I turn a violent shade of red.
“What smart grandchildren we’d have,” my dad says, putting on exaggerated wistfulness.
Grabbing my bag from the floor, I rein in the frustration in my voice. “Okay, I’ll get my license just to end this conversation.” I check the clock on my phone—6:41. I have to be in the car in two minutes. “Now, can one of you be a real parent for a second and drive me to school?”
Ignoring my parents’ victorious smiles, I head into the garage. I open the passenger door of mom’s car and sling my bag into the space under the dash, the heat in my cheeks starting to subside.
Objectively, I do want my driver’s license. I don’t like having to wait for my mom to pick me up from production nights or dances or to drive me to school in the mornings. It’s just, getting my license requires giving hours I don’t have. Hours I could be re-outlining my government essay or editing Ethan’s gym story. Driver’s ed will mean staying up even later on weekends.
But worse than the intrusion on my schedule, I kind of hate driving. Or rather, I hate learning how to drive. As much as I do want my license and everything that comes with it, I do not enjoy having my age and inexperience exposed to adults watching me fumble with lane changes and parallel parking. I’m not particularly used to being so objectively bad at things every other adult around me can do easily.
With my parents, it’s worse. Driving lessons expose me as the “kid” of the household. It’s not a feeling I relish, nor is it one I need reminding of. Not when I constantly feel hopelessly behind the curve of where their lives would be without me. It’s left me working to conceal my seventeen-ness wherever possible, chasing to catch up with who I should be in their nearly retirement age. Someone older. Someone independent.
Because I am independent. I am mature.
I just also have to wait five minutes for my mom to get in the driver’s seat and take me to school.
Nine
I IGNORE ETHAN AS much as humanly possible. It’s not easy, considering he sits next to me in half of our classes. But I love a challenge.
I’ve always chosen seats in the front of the class, obviously. Ethan started copying me sophomore year. I’m pretty sure he doesn’t do it for the reason I do—to be called on more often. It’s definitely just to irritate me. Even sitting in the front row, he’s usually on his phone. This morning, he DMs under his desk and reads news on his phone, raising his hand only when he’s evidently unsatisfied with what he’s finding on The Washington Post. Teachers don’t call him on it because they know Ethan occupied with his phone is preferable to his full attention—and criticism—of their lectures.
In fourth period, I can’t ignore him—and his phone reading, and his incessant rotation of messaging conversations—any longer. We have Associated Student Government in one of the expansive multipurpose rooms near the cafeteria, the open-plan linoleum floors perfect for painting posters or folding programs. Honestly, ASG is an easy class. Unless we’re convening a quorum on an issue or preparing for an event, the period is free for homework or hanging out with friends.
The makeup of the class is markedly different from my others, which include the same group of overachievers I’ve shared APs and Honors courses with since everyone got serious about college apps in sophomore year. Every position on ASG is elected, which means my classmates in here are considerably more popular. While my name is known to most of the student body, it’s not because I’m friends with everyone. I have Dylan, and the majority of my staff in the Chronicle. But beyond that, I don’t get out enough to be invited into other social spheres.
Ethan, however, with his looks and superficial charm, flits between girlfriends and friend groups frequently enough to be semipopular. Whether he grows bored of people or chooses to keep them at a distance so they don’t realize he’s a jerk is an open question. Ultimately, he and I only won the vice president positions due to expertly run campaigns. Neither of us entertained running for president, knowing we couldn’t defeat someone students actually enjoy hanging out with.
Someone like Isabel Rodriguez. Isabel was homecoming queen, and what she lacks in fulfilling her ASG responsibilities she makes up for in genuinely getting students excited about events and other initiatives. On occasion I wonder if she’s realized she can take advantage of Ethan’s and my unique position. Our rivalry comes up in every ASG vote, where each time, Ethan and I are on opposing sides. Isabel has no patience for it, and I get the sense she delegates more of her duties to us, knowing we’ll do everything we can to show the other up. It’s a savvy leadership strategy, I have to admit.
I’m not surprised when she walks over to me in class. She’s straightened her long black hair, and her signature red lipstick is bright against her brown skin. Today is the Williams meeting, and I’d wager my GPA on Isabel “having a thing” during lunch and needing Ethan or me to fill in. Since Ethan wriggled out of his task last night, it’s only a question of fighting him over who’s going to go.
Isabel clicks her perfectly polished red nails on my desk and looks over her shoulder. “Ethan, could you come over here for a second?” she calls out. He’s working on the other side of the room, and we make commiserative eye contact when he glances up from his laptop. He wanders over and perches on the desk next to me. “Williams wants to meet with both of you today,” Isabel says.
I frown, not expecting this.
“So we’re just entirely dropping the pretense this is your job?” Ethan replies.
Isabel smiles the way someone does when they know they’ve got a good excuse. “She asked for you both specifically. I was actually planning to go today.”
Ethan scoffs, skepticism in his eyes. He crosses his arms over his crisp oxford.
“I was!” Isabel insists. She stomps her foot for emphasis, causing her skirt to flutter up a little.
I catch Ethan’s eyes flit down her leg, his expression changing. It’s only for a moment, an unguarded flash. Then his gaze returns to her face, his symmetrical features relaxing into their Ethan Molloy combination of arrogance and apathy.
Uh-oh. I know that look. It’s the intrigued glance I caught from Ethan when Christina Cheng and the girls’ a cappella group came into the ASG room singing Christmas carols, and when we were forced into a group project in AP US and he kept asking Rebecca Markey about her upcoming Model UN conference. He promptly started dating each of them, and then he promptly stopped. I’ve watched Ethan progress through numerous girlfriends over the course of our rivalry. I’m always delighted when one of them dumps him, not that he ever appears broken-up about it. Still, I like to fantasize about him lying on his bed, listening to some sad white-boy music as he struggles not to cry over his heartache.
“Isabel, you haven’t gone to a single meeting,” he says. “Why would I believe you were starting today?” I know when Ethan’s genuinely irritated or impatient. This isn’t it. There’s playfulness in his tone. I recognize it because I literally never hear it when he’s talking to me.