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What I’m doing is ridiculous. I’m aware of that. And yet here I am, creeping toward the plant, hoping its leaves can hide most of my body. When I peek between them, I spot about a dozen Westviewers huddled in the food court, the kind that serves plastic pizza and one-dollar sodas. Savannah Bell is at the head of the table, and she looks about as thrilled as I did when I learned the votes for student council president were split right down the middle.
“Aren’t you sick of Rowan and Neil winning everything?” she’s saying, waving a cup for emphasis. “Every test, every competition, it’s Neil and Rowan, Rowan and Neil. If I never hear their names together again, it’ll be too soon.”
You and me both.
“It’s the last day of school, Sav,” says Trang Chau, Savannah’s boyfriend. “Why does it matter?”
“Because if one of them wins today,” Savannah continues, her earrings trembling with the indignity of it all, “then they win high school. They get to go off to college all smug, thinking they’re better than the rest of us. Think how satisfying it would be to take them down a peg. Valedictorian and salutatorian, beaten at their very last game.”
This conversation feels sinister, somehow. McNair and I earned every accolade, every win.
“I always assumed they were hooking up,” says Iris Zhou, and I fight the urge to gag myself with a plant leaf.
“No. No way,” Brady Becker says. Bless him. “I did a group project with them last year, and they nearly killed each other. It was fucking brutal.”
“I don’t know.” Meg Lazarski taps her chin. “Amelia Yoon said she saw them go into the supply closet together during leadership last month, and when they came out, Neil’s hair was a mess and Rowan was totally blushing.”
I muffle a laugh. The closet was tiny, and I’d accidentally brushed against him while reaching for a jar of paint. Simple proximity to another human being in an enclosed space would make anyone feel flushed. As for his hair: well, it was AP test week, and some people play with their hair when they’re anxious. Guess we have that in common.
“I don’t care if they’re hooking up or not,” Savannah says. “All I want to do is take them down.”
“Isn’t this a little… unsportsmanlike?” Brady asks before shoving half a slice of pizza into his mouth.
“We’re not doing anything that breaks the Howl rules,” Savannah says. “I tried to kill Neil earlier, but Rowan swept in to save him.”
“Hooking up,” Iris singsongs, like this explains everything.
Savannah fixes Iris with a death glare.
“Besides,” Savannah continues, “it’s not like Rowan needs the money.”
“What do you mean?” Meg asks.
“Jewish?” Savannah says as she taps her nose.
She taps. Her nose.
I can’t hear what anyone says next—if anyone laughs or if anyone agrees with her or if anyone calls her out. I can’t hear. I can’t see. I can barely think. A panic I haven’t felt in years flares through me, red-hot.
I curl one hand around the plan
t’s fake bark in an attempt to anchor myself. In bluest-blue Seattle, a place everyone claims to be so open, this still happens: the jabs people think are harmless, the stereotypes they accept as truth. There aren’t many Jews here. In fact, I can name every other Jewish kid at Westview—all four of us. Kylie Lerner, Cameron Pereira, and Belle Greenberg.
When you’re Jewish, you learn from a young age that you can either go along with the jokes or fight back and risk much worse, because you don’t have the words yet to tell anyone why those jokes aren’t funny. I chose option A. It makes me sick sometimes, thinking about how I egged people on in elementary school, because if you can’t beat ’em, join ’em, right?
I run my index finger along the bump of bone in the middle of my nose. In fourth grade, I failed an eye exam on purpose, hoping glasses would detract from the monstrosity in the middle of my face, but I felt so guilty about it that I ultimately confessed to my parents. Even now, it’s not my favorite feature. One comment, and it drags me all the way back to that place where I hated looking at myself.
“If you’re here,” Savannah’s saying, and I force myself to refocus on the conversation, “it’s because you want to take them down too. Anyone who doesn’t can feel free to leave.”
At first no one moves. Then Brady gets to his feet.
“I’m out. Rowan and Neil are cool, and I don’t want to ruin anyone’s fun.”
“And I was just here for the pizza,” says Lily Gulati. “Which was wonderfully mediocre. Good luck with your revenge, I guess.”
No one else stands up.
I’m not naive enough to assume everyone in high school liked me, but I figured at the very least they didn’t hate me quite this much. This harsh reality makes me unsteady. Maybe I underestimated Savannah. She’s clearly someone who can summon power when she wants to, given the group she’s established here. And after what she said, the way she tapped her nose—she’s never been my favorite person, but now she’s gone full villain.
