“No,” Ethan says. His eyes sparkle. I realize how much he’s enjoying our ill-fated negotiation, and it takes everything in me not to upend the container of sushi he’s picked up. Everything’s a game with him. Everything. I wonder if he’s keeping score the way I am.
“You know this means we’ll end up doing it all together,” I say in exasperation.
“I guess it does.” He pops the final piece of sushi into his mouth, looking satisfied. No, smug. Satisfied is the fulfillment of community service or the humble pride of a day’s hard work. Ethan looks smug. It’s like he knew this would be the outcome, and he enjoyed goading me there.
Knocking once on the doorframe, signaling the end of the conversation, Ethan turns to leave.
I refuse to permit him the last word. “Don’t forget, I’ll expect your revision next Friday.” It’s not my strongest parting shot, but it’s something. Wordlessly, he waves away the reminder. I watch his retreating back exit the newsroom.
Sitting back down, I mentally douse the fires of frustration heating my face. I turn to the next item on my to-do list, replying to editors’ emails regarding upcoming stories. But I’m still spiraling on the discussion with Ethan. I close the email I’m writing, knowing I’m getting nothing done. If this conversation was anything to judge by, collaborating with Ethan is going to be painful and utterly useless.
I should have worked harder to compromise on dividing responsibilities. In the quiet of my office, though, I know why I didn’t. I feel the familiar pull of the volatile thing I hide underneath and within outward professionality. There’s a recklessness in me when it comes to Ethan, one I see in giving up on test questions to win a blitz, and in dragging myself to school with food poisoning.
And in my dangerous refusal to compromise with him. It’s one way I’m unfortunately like Ethan.
We’ve never compromised in our lives when it comes to each other.
Thirteen
IT’S FRIDAY NIGHT, AND I’m in my room, studying. I have everything exactly the way I prefer when I’m working. My computer plays Beethoven from Spotify in hushed swells. I’ve organized papers and folders in neat piles on my long desk, and I’ve lit the ginseng ginger candle I got from the neighborhood independent bookstore. It’s this cocoon of calming productivity I create, the perfect environment for thinking clearly and shifting seamlessly from one task to the next.
Open on my desk, next to the candle, is my calculus textbook. I’m reviewing for the differential equations exam we have next week. In between problems, I reply to texts from Dylan, who’s in San Francisco, going to some concert with Grace Wu, her friend from yearbook. She knew better than to invite me.
I’m turning the page to find new review problems when there’s an earsplitting screech.
Wincing violently, I spin around. It’s the wavering shrill of something mechanical, and it’s coming from somewhere in the house. I wonder if the smoke detector is on the fritz. It disturbs the tranquility of my room, to say the least. It’s frankly unbearable, and I close my book and rush into the hallway.
The sound is coming from Jamie’s room. Plugging my ears with my fingers, I hurry down the hall, then throw open her door.
I find my sister sitting on her bed, strumming the shittiest-looking electric guitar I’ve ever seen. One knob is missing, the pegs for the strings are chipped, and countless dents and scratches mar the candy-apple red paint. With her other hand, Jamie’s fiddling with the fat cable running into the amp on the floor.
Irritation replaces whatever smoke-detector-related concern I momentarily had. “What are you doing?” I ask.
Jamie glances up. When she stops strumming, the harsh wail ceases. “Oh, hey, Alison. Isn’t it cool?” She waves her hand down the guitar. I think it looks more like garbage and sounds worse. Jamie is dressed with her usual carelessness, wearing a gray hoodie, her hair in a sloppy knot at the top of her head. “I’m going to learn how to play.”
She shifts the guitar, and feedback screams from the amp. I walk over and unplug the cable, yanking the metal head out with a little more force than is necessary. “Maybe learning can be a quieter activity,” I propose, marshaling my voice into patience. “Where did you even get this stuff?”
“I was walking to Starbucks and saw a sign for a garage sale.” Jamie crosses her legs on her comforter, and I get the feeling she wants me to sit next to her. “I just had to check it out.”
I push past Jamie’s very generous use of the phrase had to, not to mention my perplexity for her unstructured day. “I didn’t even know you were interested in playing guitar,” I say lightly.
“Neither did I!” Jamie replies. “But when I saw it, this whole vision of me on stage in a band flashed before my eyes. It was totally a sign. Besides, I used to love violin.”
“You mean when you played in middle school?” I remember being dragged to those middle-school orchestra concerts as a kid, as well as the two hours a week Jamie would agree to practice at home. Not fond acoustical memories. Back then, our parents forced Jamie to pick up an instrument—something they’d given up by the time it was my turn. In high school, Jamie dropped orchestra in favor of the Chronicle, knowing it would look better on her college apps.
“The strings are different, but the logic is similar. I think I can pick it up pretty quickly.” She plucks one of the strings, then another, twisting the knobs at the head like she’s tuning them.
I feel the minutes passing, knowing I have calculus waiting in my room, and yet I can’t help pressing the subject. “So you’re going to teach yourself guitar and find a band?” Having retreated toward the doorway, I pause, unconsciously toeing the little pile of New Yorker issues on the carpet. “That’s the new plan?”
“It might be.” Jamie shrugs. “Hey, do you want to learn piano?”
I finally lose hold on my incredulity. “Yeah, in all my spare time I’m just going to learn piano to be in the band you decided to form, like, fifteen minutes ago.”
Jamie’s lips flit up. “I’m picking up your disparaging sarcasm loud and clear, Alison,” she says sweetly. “But I won’t be deterred. We’re going to hang out.” She points a playful finger in my direction, then resumes plucking the strings of the guitar.
I don’t reply, not knowing how. What’s infuriating about Jamie is how intelligent she is, despite the new slacker sensibility she’s slumped into. She went to Columbia and graduated with high honors in philosophy while working on the newspaper. She uses words like disparaging and deterred. I remember the Jamie who had goals and plans and dreams founded on firmer stuff than garage-sale pickings. She’s hard to reconcile with the older sister in front of me who just wants to hang out.