pen.
Before I’ve had the chance to conjugate one verb into passé imparfait, my bedroom door flies open. Jamie barges in, holding the most recent issue of the Chronicle.
“What the hell, Alison?” She holds up the paper, displaying my front-page story.
I don’t react, stunned into silence. It’s the first time in a while I’ve seen my sister anything but perfectly upbeat. Pink splotches stain her cheeks, her eyes narrowed and accusatory. I put together she’s read my article, and she’s not happy. “I told you I was writing a feature on your band,” I say defensively.
“Yeah, you did,” Jamie replies. “I thought it was going to be about Fairview alums reconnecting. Not how pathetic and lost we all are.”
Instincts for debate, inherited from my mother and perfected on Ethan, rear up within me. “In fairness, I never used the word pathetic—”
“Is this what you really think?” she cuts me off, shaking the paper.
“Jamie,” I say delicately. “You moved back home with your parents. You’re not even applying for jobs. If you’re not a little lost right now, then . . . I don’t understand what’s going on with you.”
“You’re right. You don’t understand, because you didn’t ask. This piece is bad writing.” Her voice flattens, her indignation fading into what looks like disappointment. “You may have forgotten that I worked on a collegiate paper, but I can tell you this wouldn’t have made it to print in the real world. You didn’t ask us one question about how we felt to be living at home or why we’re doing this. You decided on the story you wanted to tell, and only included the reporting that fit your own ideas. Maybe one day you’ll want my perspective. Maybe you don’t care. I certainly don’t have to justify my life to someone who shows so little interest in it.”
She drops the paper on my desk and moves to leave without giving me a chance to reply. Then she pauses near the door, her eyes on my whiteboard, where the Harvard decision date is prominently written.
“Good luck tomorrow,” she says. “I hope everything works out exactly the way you want.”
I start to stand when she exits into the hall. Part of me wants to follow her. I regret hurting her feelings, I really do. It was never my intention. Truthfully, I didn’t think she’d ever read the story.
But I sit back down. While I didn’t mean to hurt her, I don’t think she’s right. She’s just upset I inadvertently forced her to confront the reality she’s living in. I wrote nothing judgmental in my story. I just wrote nothing untrue, either. If she’s uncomfortable facing the facts of her life, I don’t think it’s entirely my fault. When she’s cooled down a little, I hope we can have a conversation about the story. Right now, however, I have enough to deal with without hearing Jamie try to defend every choice making her insecure.
I find my eyes returning to the Harvard date on my whiteboard. If Jamie doesn’t know who she is by now, I certainly can’t help her.