I’M HEADED FOR THE baseball field, for whatever reason.
When Ethan left, I called my parents, who were predictably delighted, and then Dylan. Over the sounds of cheering, I could hardly hear her telling me to meet her in the baseball bleachers where we would celebrate. While I don’t understand how Fairview baseball could be celebratory, I decided to join her. Today, I’m in no rush to return to the homework waiting for me. I’ve just achieved a nearly lifelong dream, and I plan on reveling in the feeling.
I walk in the gates to the field, finding classmates and parents lining up for the concessions stand and chatting in groups. Continuing into the bleachers, I hear the umpire calling pitches, the Fairview coach on the first base line beckoning players to the bat. People hold hot dogs and pretzels or play with their phones in the crowd. Dylan’s in the front row in an oversized black sweatshirt, camera raised to her eye, rotating the zoom lens with effortful precision.
“I admit,” I say, sitting down next to her, “This isn’t how I expected to celebrate getting into Harvard. Do we even like baseball?”
“I know.” Dylan’s camera shutter snaps several times in quick succession. “I’m sorry. But I have to take photos. Plus, I have a surprise for you later,” she adds.
I rub my arms in the midafternoon cold. “What?”
“Patience,” Dylan replies.
I know it would be useless to try to pry more from her. When Dylan digs her heels in, she’s immovable. Instead of wasting the effort, I settle in, turning my attention to the game. I read the names on the uniforms of players walking to the plate, recognizing Josh Campos from government and Noah West, who’s going out with Jason, one of the Chronicle sportswriters. When Nick Caufman strikes out, I cheer, earning laughter from Dylan and glares from the rest of the Fairview crowd.
Dylan elbows me gently when the inning ends. “Alison, you got into Harvard today.”
I watch the field, remembering the moment I read the letter. There was an instant of undimmed, worry-free excitement, free from the implications of Ethan following me to college. “I know,” I reply. “It feels weird. I mean, I know I put in the work. I know I deserve it. But I can’t believe college—Harvard—is really happening.”
When the words leave me, I recognize it’s not just weird I’m feeling. Away from Ethan, I’m finally able to be excited. While I wanted to definitively beat him, I have valedictorian to fight for. Besides, now I can actually start making plans and goals for college. I’ll want to be president of the Harvard Crimson, of course. Graduating Phi Beta Kappa is a must. I could even win a Rhodes Scholarship.
“We have a couple months left here, though,” Dylan says, cutting off my thoughts. “We need to make the most of them.”
I hear her nostalgia and find I’m unable to feel the way she does. When I imagine the next couple months, they’re formless. It’s the first time since the Harvard decision that I’ve contemplated the end of the school year, and I’m unnerved how empty it is. In the past I’ve had deadlines driving me, grades to gun for, extracurriculars and the overarching question of college to structure my minutes.
Without them, I feel like the pressure’s been released from my life, and the color’s fled with it. With nearly every goal met and no new ones impending until I go to Harvard, I don’t really know what I’ll do with the final months of high school. It’s easy to imagine what making the most of them means for Dylan, or Isabel, or Josh Campos. What does it mean for me? There’s valedictorian, but what else?
“I wonder if Ethan got in,” Dylan says, not helping matters.
His name fills me with the flush of emotions his presence did in my office, his eyes locked on to mine, his challenge echoing in the room. Redo. Right now. It’s half horrifying. I don’t want to identify the other half. “He did,” I say. “We were together when decisions were posted.”
Dylan’s quiet for a moment. I’m guessing she knows me well enough to hear past the effortful neutrality of my voice. “Wow,” she says carefully. “That must’ve been intense.” I nod, though the intensity in my office wasn’t the type she thinks. “I’m sorry, Alison.” Camera in her lap, she loops her arm in mine. “I know you were hoping you wouldn’t have to deal with him once we graduate. Maybe you can treat Harvard like a fresh start and stay as far from him as possible.”
“I hope so,” I say.
It’s not necessarily an honest response. Faced with the void of the next couple months, the idea of competition—even competition as ruthless as Ethan’s and mine—isn’t unwelcome. Not to mention the unnameable reasons, the newer . . . interactions we’ve had recently.
“Yes,” Dylan says. “Finally.”
Not knowing what she’s referring to, I follow her eyeline and find the Fairview puma mascot walking onto the field. The large polyester cat hypes up the crowd with exaggerated hand motions. I pull out my phone to reread the Harvard letter, not interested in watching Christian Schwartz, the junior class president, do his mascot routine.
“Speak of the devil,” Dylan singsongs.
The implication of her words doesn’t hit me immediately. When I understand, my head leaps up from my phone, finding the puma doing jumping jacks on the rust-hued dirt of the first base line. “No,” I say. “No way.”
Dylan’s facing me, no doubt reveling in my expression. “Christian had some family obligation. I heard the cheerleaders mention it before the game,” she explains while I’m putting the pieces together in my head. If Christian’s not doing his usual mascot duty, Isabel would have needed to find a replacement fast. One of the only people whose elongated frame fits the suit is—Ethan. “My gift to you for getting into Harvard,” she concludes proudly.
In fascination and delight, I return my gaze to the dancing puma, now loving every part of its ridiculous routine. It’s obvious Ethan has no idea what he’s doing. He’s making this up on the fly, choreographing every wave and clap of his gawky paws without rhyme or reason. I’m honestly impressed Isabel strong-armed him into this. With this on her résumé, I think she’s the greatest class president in history.
He must have gone directly from my office to the equipment shed. It’s why he was on campus so late in the first place, I realize. I join the crowd in egging him on, cheering when he gives the kids in front high fives and laughing when he nearly stumbles over his own feet.
When the game resumes, Ethan walks over to the cheerleaders’ water station right in front of us. He removes his puma head, and I smile so hard my face hurts. His usually perfectly coiffed hair is flattened down and disheveled, his neck slick with sweat. I wonder if he’s wearing his blue button-down from earlier under there.
“Looking good,” Dylan calls out.
Ethan spins. His eyes narrow when he sees us.
“Sanger thinks so,” he says.
He’s smirking. I’m stunned by how direct the comment is, how public, and it doesn’t help he’s looking right at me. I can’t think of a reply.
“Gross,” Dylan fires back. “As if.”
His eyes flash to my friend and immediately return to me. I know with unnerving clarity he’s guessed exactly what’s implicit in Dylan’s reply. He knows I haven’t told her he and I hooked up. The knowledge is dangerous in Ethan’s hands—what knowledge isn’t?—and I’m flooded with momentary fear he’s going to drop the reveal on her right now.
Instead, he only shrugs, leaving me frustratingly grateful before he picks up his puma head and walks toward the cheerleaders congregating on the sideline. I’m 99 percent certain I’m out of the woods when he looks over his shoulder and winks.
I glance at Dylan, hoping she didn’t see, but she just rolls her eyes. I relax, reassured by her overt exasperation.
“He is definitely not one of the things I’ll be sad to leave behind with high school,” she says, picking her camera back up.
I cringe. For a moment, I imagine confessing Ethan and I hooked up. Hooked up twice. I couldn’t even blame her for how horrified she’d undoubtedly be.
“Sorry.” She frowns sympathetically, evidently misinterpreting my expression. “Maybe he won’t go to Harvard. Maybe he’ll go somewhere douchier. Like Yale.”
“Yeah, maybe,” I say, forcing hopefulness into my voice. It’s disingenuous, just like every time I pretended there’s nothing going on between me and Ethan. My nemesis puts his puma head on, returns to the sidelines, and picks up his impromptu cheerleading.
It’s no longer much fun to watch.