Kirby has her hands in the air, Mara’s hand is over her mouth, muffling a laugh, and I’m staring straight into the camera.
All of this is over—Seattle, my McWar, high school.
I don’t go here anymore, but I can’t bring myself to leave.
I roam the hall for a while. Seniors celebrate and teachers attempt to lasso underclassmen back into classrooms. Finally, I find a long bench in a deserted hallway near the art classrooms, crushing myself into a corner against the wall. I dig my journal out of my backpack. Kirby and Mara and I made plans to meet at our favorite Indian restaurant before Howl, but I need to collect myself first. Writing has always calmed me down.
I open my journal to the line I scribbled in the middle of the night, half hoping it’ll be some great inspiration that enables me to get through the rest of the day.
And of course, it’s not even legible.
The guide taunts me from the depths of my backpack. Perfect high school boyfriend, nope; prom, nope; valedictorian—and by extension, McNair’s destruction—nope. Every dream dashed, every plan foiled, some by time and some by circumstance and some just because I wasn’t good enough.
This was the person I wanted to be by the end of high school.
A person I am now so clearly not.
“Artoo?”
I glance up from my notebook, though of course it’s McNair, ruining my period of contemplative self-doubt, as though he hadn’t already ruined everything else. Jittery, I shove my journal into my backpack.
He stands on the opposite side of the hall, tie loosened and hair slightly mussed, maybe from so many congratulatory hugs. When he lifts one hand in a wave, I sit up straighter, hoping my eyes communicate that I would rather eat the pages of my yearbook one by one than talk to him. He heads toward me, not getting the message.
“When are they fashioning a bust of your head to appear in the entryway of the school?” I ask.
“Just got done with the measurements. I insisted on marble, not bronze. Looks classier.”
“That’s… good,” I say, slipping. Usually we keep pace with each other, but this past hour has thrown me. I’m off my game.
After a few moments’ hesitation, he slides onto the bench next to me. Well—there’s two feet of space between us, but given we are the only two people on the bench, I suppose he is still technically next to me. He pushes up a sleeve to check his watch. It’s not digital, and it can’t do anything except tell time. It’s old and silver, with Roman numerals instead of numbers. He wears it every day, and I’ve always wondered if it’s a family heirloom.
“I meant what I said earlier. About competing with you all these years. You’ve been a truly formidable opponent.” Only Neil McNair would say something like “formidable opponent.” “You’ve pushed me to do better. I don’t mean this in an asshole way, but… I couldn’t have become valedictorian without you.”
My temper flares—I can’t help it. Maybe he’s trying to be genuine, but it sounds like he’s mocking me. “You couldn’t have become valedictorian without me? What is this, your fucking Oscars speech? It’s over, McNair. You won. Go celebrate.” I flick my hand in a shooing motion, mimicking the one he made by the trophy case earlier.
“Come on. I’m giving you an olive branch here.”
“If I can’t smack you with it, what’s the point?” I heave out a sigh and rake my fingers through my bangs. “Sorry. It’s all just hitting me. Everything ending. It’s… a weird feeling.” But “weird” is much too tame a word for how I stack up against Rowan Roth’s Guide to High School Success.
What it really feels like is failure.
He exhales, his shoulders visibly softening, as though he’s been tensing them all day or maybe even all year. Evidently, we are both doomed to dreadful posture.
“Yeah,” he says, tugging on his tie to loosen it some more. In another odd display of humanity, he adds: “I don’t know if it’s sunk in yet for me. I’m half convinced I’ll show up at school on Monday.”
“Strange to think about it all going on without us.”
“I know. Like, does Westview exist without us here? If a tree falls in a forest and no one’s around to hear it and all that?”
“Who’s going to torment Mr. O’Brien in AP Chemistry?”
McNair snorts. “I think he was the only teacher who hated us.”
“Honestly, I don’t blame him. And that fire was your fault.” It