Two
THE REASON I’M NOT home recuperating is waiting outside the door when I reach English.
“Hello, Sanger,” Ethan says casually. He doesn’t look up.
“Molloy,” I reply.
I wish there was a word worse than nemesis I could use just for Ethan. He’s an un-popped blister. The splinter in your shoe from walking on woodchips. Your printer running out of toner when you’re finishing your twenty-page final paper on the Hundred Years’ War. He’s your Kindle dying in the first hour of your flight to Boston, even though you’re pretty certain you charged it, leaving you to sit through a random in-flight movie you never wanted to see. If this was the last time I ever had to look at Ethan’s overly coiffed blond hair and obnoxiously piercing green eyes, I’d feel like the luckiest person on earth.
Unfortunately, it’s not the last time. I have every class with Ethan, the regrettable effect of us both taking every AP Fairview offers and the same electives. It’s been this way for two years. Every class, every study group, every extracurricular event. Ethan, Ethan, Ethan. I just have to endure the rest of our final semester of senior year. Then Ethan’s out of my life.
Unless, of course, we both get into Harvard. It’s not a possibility I permit myself to consider. Two students from the same California public school getting into Harvard would be exceedingly rare. I’ve studied Fairview’s Harvard admissions history, and it’s rare we have even one accepted student per year. Yet another reason for me to outdo him in every way I can.
I ignore the way he’s leaning casually on the wall next to the door, not glancing up, reading his phone’s screen. We stand in icy silence. Ethan is Kennedyesque via California. High cheekbones, sharp nose. He’s rolled up the sleeves of the white button-down he’s wearing under his forest green sweater, which, combined with the leather shoulder bag he uses instead of a backpack, gives him the look of a prep-school boy who’s wandered off his high-hedged campus and onto Fairview’s. I hate the effort he puts into his clothes, his hair, his everything. I hate how he does it to spite me, to show me he’s not only prepared for this test, but he had the extra time to look “good.”
Not that I’m attracted to him. Ethan’s just objectively good-looking. His nearly constant stream of short-lived relationships proves his conventional desirability. I’m mature enough to admit it, although it gives me no personal pleasure to do so.
I resent the fact I’ve had to lay eyes on him this morning while he’s not even spared me a glance. It’s an upper hand, if barely. With Ethan, every loss counts. Even the infinitesimal ones.
Consequently, it’s one I’m determined to rectify. “You’re going to have to work late on the paper today,” I inform the top of his head while he reads his damn phone. “Your piece on the gym funding was poorly organized, per usual.”
I feel a rush of victory when finally he looks up, eyebrows furrowing. Point: Alison.
His story wasn’t poorly organized, truthfully. They never are. I, however, will never forgo the chance to exert the dominance I hold over Ethan in the student newspaper. I’m editor in chief of the Fairview Chronicle, and Ethan’s one of our strongest reporters, not that I’d ever tell him that. Consequently he’s the writer most often assigned to exposés and complicated pieces. The one he’s preparing on the construction of Fairview’s new gym will undoubtedly be prominent in our upcoming issue, which I will be submitting for the National Student Press Club Awards at the end of the month. I want it to be perfect.
“Poorly organized?” he repeats. I hear the note of protest in his voice. “Honestly, Sanger,” he drawls, “your ploys to get me to spend time with you have grown thinner and thinner.”
I roll my eyes. Around us, our classmates have started to congregate. Everyone’s concentrated on flashcards or notebooks, hoping to fit in a little cramming in the final minutes before Mr. Pham opens the door. Not Ethan and me. We’re the only ones who look calm and collected.
“I wish you were a good enough writer we didn’t need hours of in-person edits. I’m the victim here. You—” I clamp my mouth shut, the retort half finished. My stomach lurches uncomfortably. Not now.
He arches an eyebrow, no doubt surprised by my sudden silence. “Did—did you just nearly throw up on me?” Pocketing his phone, he smirks, his confusion fading. “Don’t you think you’re taking your revulsion act a little far?”
“It’s no act,” I reply, ignoring the rising wave of nausea in me. For a moment, I wonder what would happen if I just puked directly on Ethan, spattering his stupid sweater and his repugnant leather oxfords. I kind of wish I could, just to watch horror fracture the impassivity in his eyes. Except then, Mr. Pham would definitely send me home before the exam.
Instead, I lean on the wall, hoping the posture projects confidence, not light-headedness.
Ethan scrutinizes me. “You’re sick.” There’s no small measure of glee in his voice.
“No, I’m not.”
“Your skin is unusually blotchy, even for you,” he says, smiling now. “You know, Mr. Pham would let you make up the exam if you need to go home.” It’s not a well-intentioned suggestion, I know. It’s a taunt. An I win. Which he will, if I retreat to the nurse’s office now.
Ethan and I compete on every exam for the highest score. It started out informally—me peeking over his shoulder to check his grade, his intolerably smug face when he knew he’d done better. In sophomore chemistry, we made the competition official. Whoever scores worse on each exam does an unpleasant task of the winner’s choosing, whatever comes up in the newspaper or Associated Student Government, where we’re co–vice presidents. Fixing the printer in the newsroom, meeting with Principal Williams, picking up the work the student government president forgot or decided not to do.
If you miss a test, you forfeit on the grounds that makeup exams offer extra time for reviewing. Hence my coming to school with food poisoning.
“I’m fine,” I say firmly.
“Sanger, seriously.” Ethan is faux sympathetic, enjoying every minute of this. “If you have the flu, don’t force yourself to be here. It’s okay to forfeit. Self-care is important.”
I glare. Self-care? Please. I’ve had a SLEEP IS AN INADEQUATE SUBSTITUTE FOR CAFFEINE coffee mug since I was fourteen. Ethan’s crossing his arms, facing me. The feet separating us feel painfully insufficient for the size of his enormous ego. Pushing myself up from the wall, I match his nonchalance. “You’re pretty eager for me to concede. What, not feeling prepared this morning?”
“Oh, I’m prepared.” Ethan doesn’t flinch.
“Good,” I reply. The words fly out of my mouth like vomit. “I call a blitz.”