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I guess this is one of the last times I’ll hear it.
Text conversation between Rowan Roth and Neil McNair
February of freshman year
UNKNOWN NUMBER
This is Neil McNair’s number.
I love group projects designed to give two people the same grade even when one of them *clearly* does more of the work
UNKNOWN NUMBER
Hi Rowan.
just meet me in the library after school so we can get this over with
UNKNOWN NUMBER
Near the section of vastly inferior literature with shirtless men on the covers, or closer to the real books?
Contact saved as McNightmare.
11:14 a.m.
GARLIC NAAN LIFTS my spirits the way only bread can.
“Are you sure you’re okay?” Mara asks for the tenth time.
I nod, dragging a hunk of naan through tamarind chutney.
Apparently not believing me, she continues: “This should be an exciting day. Let’s focus on the positives. We’re graduating, Howl’s starting soon—”
“This samosa exists,” Kirby finishes, holding one up. “I’m going back for more.”
But Mara’s pale-blue eyes won’t leave mine. She reaches across the table, grazing my wrist with a few fingertips. “Rowan…”
“I guess I’m having trouble accepting that all of this is over,” I manage to say.
“It’s not like we don’t have an entire summer ahead of us. It’s not over, over. And salutatorian in a class of five hundred is an incredible accomplishment.”
I don’t know how to explain it. It’s not about valedictorian or the fact that as salutatorian, I’ll have to introduce McNair as part of my speech. It’s about everything valedic
torian represents, a whole mess of things I’m not sure I’m ready to say out loud. Even in my head, they don’t quite feel real. What McNair said, about showing up at school on Monday… That burrowed somewhere deep inside me. There are no more high school Mondays. No more spirit days or student council meetings. No 5:55 alarms or even earlier McNightmare wake-up calls. And it’s not that I’ll miss the wake-up calls specifically—they were just wrapped up in my whole high school experience.
The bottom line is this: every time I pictured today, I felt a whole lot better than I do right now.
Kirby crashes back into the table with samosas and a welcome change of subject. “I can’t believe we’re finally going to be playing Howl.”
“Oh, I’ve been ready for years,” Mara says with a sly smile. She snaps a photo of Kirby’s artfully arranged plate of food.
“Are we going to see Competitive Mara?” Kirby asks, and Mara rolls her eyes. “She terrifies me, but I love her.”
While I’m competitive about academics, Mara is cutthroat when it comes to sports and games. Because she’s sweet and small, it’s totally unexpected. Last year, we played a round of Ticket to Ride that lasted three hours and left Kirby on the verge of tears.
“I just want to see McNair lose. Preferably before I do,” I say, surprised by how much this perks me up. I take a sip of mango lassi. It tastes sweeter than it did a few minutes ago.
An idea begins to take shape. There’s still Howl, which means there’s still a way to beat McNair. It’s one more battle between the two of us—and the rest of the school, but if the past four years have been any indication, they’ve never stood a chance.
