For once, it’s Williams who looks a little uncomfortable. “We’re already in a difficult position with the Ed Foundation over this. Class reunions are extremely lucrative for donations. Without the money we’ll raise for the ten-year, we’ll never get that library remodel.” She shoots Ethan a pointed look, her discomfort gone. “While you two annoy me, you’re undeniably competent. I trust you won’t phone this in. What’s more—” She pauses. “I’ve received complaints regarding both of you.”
“From who?” I sit up sharply.
“About what?” Ethan’s eyes narrow.
Possibilities fire through my thoughts. I wonder if PTSA representatives have bemoaned the pressure we’ve put on them for interviews, or it’s possible classmates have charged us with giving teachers unrealistic expectations for essays and projects.
The furrow in Williams’s brow deepens. “Teachers,” she says, looking miserable. “They’re complaining about the toxic and disruptive nature of your rivalry. Certain teachers have asked me to change your schedules to avoid having you both in their classes.”
Ethan leans back in his chair. I recognize his expression. Under the veneer of neutrality he’s contemptuous. “Is Pham behind this?”
“I won’t disclose the teachers who complained,” Williams replies, “and it’s not one teacher. Giving you a collaborative project is my attempt at conflict resolution. The pair of you planning the reunion fixes two of my problems at once.”
The pair of you. I’ve been so busy trying to wrestle out of this obligation I didn’t consider this part of Williams’s request. She wants us to plan the reunion together. I reimagine every reunion-planning responsibility with Ethan involved, figuring out every detail with the person who fought me for a full thirty minutes over the use of one em dash. With Ethan, organizing this event wouldn’t just be frustrating. It would be torture.
“You can’t require us to do this,” Ethan ventures. His sliver of sarcasm has disappeared, replaced with wariness. “It’s not for a class or an extracurricular. We don’t just work for the school.”
Heaving a sigh, Williams puts her folded hands on her desk. “I didn’t want to have to do this,” she starts, “but I should have known you would be difficult. You both want to get in to Harvard, right? As you pointed out, Miss Sanger, Adam went to Harvard. I’ll ask him to put in a good word. Besides, you’re both obviously in the running for valedictorian,” she continues with strained concession in her voice, like she resents validating Ethan and me. Like it’s a burden having two overachievers reaching the uppermost heights of every class and extracurricular. “Whoever takes on this task will find themselves looked favorably upon by the teachers’ committee.”
“I’m in,” Ethan and I say simultaneously.
I hate the echo of his voice under mine. It doesn’t matter, though. All of my objections have vanished in an instant. There’s no way I’m letting Ethan win valedictorian or get into Harvard over something as inconsequential as planning a party.
This reunion will be nothing. I’ve spent sleepless nights studying, pulled together powerfully written profiles with a week’s notice, unraveled complicated chemistry equations even our teacher got wrong on the whiteboard. For years I’ve crested academic and extracurricular Everests without needing to catch my breath. Writing a few name tags and wrangling a few vendors won’t be what holds me back.
Williams frowns. “Wonderful.”
Eleven
“I’M SCREWED.”
I’m whispering to Dylan in sixth-period government. Ethan’s a few rows up, his back to us. We’re supposed to be discussing the pros and cons of the presidential veto, but when Mrs. Warshaw told us to pair up, I promptly told Dylan what happened in the meeting with Williams. It’s unlike me to disregard teachers’ instructions. “Group discussion,” however, is different. I’ve never been interested in unstructured dialogues with classmates, especially when it’s obvious our teacher only wants time to check her email.
“You’re not screwed,” Dylan says, and I know it’s not idle reassurance. Dylan’s reliably straight with me, whether she’s telling me my hair bun is crooked or reassuring me I don’t need to practice my vice presidential campaign speech for the tenth time.
In the hours since Ethan and I met with Williams, I started to realize just how much planning the reunion would entail, how many pieces remained undone or out of order. It’s like someone started building one of those enormous one-thousand-piece puzzles, the type my mom loves, with scenes of Italy or wildlife, except they’ve put even the easy corner pieces in the wrong places. What’s more, we’re ferociously behind. It’s already March and the event is in May. Two months out and we have no confirmed venue, no catering, no nothing. From the wedding planning calendar I googled in the Chronicle—not exactly comparable, I know, but I’m working with what I’ve got—we need way more components in place by now. This very scenario is why I plan everything on my whiteboard, where I’m going to have to incorporate a reunion checklist. With enough preparation, I avoid being haphazard or hurried. Instead, I’ll need to rush the reunion, praying the whole while that my frenetic pace doesn’t produce problems.
And I’m going to have to do the entire thing with Ethan.
“Overlooking the very real issue of who I’ll have to work with on this,” I say to Dylan, glaring at the back of Ethan’s head. “I’m really behind, and I know nothing about party-planning. Especially not when the party’s celebrating returning to high school. I mean, I barely go to high school stuff and I’m actually a high school student.”
Dylan chews her lip, considering.
“Well, when you put it that way . . .” she says, the first unconvinced waver in her voice. I hang my head in my hands. “I’ll help, of course,” she adds quickly.
“You don’t have to help,” I protest automatically. The reunion’s my job. Well, mine and Ethan’s. I’m not in the habit of passing off responsibilities to my peers, especially not my friends.
“Ethan’s going to try to make you look bad,” Dylan points out. “Don’t turn down my offer.”
She’s not wrong there. Ethan will try to outdo me or compromise my efforts in every way imaginable. When he’s not reviewing for exams or finding ways to annoy me, he’s somewhat popular with social groups on campus known for occasionally throwing parties. Or so I’ve heard. It’ll give him an edge in planning the glorified party that is the reunion. Despite the discomfort of taking my friend’s help, Dylan would be useful in this regard. She has a whole group of yearbook friends who host regular pregames and ragers.