Ethan’s eyes widen. Point: Alison.
“Yeah, right,” he ventures. “You won’t get ten minutes into the exam before blowing chunks.”
My stomach rolls over. I swallow hard, willing the ominous roiling to settle. “You don’t have to accept.” Of course, Ethan not accepting would be as good as surrendering.
The blitz is the most extreme twist on our competition. When either of us invokes it, the contest becomes one of speed. Whoever turns their test in first wins, regardless of score. However, since neither of us would forsake even a point of our perfect GPAs by turning in sloppy work, we both balance accuracy with the time pressure. It has a devious beauty.
“Nice try,” Ethan fires back. He’s no longer smiling. With the gradual crowding of our classmates, we’ve ended up closer together. Only a foot between us. “I’m calling your bluff,” he declares. “Blitz.”
Right then, Mr. Pham opens his door. “You’ll find your exams facedown on your desks,” he says while everyone files in. He looks bored, and it’s not even seven. “Please have your pens and pencils ready and wait for the bell.”
I push past Ethan in the doorway, not minding when my bag hits his shoulder. The room is organized with half the desks on one side of the room, facing the other half. Finding my seat, I wait while Ethan sits down in his, which is directly opposite mine.
Clammy sweat coats my forehead, and I reassure myself I have nothing left to expel. Despite my vigorous mental efforts, my stomach gurgles loudly enough for Ethan to hear. He looks straight into my eyes and winks. I vow I won’t give him the satisfaction, not of winning the blitz and definitely not of seeing me vomit in English.
The bell rings.
Three
I FLY THROUGH THE multiple choice.
Out of the corner of my eye, I watch Ethan, tallying the number of pages he’s flipped. He has only seconds on me. I fight the discomfort in my stomach while I circle my responses, forcing myself to focus on the material. What king’s interest in the occult inspired Macbeth? I choose C) King James I.
I can’t let Ethan win. Not now, not ever. Beating him has become my primary goal in high school. Three and a half years of trading top grades, and neither of us has emerged the definitive victor.
I reach the essay. Despite Ethan having scribbled his first few sentences, I grin. I know this prompt. It’s one I practiced during my two a.m. toilet bowl facial. I obliterate the question, interconnecting Shakespeare’s mid-career themes with the political turmoil in his country through one concise thesis in my introduction, three perfect body paragraphs, and a thoughtful conclusion.
I burst out of my seat right before Ethan. He scowls while I walk in front of him to Pham’s desk, where I present my exam with a flourish.
Pham eyes us unhappily. Ethan and I don’t exactly have beloved reputations with the teachers of Fairview. With our constant challenging questions, well-reasoned rebuttals to classmates’ points, and frequent feedback, teachers . . . kind of can’t stand us. Pham is no exception.
“It’s not a race, you two,” he grumbles. “Take the remaining twenty minutes to check over your answers.”
“That won’t be necessary.” I place my exam directly on his desk. Ethan follows.
“Good test, though,” Ethan says.
Mr. Pham fixes Ethan with a droll glance. “Thank you, Mr. Molloy.”
“The question on Shakespeare’s possible Catholicism gave me pause,” Ethan continues.
I turn to him, raising an unimpressed eyebrow. “Did it?”
“Seconds, Sanger.”
“Sounds like they were important seconds,” I reply, feeling bile biting the back of my throat. I face Mr. Pham. “May I please go to the restroom?” I inquire calmly, knowing Ethan’s glowering behind me.
Pham waves his hand, dismissing me. I don’t bother to linger for my traditional post-test gloating. Instead, I book it directly to the bathroom. I barely fumble into a stall in time to be spectacularly sick.
Four
I’M CROUCHED DOWN NEAR the toilet when I hear Dylan’s voice outside. “Alison, are you in here?” I moan incoherently. “Oh my god,” Dylan says. Her bulky Doc Martens cross the room to the door of my stall. “You’re ridiculous.”
Flushing the toilet, I stand and walk to the sinks, needing to wash the unspeakable residue of the past ten minutes out of my mouth. Dylan waits behind me, holding my bag. She must’ve somehow collected it from Mr. Pham’s class. She doesn’t have zero period, which explains why she’s not in class, but not how she knew I was in here.
Dylan hands me a paper towel, and I detect the slightest hint of sympathy under her stern demeanor. It’s the way Dylan is, hiding her heart under her uncompromising exterior. Her dark hair cropped to her chin in a dramatic bob of harsh diagonals and daring curves, her baggy black T-shirts, her bold lipstick—I sometimes get the feeling they’re efforts to challenge anyone who might otherwise take one look at her and only notice her magazine-cover beauty, her round face, porcelain skin, full lips, and supermodel height.
I wipe my mouth gratefully with the paper towel. Dylan frowns under the dim halogen of the bathroom lights.
“You have food poisoning, Alison,” she says, disapproval written on her face.
“I’m aware, thanks,” I reply. I wash my hands in the least gunky sink of the row. Last night, I texted Dylan after I first got sick, wondering if she had the same thing. She didn’t. It was just me. Just the person with the early morning English exam. Granted, she did stay up until two, live-texting me her reactions to a Korean zombie movie in an effort to distract me. I eventually reassured her I needed to study and she could sleep. “How did you even know I was in here?”
“Ethan texted me. I was on campus early getting photos for your feature on the new swim coach.” While, officially, Dylan does photography for yearbook, I enlist her whenever possible to take photos for the newspaper. I know she secretly enjoys working with me, even if she grumbles about the extra workload.
“Molloy texted you?” I narrow my eyes. “Why?”
Dylan pulls out her phone to read directly from it. “‘Take Sanger to the nurse,’” she says, doing her best Ethan impersonation, disaffected and haughty. “‘She’s in the English quad bathroom. I’d rather not have to watch her barf in first period.’” She looks up, rolling her eyes. “God, he’s bossy.”
Like a dutiful best friend, Dylan shares my hatred of Ethan. Every time I’ve ranted to her about his incessant insults and usurping moves in the newspaper or ASG, she’s listened, shook her head disapprovingly exactly when she should, and badmouthed him with enduring vengeance. I’m sure she has personal reasons to despise him—jerkish comments she’s heard him make in class, unpleasant group projects, open disparagement of her work in yearbook. But the real core of her loathing I know stems from the front-row seat she’s had to Ethan’s and my own destructive discourse. According to her, we’d both be happier if we never spoke to each other again. I don’t disagree, but I can’t just let him win, either.