“What about the upcoming paper? Anything I’ll want to know about?” she asks distractedly, reading the papers she’s holding.
I’m fully puzzled now. We never discuss Chronicle issues in student government meetings. Whatever the purpose of this meeting is, it’s unusual.
“Nothing I can think of,” Ethan replies, like he’s the editor in chief. Williams fixes him with a hard look. I do too, though mine’s less skeptical, more don’t tell the principal everything in the upcoming issue, please. Clearly ignoring me, Ethan elaborates. “We’re publishing the budget for the gym renovations.”
“Where did you get those numbers?” Williams’s stony stare intensifies. It’s not a curious-sounding question.
Ethan smirks, undaunted. “I can’t reveal my sources, Ms. Williams. But if you’d like to comment on whether there’ll be funding left over for the long-discussed library remodel, I’d be glad to get you on the record.”
I clench my jaw and keep from rolling my eyes. It’s a miracle Ethan gets anyone on the record with what a butthole he is.
Williams checks the calendar on her wall. French bulldogs. It’s the only piece of décor in her office. “Only three and a half months to go,” she says emotionless.
“Until the remodel?” I ask. Ethan’s story said July. If he got this fundamental detail wrong, I’m going to love rubbing it in.
“Until you two graduate,” Williams corrects me. “I’m counting down the days.”
“Aren’t we all?” Ethan replies. I wonder if he means it. When I watch him flirt with Isabel or debate our teachers, I honestly don’t know whether he’s enjoying himself, if he’s engaged in high school or eagerly awaiting next year. Even his comment to Williams feel like just something to say, a placeholder instead of a real sentiment.
Williams sighs, setting down her papers. “I need you to do something for me.”
“You know we can’t pull the story,” I tell her. We’ve fought before over her requesting I “refocus” negative reporting.
“Not that.” Williams waves her hand. “Do either of you know who Adam Elliot is?”
Ethan jumps in. “Fairview alum, listed last year on Forbes’s 30 Under 30 for finance—”
“Harvard alum as well, graduated Phi Beta Kappa,” I interject. There are plenty of successful Fairview alums, many who’ve gone on to graduate from nearby Stanford or Berkeley and found their way into the tech bubble thirty minutes south of here. Adam is unique even among them, with his cryptocurrency startup earning headlines for its high-profile Series A financing. We’ve requested interviews with him for a Chronicle profile a few times, but we’ve never gotten a response.
“A ‘yes’ would have sufficed.” Williams raises an eyebrow. “Adam was supposed to be in charge of his class’s Fairview reunion to be held in May.”
Of course he was. He was president of his class, which happened to be two years ahead of Jamie’s. In researching him for a prospective profile, I found out he was also editor of the newspaper, president of numerous clubs, and valedictorian. Pretty much everything I aspire to be.
“What does this have to do with us?” I ask.
Principal Williams crosses her arms, her features hard with displeasure. “Despite Forbes calling him an ‘organizational genius,’” she practically growls, “it seems some of his reunion obligations slipped his mind. He paid a nonrefundable deposit for a venue the weekend after the reunion. Then he only figured out the problem when alumni across the country had already bought their tickets and booked their flights. This is all off the record, by the way,” Williams interrupts herself, firing me a warning glance. “We can’t move the reunion,” she continues, “and now we’re out $2,000 of our $10,000 budget.”
Ethan is expressionless. “Okay,” he says. “Why are you telling us?”
“I can’t find anyone from the ten-year class to take over planning the event with only two months left, and clearly Adam does not have the time.” Williams picks up a pen like she’s preparing to return to work. Like this conversation is nearly over. “Which is why you’re going to do it.”
The office goes quiet with Ethan’s and my collective surprise. There’s only the hum of the fluorescent lights, the rhythmic whirr of the copier in the hall. I imagine the work the reunion would entail—the visits to venues, the vendor coordination, the chaos of everything on the night itself. When my cousin Stephanie got married, I was a bridesmaid, and I remember the enormous effort involved in planning a worthy event for one-hundred-fifty people who wouldn’t have been content with hand-painted banners and folding tables with punch bowls.
I open my mouth, pause, then say delicately, “I’m going to have to decline. Between the newspaper and finals . . . I really don’t have the time.”
“I hate to say it,” Ethan adds, following my reply quickly, “but I’m with Sanger on this one.”
Lining up the papers she’s holding in one crisp motion, the edges snapping when they strike her desk, Williams proceeds to ignore us. “Here’s everything Adam’s done, as well as Adam’s contact information since the finances are still under his name.” She holds the papers out in my direction. “I’ll need you to deal directly with the venue and the vendors.”
Notwithstanding the fact she’s totally disregarded Ethan’s and my very reasonable, school-related reasons for declining, I’m thrown by Williams’s nonchalance requesting us to “deal directly” with every party involved. She’s forgotten what everyone with teenage-hood far in the rearview mirror forgets—how little respect you get.
Even if Ethan and I did end up in charge, I know how the planning would go. Vendors won’t want to hear complaints or deal with requests from high school seniors. No matter how hard I work or how much I achieve, adults only ever see a young person, someone easy to ignore or underestimate. I’ve encountered it on the newspaper, where sources speak patronizingly and the printer tries to disregard prices and deadlines. Wherever possible, I fight it. I act as mature as I can, with my parents, with the clothes I wear, with my orderly goals. It never quite works, frustratingly. This reunion would be nothing but more of that very frustration.
I want to point this out to Williams. “Don’t you think teenagers shouldn’t be in charge of a project this important?” It pains me to say, but this might be the only way to keep the reunion off my very full plate.
“You and Mr. Molloy are very capable. I’m sure you’ll be fine,” Williams says easily. I grit my teeth. She’s not listening, not really.
“Can’t you give this to ASG?” I press her. “Why us?”