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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 wasn’t, but this balance between us is unsettling, and I’m dying to poke at him some more. “You’re the one who added the wrong chemicals.”
“That’s because you wrote them down wrong,” he says, widening his eyes in an expression of innocence. “I was just following your instructions.”
“At least Principal Meadows will miss us.”
He holds up an invisible microphone. “Rowan Roth, who revolutionized garbage collection at Westview High School.”
“Shut up!” I say, but I’m laughing. I can’t believe he noticed that too. “Rowan Roth, literal trash-can emoji.”
“You are not a trash-can emoji. You’re, like, the emoji of the girl holding her hand out like this.” He demonstrates, flattening his hand like he’s carrying an invisible tray. Apparently, the emoji is supposed to represent an information desk, but I don’t see it.
“She’s flicking her hair, and no one will convince me otherwise.”
“I pity the person who tries.”
It’s an unusual moment of accord between us.
“According to Principal Meadows, you speak about a hundred languages,” I continue. “So emojis might not be advanced enough to describe you.”
“True,” he says, “but I’m shocked you’d pass up the opportunity to tell me I’m the poop emoji.”
“If you feel that’s the emoji that captures the essence of Neil McNair, who am I to disagree?”
A chirp from his jacket pocket ends our emoji debate. He pulls out his phone, frowns.
“Did you get a notification that you actually flunked AP Lit and you’re not valedictorian after all?”
“Oh, I still am.” He sends a quick message before sliding the phone back into his pocket, but the frown doesn’t leave his face.
If he were anyone else, I’d ask if something’s wrong.
But he is Neil McNair, and I’m not sure how.
I’m not sure what we are.
A silence falls over us, a strange and anxious one that makes me stare at my flats, cross and uncross my ankles, tap my nails against my backpack. McNair and I don’t do silences. We are arguments and threats. Fireworks and flames.
Not anymore, you aren’t, a voice in the back of my head reminds me. Number ten on my success guide, the final chapter in my book o’ failures.
He drums his knuckles on his yearbook, which I realize he’s carrying, and clears his throat. “So—um. I was wondering. If you’d maybe sign my yearbook?”
I gape at him, convinced it’s a joke. Except I have no clue what the punch line is. The words “Sure, why not?” dangle on the tip of my tongue.
What comes out instead is the single word right in the middle: “Why?” I manage to utter it in the most obnoxious voice imaginable. And I regret it instantly.
His eyebrows crease together. It’s an expression I’ve never seen on his face, not in the four years I’ve sparred with him.
It’s something a little like hurt.
“Never mind,” he says, pushing his glasses back up without looking at me. “I understand.”
“Neil,” I start, but again, the words tangle behind my teeth. If I insisted on signing his yearbook, what would I write? That he’s been a formidable opponent too? Freaking HAGS, like an amateur? I’ll do it, if that’s what he wants. Anything to make this less awkward, to restore the balance between us.
“Rowan. It’s fine. Really.” He stands and dusts off his too-short suit pants. “See you at graduation. I’ll be the one whose speech comes after yours.”
The use of my real name startles me, pulls my heart into a strange rhythm. Rowan sounds soft in his voice. Uncertain.
