definition whatsoever, so I don’t understand how this is possible.
MAY, SOPHOMORE YEAR
McNair scores a perfect 1600 on the SAT, and I score a 1560. I retake it the next month and score 1520. I do not tell a soul.
JANUARY, JUNIOR YEAR
Our AP Chemistry teacher makes us lab partners. After a handful of arguments, chemical spills, and a (small) fire, which was maybe mostly my fault but I’ll carry that with me to the grave, he separates us.
JUNE, JUNIOR YEAR
In the election for student council president, the vote is sliced perfectly down the middle. Neither of us concedes. Reluctantly, we become copresidents.
APRIL, SENIOR YEAR
Before college acceptances start rolling in, I challenge him to see who can rack up the most yeses. McNair suggests we compare percentages instead. Assuming we’re both casting wide nets, I agree. I get into 7 of 10 schools I apply to. It’s only after all the deadlines have passed that I learn McNair, crafty and overconfident as he is, applied to just one school.
He gets in.
7:21 a.m.
“ROWAN ROTH,” MY worst nightmare says from behind the front desk. “I got you something.”
My heart rate spikes, the way it always does before a sparring match with McNair. I’d forgotten he’s an office assistant (aka Suck-Up 101—please, even I’m better than that) during homeroom. I’d been hoping to keep him confined to my phone until the assembly.
With his hands clasped in front of him, he looks like an evil king sitting on a throne made from the bones of his enemies. His auburn hair is damp from a morning shower, or maybe from the rain, and as predicted, he’s in one of his assembly-day suits: black jacket, white shirt, blue patterned tie with the crispest, tightest knot I’ve ever seen. Still, I manage to spot his flaws right away: his pants a half-inch too short, his sleeves a half-inch too long. A fingerprint smudge on the left lens of his glasses, one stubborn piece of hair behind his ear that won’t lie flat.
His face, though—his face is the worst part, his lips bent in a smirk he perfected after winning that ninth-grade essay contest.
Before I can respond, he reaches inside his jacket pocket and tosses me a travel pack of Kleenex. Thank God I catch it, despite a serious lack of hand-eye coordination.
“You shouldn’t have,” I deadpan.
“Just looking out for my copresident on the last day of our term. What brings you to the office on this stormy morning?”
“You know why I’m here. Just give me a pass. Please.”
He furrows his brow. “What kind of pass, exactly, do you want?”
“You know what kind of pass.” When he shrugs, continuing to feign ignorance, I lower myself into a deep, dramatic bow. “O McNair, lord of the main office,” I say in a voice that oozes melodrama, intent on answering his question as obnoxiously as possible. If he’s going to turn this into a production, I’ll play along. After all, I only have a few more chances to mess with him. Might as well be ridiculous while I still can. “I humbly ask that you grant me one final request: a fucking late pass.”
He swivels his chair to grab a stack of green late slips from the desk drawer, moving at the pace of maple syrup on a thirty-degree day. Until I met McNair, I didn’t know patience could feel like a physical piece of me, something he stretches and twists whenever he has a chance.
“Was that your impression of Princess Leia in the first twenty-five minutes of A New Hope, before she realized she wasn’t actually British?” he asks. When I give him a puzzled look, he clucks his tongue, like my not getting the reference pains him on a molecular level. “I keep forgetting my great vintage Star Wars lines are wasted on you, Artoo.”
Because of my alliterative name, he nicknamed me Artoo, after R2-D2, and while I’ve never seen the movies, I get that R2-D2 is some kind of robot. It’s clearly an insult, and his obsessive interest in the franchise has killed any desire I might have once had to watch it.
“Seems only fair when so many things are wasted on you,” I say. “Like my time. By all means, go as slow as humanly possible.”
Sabotage has been part of our rivalry nearly since the beginning, though it’s never been malicious. There was the time he left his thumb drive plugged into a library computer and I filled it with dubstep music, the time he spilled the cafeteria’s