“Fine,” I say. “You’re right.” I try to focus on my discussion worksheet. The presidential veto is the power to . . . The drone of classmates’ halfhearted conversations crowd in on my efforts. I promptly give up, turning back to Dylan. “I just don’t get it.”
Dylan’s lips purse in puzzlement. “The assignment?”
“No. Obviously. High school reunions,” I say. “Like, why do we ritualistically reunite every decade with this group of people connected to us only by geography and four arbitrary years? It’s not like we chose who we go to high school with. Why do we care? Why can’t we just graduate and move on with our lives? We don’t place this emphasis on the people in our first office or our first neighborhood.” I know I’m kind of ranting, but I’ve had the thoughts building in my head since the conversation with Williams. “Why don’t we have reunions with them?”
“I don’t know. I think high school is special,” Dylan says contemplatively. “It’s where we’ll have experiences we’ll remember for the rest of our lives. The kind of epic stuff you only do when you’re young.”
I’m not convinced. “Like what?”
“Sneaking out to a concert, staying out partying until five a.m.” I can hear the memories lacing every word. I remember the stories, relayed to me in long strings of texts the next morning. Stuff she did with the yearbook clique or Olivia and the drama kids. “Hooking up with someone even when you know it’s a horrible idea.”
Frowning, I reach into my own high school memories. They’re less epic in the way Dylan describes, more sneaking off campus past midnight on production nights, staying up all hours studying in my room, and competing with Ethan every waking moment. I’m about to reply when Mrs. Warshaw calls our attention to the front of the class. Returning to my desk in the first row, I permit my mind to wander from the discussion of the presidential veto.
The truth is, there are very few things I’ll regret leaving behind in high school. There’s having Dylan in my classes. We’ve been in school together and best friends since second grade, and having a friend like her in middle school, where a nerdy girl who wore collared shirts would have ended up reading on her own every lunch otherwise, was invaluable. It’s not like our friendship will end when we go to college, though. Then there’s the newspaper, into which I’ve poured thousands of proud and meaningful hours. But I’ll have a bigger, better newspaper in college. Maybe I’m meant to regret not having done the things Dylan said. The epic nights everyone else chases. I just . . . don’t.
If I did, maybe I’d understand high school reunions.
Twelve
WHEN SCHOOL GOT OUT, I went directly to the Chronicle, where I’m waiting for Ethan in my office. Everyone who’s had my position over the years has decorated the editor in chief’s office differently. Windows overlook the newsroom from two walls, but the other two are an empty canvas. I’ve opted, obviously, for purely professional décor, with past years’ prize-winning headlines hanging next to my desk and nothing but dictionaries and style guides on the shelves.
What I can see through my window, however, is in stark contrast to the orderly oasis in my office. In the high-ceilinged space, half-finished homework, lunch leftovers, and the last issue’s penciled-up page designs litter the folding tables running the length of the Chronicle room. Printouts of memes and funny typos paper the walls over the row of iMacs we use for design. Under the wall clock hangs the Fairview Chronicle sign we pasted up at the beginning of the year over the paper’s previous name, The Paw Print. The old name was derived from Fairview’s mascot, the puma. In a rare instance of agreement, Ethan and I found it offensively stupid, and I changed it immediately upon becoming editor in chief.
In my head, I review the edits I’m going to give Ethan. Reorganize opening paragraphs, return to construction consultant source for follow-up questions on cost estimates. Reduce pretentiousness overall. I don’t usually directly edit reporters’ work. It’s not in the editor in chief’s job description, which typically consists of keeping section editors on track and dealing with bigger-picture questions like the website we launched this year.
Ethan’s the unfortunate exception, for a few reasons. One, Ethan’s impossible to edit. When I’ve put his work under the purview of the news or features editors, they’ve inevitably stormed into my office on the brink of tears. Ethan’s not shy about telling editors he finds their ideas dumb. The problem is, he’s often right.
The other reason is the stories Ethan writes. He takes on the longer investigative reports and narrative features, the kind we submit for state and national journalism prizes. Despite how little I enjoy contributing to his success, I care about the paper. Everything we win reflects well on the Chronicle and on me.
The room outside my office is quiet. In the days before production weeks, nobody comes in here when school’s out. I’m jotting down headline ideas for Ethan’s piece when he walks into the journalism room. Write a headline for the devil, and what do you know.
He strides through the newsroom and enters my office without knocking. He never knocks. Either it’s ingrained into his psyche that the rest of the world’s just waiting for him to show up, or, likelier, he knows it annoys me specifically.
“I’ve gone over the structure, and you’re wrong,” he says, depositing his bag on the floor. “It’s as it should be.”
“Your lede is in the sixth paragraph, Ethan,” I say automatically, having anticipated his resistance on this point. “This is a news story, remember?”
“It’s hardly unconventional to organize long-form reporting like a feature,” he fires back, dropping into the chair opposite me and crossing one ankle over his knee. “Read The Wall Street Journal every once in a while.”
“This is not the Journal. It’s my paper. I’m your editor.” I lean back in my chair, relishing the moment. I can’t imagine even sex holds a candle to pulling rank on Ethan. “And while we’re on the subject of improving this piece,” I continue, “I’m not convinced you’ve done the research on every angle here.”
Ethan bristles. “I have what I need.”
“Do I have to remind you of the paramount rule of journalism?” I ask. I know I don’t. Ethan and I have gone to the same journalism conferences and summer camps for years. This past summer, we were both in DC attending an elite twenty-person rotation among major media groups. But besides pulling rank, patronizing Ethan is my other great joy. “You can’t just decide you know the story, then incorporate or ignore facts to fit your framework. You need to find every important fact, and then you’ll understand what the story really is.”
Ethan looks directly into my eyes, glaring. He says nothing. I smirk.