“You’re enjoying this way too much.” His voice is a dry edge.
“I don’t know what you mean.” I do, though. He’s not wrong. Which I would never in a hundred years admit. In between us, my open laptop hums like a third uncomfortable member of the conversation.
“Just because you’re technically the boss here doesn’t mean you’re my superior,” Ethan says. He’s visibly trying not to let his frustration tighten his shoulders. I know because he’s failing.
“Doesn’t it, though?” I raise an eyebrow, innocently quizzical. “I decide what is and isn’t published in the Chronicle. If you have an issue with that, you’re welcome to write for another, lesser publication.”
He can’t, of course. Publication in the Chronicle is the only way he’ll be eligible for the National Student Press Club Awards. Ethan’s won every year, and not winning his senior year would embarrass him. Ordinarily, Ethan’s embarrassment is something I’d encourage and wholeheartedly endorse. But every award the Chronicle wins is important to me, and Ethan’s reporting contributes to the paper overall. In this, unfortunately, I need Ethan and he needs me.
Granted, I don’t think Ethan actually cares about the award itself. Not what it represents. He’s never talked about studying journalism in college, or pursuing a career in media. He only joined the Chronicle sophomore year after I did, and to this day I’m convinced it was to spite me. No, what Ethan cares about is winning the award.
“I’ll do more research,” he concedes grudgingly. Point: Alison.
He’s fuming. I’m accustomed to Ethan’s varying levels of vexation, and this one’s near the top. I recognize the way he fidgets with the collar of his shirt, the tendon shifting in his neck.
I can’t blame him. Knowing we’ll have to work together planning the reunion has raised my own blood pressure. I don’t know if Ethan feels it too, but for me this added component of Ethan in my life feels like one more link in the chain of competition and obligations encircling my neck. It’s going to fray my nerves in new ways, I can tell.
Ethan’s features relax into their practiced neutrality. He pulls his laptop from his bag. Wincing the way I do whenever he produces the computer, I regard the cluster of stickers decorating the back. The name of a Thai restaurant, the logo for the San Francisco Short Film Festival, the campaign graphic of a candidate for the city council election four years ago, a quote from The Little Prince.
There’s no rhyme or reason to them. I don’t think even Ethan cares what they say. It’s easy to imagine people handing him each one and him sticking them on senselessly. The only one with the remotest connection to his personality is the sticker of the posturing and egomaniacal Kylo Ren. Still, it perplexes me, the lack of care he shows with his computer and the complete incoherence of what he purports to be interested in.
“Do you mind if I eat while we discuss the rest of your feedback?” His voice is nonchalant. “I didn’t have lunch because of the Williams meeting.”
Instantly suspicious, I narrow my eyes. It’s not like Ethan to ask for permission. In fact, he’s usually outwardly rude in our edits. I’ve watched him put his feet up on my desk while we’re working. I can’t deny him without reason, though, especially not when I have half a smooshed PB&J next to my computer.
“Go ahead,” I say warily.
Ethan extracts from his bag a plastic container holding his lunch.
It’s sushi. The sight’s bad enough. Then the smell hits. My stomach flips over.
“Want some?” he offers.
Of course. I don’t know how he even found out what caused my recent food poisoning, not to mention how he somehow obtained sushi in the ten minutes between the end of school and this meeting. It clearly took effort—effort that’s paying off in the grimace of revulsion I’m undoubtedly wearing. Point: Ethan.
“No, thank you,” I reply. Ethan happily pops one into his mouth, chewing for an exaggeratedly long time. I ignore him, focusing instead on my computer. “We’re going to push this information to the second through fourth paragraphs. Then the anecdote.”
While I talk, he continues eating, typing notes into his computer. He doesn’t object to any of my edits, which leaves me feeling uneasy. Ethan never lets anything go. I stifle the suspicion there’s a devious explanation for his cooperativeness.
He closes his computer. “I’ll have the revision done next Friday,” he says. I nod, and he stands up, sliding his laptop into his bag. “Oh, and for the reunion,” he adds, “it’ll be best if we divide up responsibilities. We see enough of each other already, wouldn’t you say?” There’s no hint of an insult in the proposition. It’s just a statement of fact.
“Absolutely,” I agree. Anything to avoid even a minute of extra interaction with Ethan on the weekends.
“So I’ll handle the venue, the music, and the menu. You do the decorations, the registration table, and the slideshow.”
“You’re joking.” It’s not even the implicit order in his phrasing that’s making me mad.
“I know, I know,” Ethan starts, leaning on the doorframe. “Slideshows are inherently stupid, but I’m pretty sure Williams will put us in detention if we don’t—”
I stand, irritated by how it feels like he’s like literally speaking down to me. “You just gave yourself the most important jobs.”
“And?”
“And I’m not letting you take all the credit for the reunion.” I know what he’s planning. He’ll take the complicated jobs, the ones involving multiple meetings and large-scale coordination and creativity, and then tell Williams I’m shirking my responsibilities.
Ethan sighs dramatically. “Fine,” he relents. “Which jobs do you want?”
“I’ll do venue, music, and decorations,” I offer reasonably.
Ethan’s reply is immediate. “No way. You can do venue and slideshow.”
“Ethan!”
“Alison!” he echoes, imitating the register of my voice. It’s such a horrible impression I’m half ready to drop the argument right here just to mock him for it.
“You’re not even trying to compromise,” I say instead.
Ethan shrugs, sweeping errant blond strands from his forehead. “Have you ever known me to compromise?”
I should have predicted discussing this with him would be entirely futile. Even so, I try one last time. “I’ll do menu, music, slideshow, and registration.” I’m being very reasonable. I’m honestly really impressed with how reasonable I’m being.