Jamie closes the door on her way out, leaving me alone in my room.
Finally.
Seven
I’M WOKEN UP BY knocking on my door. For a couple disorienting seconds I have no idea how much time has passed. I only remember getting thirty pages into the novel we’re reading in French, before le rêve and le désespoir began to run together and I couldn’t keep my eyes open. Frustrated with myself, I resolve to catch up tonight.
“Alison,” Jamie calls from outside the door, “your friend’s here to drop off your homework.”
Peeling my face from the pool of drool on my book, I refocus. If Dylan’s here, I slept the entire school day. Like, seven hours. I’m screwed on homework. I prop myself up on my pillows, rearranging the planner and books and pens I’ve scattered across my bed.
But Dylan doesn’t walk in.
Ethan does.
He barges in, really, inspecting the room with his usual dismissiveness. Disinterested and judgmental, he waits, like he owns the place and every other house on the street. I sit up instantly, wondering if I’ll need the trash can next to the bed. Ethan makes me sick even when I don’t have food poisoning.
“Wow,” he finally says. “You look terrible.”
I scowl. I don’t need the trash can. I need something to throw. Ideally something heavy or pointy. “My head’s been inside a toilet bowl all day.” I say, pushing my hair behind one ear. It’s ineffectual, the straight brown strands falling to my face like they’re taunting me. “What’s your excuse?”
His lips nearly twitch. I have the feeling he’s trying to engineer a witty reply and failing. Instead, he faces the whiteboard, where every single one of my plans and ideas is laid out for him. His eyes light up, a general in the war room of his enemy’s stronghold.
“Your thesis for the gov essay is unmotivated,” he says mildly, reading from the middle of my room with his hands in his pockets. “In my opinion.”
I’m going to murder Jamie for letting him up here.
Gritting my teeth, I fight to keep my composure. “Why are you in my room?” I ask evenly. “Miss me that much?”
“Like I’d miss a hangnail, Sanger,” he replies. “The day was rather pleasant after you left. Unfortunately, however, numerous teachers requested I deliver you today’s assignments. Why they figured I’m the man for the job is beyond me.”
I know he’s not lying. It’s no secret Ethan and I have every class together, not to mention our extracurriculars, and we’re with each other nearly every minute of the day. As a result, everyone’s always asking us to mention or deliver things to each other. Tell Alison we need to redesign pages three and four. Remind Ethan to pick up the homecoming flyers from the printer. In fairness, it’s arguably their repayment for Ethan’s and my endless verbal warfare. Even our teachers do it, to our immense irritation.
“I’m surprised you followed through,” I say. “I wouldn’t put it past you to tell them you would, then conveniently forget.”
“Where’s the fun in that?” Ethan walks to the whiteboard, where he does what my family members know never to do. He picks up the eraser. “Our competition’s only amusing when I know I’ve beaten you fairly. Like I will when Harvard decisions come out.” I hate his word choice. Amusing. Like I’m a game, a novel, a menswear magazine—whatever it is Ethan chooses for fun. I don’t compete with him for his amusement.
Reaching up, he erases edit Ethan’s gym story from my list with one swift swipe.
I glare. I’ll rewrite it later. “You’re capable of fun?”
“You have no idea.” He regards his erasing handiwork. I won’t give him the satisfaction of prying the eraser from his hands, letting him know he’s annoyed me. Instead, I do the opposite, staring coolly and crossing my arms. Eventually, he puts the eraser down and pulls a pile of papers from his bag, which he drops on my desk. “This counts as my task for losing the blitz,” he says casually.
“No way,” I reply immediately. “You’re going to the meeting with Principal Williams tomorrow.” Every month, one representative from ASG leadership sits down with the principal and discusses funding and upcoming events over lunch. It’s everyone’s least favorite part of serving on student government. Because our president, Isabel Rodriguez, often flat-out refuses, it generally falls to Ethan or me. Whoever loses our first grade-related competition of the month, usually. I was excited to win today’s blitz for this very reason. Neither Ethan nor I have a positive relationship with the principal, and we don’t enjoy giving up a lunch period we could use for homework or other obligations.
“I don’t think so,” he replies, unflinching.
“The loser doesn’t pick the task,” I point out. It’s been Ethan’s and my rule forever, since the time in sophomore year he tried to fulfill his task by holding the door to chemistry open for me.
Ethan shrugs, shoving his hands in his pockets. “Well, you weren’t at school today to decide. Really is a shame you were sick.”
He wears mocking sympathy like he wears his stupid sweater—poorly. I sit up straighter. “You are going to that meeting.”
Sighing, Ethan picks up the packet from my desk. I narrow my eyes, watching him shuffle the papers’ edges straight in his hands. “I guess I’ll be taking your homework with me then. Since it’s not my task after all,” he says.
“What happened to it’s no fun unless it’s fair?”
Ethan grins. It’s never good when Ethan grins. It always, always means he’s won something. The expression brings to mind dozens of tests he’s bested me on, points on which he’s out-debated me in US or English or gov, votes his ASG proposals have won instead of mine. It’s amazing how overwhelmingly angry it makes me, this effortless gesture of Ethan’s with the power to set my world on fire.
“It’s your call,” he says.
It hits me like lightning, this is exactly what he planned. The moment he’s been leading up to ever since he walked into my room. It’s why he brought my homework over in person instead of sending it over email. He’s forcing me to pick the task he prefers. He watches me expectantly from the desk, papers in hand. His hostages, I realize.
I hold my hand out for them. “Get out of my room, please,” I say when he places the packet into my outstretched fingers.
“Happily.” He walks to the door, where he pauses. “Feel better.”
I climb off the bed and close the door behind him. Point: Ethan.
Facing the whiteboard, I pick up the black felt-tip marker. I rewrite edit Ethan’s gym story where he’d erased it, then examine the board. My eyes end up where they’re usually drawn—the college checklist I’ve had since the start of junior year. It has everything: SAT schedules, the teachers who wrote recommendation letters, common app deadlines, and college essay ideas. There’s only one item not crossed out. The important one. The Harvard decision date on April 1.