all throw back our heads and howl. My first Wolf Pack experience at a football game freshman year, I was embarrassed and intimidated, but now I love the noise, the energy. The way, just for a moment, we all forget to be self-conscious.
It’s the last time I’ll howl with this exact mix of people.
Backstage, I hand over student council secretary Chantal Okafor’s yearbook, and she passes me mine.
“I think I used up the last of your space,” Chantal says. “I hope it’s you. For valedictorian, I mean.”
The high school success guide burns in my backpack. I try to focus on the fact that I have three months with Mara and Kirby ahead of me. We can have a perfect last summer before high school: music festivals, days at the beach, nights complaining how cold the water at the beach was.
But that doesn’t account for everything else. Sure, it was a semi-joke, but I haven’t even accomplished the most basic item on the list: figuring out my bangs. If I can’t figure out my bangs, how could I have expected to become valedictorian? Logically, I know those things aren’t linked, but I’ve had four freaking years. My hair should make more sense than my future.
The line about becoming an English teacher struck me too. In middle school, I had a phase where I pretended to grade papers and dreamed up a reading list or two. My fourteen-year-old self called it a “lifelong dream,” but I can barely remember it. I picture myself at fourteen, brimming with optimism, wanting to get that guide exactly right. My favorite books got happily-ever-afters—why couldn’t I?
I cling to number nine on the list. Valedictorian is still possible. It’s nearly mine.
I smile at Chantal and tuck my yearbook into my backpack. “Thank you. Are you excited for Spelman?”
“Oh yeah. I can’t wait to leave all the high school drama behind.” Chantal’s braids twirl as she jerks her head in McNair’s direction. He’s reviewing his index cards, his lips forming the words. Amateur—I don’t need index cards. His head is bent in concentration, and his glasses are slipping down his nose. If I didn’t despise him, I’d march over there and shove them up. Maybe superglue them to the backs of his ears. “You’ve got to be excited too, right? No more Neil?”
“No more Neil,” I agree, fluttering my bangs across my forehead, to one side and then the other, wishing they’d lie flat. “I can’t wait.”
“I’ll never forget that student council meeting last year that lasted until midnight. Mr. Travers couldn’t get you two to wrap it up. I thought he was going to cry.”
“I forgot about that.” We’d been trying to reach a conclusion about allocating funds for the upcoming year. McNair insisted the English department needed new copies of A White Man in Peril (okay, the books have real titles, but that’s what they’re all about), while I argued we should use the money for books by women and authors of color. They’re not classics, McNair had said. I might have lazily fired back “your face isn’t a classic.” In my defense, it was late. Needless to say, it got a little out of hand.
“At least you made high school memorable.”
“Memorable. Right.” With a twinge of guilt, I realize I barely know Chantal. I knew she was going to Spelman only because she passed me a marker when all the seniors wrote our schools on a sheet of butcher paper hanging in front of the school. I assumed when I joined student council that I’d make friends with everyone, but it’s possible I was so focused on besting McNair that I never got the chance.
McNair must catch us staring, because he strides over until he and I are face-to-face. I wish, not for the first time, that I had at least an inch on him.
“Best of luck,” he says curtly, dusting imaginary lint off his lapels. His hair is no longer damp.
I match his tone. “You as well.”
We don’t break eye contact, as though the winner of this staring contest gets a Jet Ski, a puppy, and a brand-new car.
From the stage, Principal Meadows takes the mic. “Simmer down, simmer down,” she says, and the auditorium grows quiet.
“Nervous, Artoo?” McNair asks.
“Not a bit.” I straighten my cardigan. “You?”
“Sure, a little.”
“Admitting that doesn’t make you better than me.”
“No, but it makes me more honest.” He glances toward the curtain, then back at me. “It was thoughtful of you to make that stain large enough for people