Today Tonight Tomorrow

JUNE 12

NOON

GRAND PRIZE TBA

Another thing that slipped my mind in the morning rush. Howl is a Westview High tradition for graduating seniors. It’s a game that’s part Assassin, part scavenger hunt. Players chase each other down while trying to decipher riddles that lead them all over Seattle. The first to complete the clues wins a cash prize. It’s put on by the student council juniors every year as a send-off to that year’s graduates, and last year McNair and I nearly murdered each other trying to organize it. Of course I’ll play, but I can’t think about it until after the assembly.

As I exit the bathroom, Ms. Grable, my sophomore and junior English teacher, hurries out of the teachers’ lounge across the hall.

“Rowan!” she says, eyes lighting up. ?

?I can’t believe you’re leaving us!”

Ms. Grable, who must only be in her late twenties, ensured our reading list was majority women and authors of color. I loved her.

“All good things must come to an end,” I say. “Even high school.”

She laughs. “You are maybe one of five students of mine who’s ever felt that way. I shouldn’t tell you this, but”—she leans in, cups a conspiratorial hand over her mouth—“you and Neil were my favorite students.”

That is when my heart plummets to my toes. At Westview, I’ve always been packaged with McNair. We are never not mentioned in the same breath, Rowan versus Neil and Neil versus Rowan, year after year after year. I’ve observed everything from terror to sheer joy pass over a teacher’s face at the beginning of the year upon realizing they have both of us in their class. Most find our rivalry entertaining, pitting us against each other in debates and partnering us on projects. Part of the reason I want valedictorian so badly is that I want to end high school as myself, not half of a warring pair.

I force myself to smile at Ms. Grable. “Thanks.”

“You’re going to Emerson, right?” she asks, and I nod. “Your essays were always so insightful. Planning to follow in your parents’ footsteps?”

How difficult would it be to say yes?

While of course I’m worried about how people respond to romance novels, there’s another fear that pulls my shoulders into a shrug when people ask what I want to be when I grow up. As long as being a writer is a dream that stays in my head, I don’t have to face the reality of potentially not being good enough. In my head, I’m my only critic. Out there, everyone is.

As soon as I declare myself a writer, there will be expectations that come with being Ilana and Jared’s daughter. And if I somehow fail to meet them, if I’m messy and imperfect and still learning, the judgment would be harsher than if my parents were podiatrists or chefs or statisticians. Telling people means I think I might be okay at this—be good at this—and while I desperately want that to be true, I’m terrified of the possibility that I’m not.

At least no one expects me to know my major yet, so while I picked Emerson largely because of its great creative writing program, I’ve been telling people “I’m not sure yet” when they ask what I’m going to study. I never expected to want to follow in my parents’ footsteps, but here I am, dreaming of running a finger along my name on a cover. Ideally in a glossy raised font.

“Maybe,” I concede at last, which feels like a half-confession, but I justify it with the fact that I won’t see Ms. Grable again after graduation. For someone who loves words, I’m occasionally not great at speaking them.

“If anyone could publish a book, it would be you! Unless Neil manages to beat you to it.”

“I should get to class,” I say as gently as I can.

“Of course, of course,” she says, and wraps me in a hug before heading down the hall.

Today is full of so many lasts, and maybe most important is that it’s the last day I can one-up McNair once and for all. As valedictorian, I’ll end our academic tug-of-war. I will be Rowan Luisa Roth, valedictorian of Westview High School, with a period at the end. No comma, no “and.” Just me.

My inner rule-follower guides me to the main office instead of homeroom. I’ll feel worse walking into class without a late pass, even on the last day. When I reach the office, I push open the door, square my shoulders—and come face-to-face with Neil McNair.

Rowan Roth versus Neil McNair: A Brief History

SEPTEMBER, FRESHMAN YEAR

The essay contest that started it all. It’s announced the first week of school to welcome us back from summer break. I am used to being the best writer in class. It’s who I’ve been all through middle school, the same way, I imagine, this skinny redhead with too many freckles has been at his school. First place, McNair and his beloved Fitzgerald, second place, Roth. I vow to beat him at whatever comes next.

NOVEMBER, FRESHMAN YEAR

The student council president visits homerooms to ask for volunteers for freshman-class rep. Leadership will look good on my future college apps, and I need scholarships, so I volunteer. So does McNair. I’m not sure if he actually wants it or if he just wants to further ruffle me. Nevertheless, I win by three votes.

FEBRUARY, SOPHOMORE YEAR

We are both forced to take gym for a physical education requirement, despite the hour we spend trying to convince the counselor we need the space in our schedules for our advanced classes instead. Neither of us can touch our toes, but McNair can do three pull-ups, while I can only do one and a half. His arms have no definition whatsoever, so I don’t understand how this is possible.