It shouldn’t hit me as hard as it does that my life didn’t go quite according to plan. And yet here’s the physical proof of it. High school is ending, and it’s only today that I’m realizing everything I didn’t do.
It’s a relief when the clock hits 8:15. I spring to my feet, throwing the list into my backpack and my backpack over my shoulder. Time for the final test of my high school career.
“I have to prep for the assembly,” I say.
Kirby tears open a Snickers she found in her locker abyss. “Whatever happens, you’re a winner to us,” she says in a tone that’s probably meant to be encouraging, but from her, it comes out sounding sarcastic. She must hear it, because she winces. “Sorry. That sounded nicer in my head.”
I try to smile. “I believe you.”
“Go, go,” Mara says. “I’ll make sure Kirby disposes of any other potentially hazardous materials.”
As I head for the auditorium, their laughter takes a while to fade.
I’m leaving Seattle at the end of the summer, but Kirby and Mara are going to the University of Washington. Together. Mara wants to study dance, and Kirby plans to take one class in each discipline before deciding on her major. I’ll see them on breaks, of course, but I wonder if the distance will push me farther away. If this friendship is another thing I can’t take with me to college.
Rowan Roth’s Guide to High School Success
By Rowan Luisa Roth, age 14
To be opened only by Rowan Luisa Roth, age 18
Figure out what to do with your bangs.
Obtain the Perfect High School Boyfriend (heretofore known as PHSB), ideally by the middle of 10th grade, summer after 11th grade at the latest. Minimum requirements: - Loves reading
- Respectable taste in music
- Vegetarian
Hang out with Kirby and Mara EVERY WEEKEND! (As much as you love books, please don’t forget about the outside world.)
Make out with PHSB under the bleachers during a football game.
Become fluent in Spanish.
Never tell anyone you like romance novels unless you’re 100 percent sure they won’t be royally awful about it.
Go to prom with your PHSB and Kirby and Mara. Find a fantastic dress, rent a limo, eat at a fancy restaurant. The whole John Hughes experience, minus the toxic masculinity. The night will culminate in a hotel room, where you and PHSB will declare your love for each other and lose your virginities in a tender, romantic way that you’ll remember for the rest of your life.
Get into a college with a great secondary education program to fulfill your lifelong dream of becoming an English teacher to MOLD YOUNG MINDS!!!
Become Westview valedictorian.
Destroy Neil McNair. Make him regret ever writing that Great Gatsby essay and everything he’s done since then.
9:07 a.m.
“… SCREAM IT LOUD for the blue and white—
Westview Wolf Pack, time to fight!”
At the end of our school’s fight song, we all throw back our heads and howl. My first Wolf Pack experience at a football game freshman year, I was embarrassed and intimidated, but now I love the noise, the energy. The way, just for a moment, we all forget to be self-conscious.
It’s the last time I’ll howl with this exact mix of people.
Backstage, I hand over student council secretary Chantal Okafor’s yearbook, and she passes me mine.
“I think I used up the last of your space,” Chantal says. “I hope it’s you. For valedictorian, I mean.”
The high school success guide burns in my backpack. I try to focus on the fact that I have three months with Mara and Kirby ahead of me. We can have a perfect last summer before high school: music festivals, days at the beach, nights complaining how cold the water at the beach was.
But that doesn’t account for everything else. Sure, it was a semi-joke, but I haven’t even accomplished the most basic item on the list: figuring out my bangs. If I can’t figure out my bangs, how could I have expected to become valedictorian? Logically, I know those things aren’t linked, but I’ve had four freaking years. My hair should make more sense than my future.
The line about becoming an English teacher struck me too. In middle school, I had a phase where I pretended to grade papers and dreamed up a reading list or two. My fourteen-year-old self called it a “lifelong dream,” but I can barely remember it. I picture myself at fourteen, brimming with optimism, wanting to get that guide exactly right. My favorite books got happily-ever-afters—why couldn’t I?
I cling to number nine on the list. Valedictorian is still possible. It’s nearly mine.
I smile at Chantal and tuck my yearbook into my backpack. “Thank you. Are you excited for Spelman?”
“Oh yeah. I can’t wait to leave all the high school drama behind.” Chantal’s braids twirl as she jerks her head in McNair’s direction. He’s reviewing his index cards, his lips forming the words. Amateur—I don’t need index cards. His head is bent in concentration, and his glasses are slipping down his nose. If I didn’t despise him, I’d march over there and shove them up. Maybe superglue them to the backs of his ears. “You’ve got to be excited too, right? No more Neil?”
“No more Neil,” I agree, fluttering my bangs across my forehead, to one side and then the other, wishing they’d lie flat. “I can’t wait.”
“I’ll never forget that student council meeting last year that lasted until midnight. Mr. Travers couldn’t get you two to wrap it up. I thought he was going to cry.”
“I forgot about that.” We’d been trying to reach a conclusion about allocating funds for the upcoming year. McNair insisted the English department needed new copies of A White Man in Peril (okay, the books have real titles, but that’s what they’re all about), while I argued we should use the money for books by women and authors of color. They’re not classics, McNair had said. I might have lazily fired back “your face isn’t a classic.” In my defense, it was late. Needless to say, it got a little out of hand.
“At least you made high school memorable.”
“Memorable. Right.” With a twinge of guilt, I realize I barely know Chantal. I knew she was going to Spelman only because she passed me a marker when all the seniors wrote our schools on a sheet of butcher paper hanging in front of the school. I assumed when I joined student council that I’d make friends with everyone, but it’s possible I was so focused on besting McNair that I never got the chance.
McNair must catch us staring, because he strides over until he and I are face-to-face. I wish, not for the first time, that I had at least an inch on him.
“Best of luck,” he says curtly, dusting imaginary lint off his lapels. His hair is no longer damp.
I match his tone. “You as well.”
We don’t break eye contact, as though the winner of this staring contest gets a Jet Ski, a puppy, and a brand-new car.
From the stage, Principal Meadows takes the mic. “Simmer down, simmer down,” she says, and the auditorium grows quiet.
“Nervous, Artoo?” McNair asks.
“Not a bit.” I straighten my cardigan. “You?”
“Sure, a little.”
“Admitting that doesn’t make you better than me.”
“No, but it makes me more honest.” He glances toward the curtain, then back at me. “It was thoughtful of you to make that stain large enough for people in the last row to see.”
I motion to his too-short pants. “They’ve got to have something to distract from that scandalous bit of ankle you’re showing.”
“I hate it when my mom and dad fight,” Chantal says.
McNair and I whirl to face her. My mouth drops open, my expression of horror surely mirroring his. But before we can say anything, Principal Meadows continues.
“To kick things off,” she says, “please join me in welcoming your copresidents, Rowan Roth and Neil McNair!”
I relish the applause and the small but not insignificant joy of my name being uttered before his. McNair pulls
back the velvet stage curtain and gestures for me to step through first. Normally I’d call him out for this—chivalry is outdated and I am not a fan—but today I just roll my eyes.
We grab wireless mics from the stands in the center of the stage. The lights are bright and the auditorium is thick with an antsy, pulsing energy, but I haven’t been nervous up here in years—it’s home.
“I know everyone’s eager to get out of here and play Howl,” McNair says, “so we’ll keep this as brief as possible.”
“But not too brief,” I add. “We want to make sure you all get the recognition you deserve.”
McNair’s brows knit together. “Right. Of course.”
Laughter ripples through the auditorium. Our classmates have come to expect this from us.
“It’s been a pleasure serving as your president this year,” McNair says.
“Copresident.”
He fiddles with something on his mic, sending a warped wave of feedback through the speakers. Hands clutch ears and the audience groans in unison.
“Guess that’s how everyone feels about your presidency,” I say. McNair has annoyed them, but I will win them back.
He turns crimson. “I’m sorry about that, Wolf Pack.”
“Not sure if everyone heard that. You might have permanently damaged some eardrums.”
“Moving on,” he says firmly, with a glance down at his note cards, “we’d like to start with this montage that Ms. Murakami’s film class put together to remind everyone of all the great times we had this year. The soundtrack is provided by Mr. Davidson’s band”—another squint at his notes—“the Pure Funk Project.”
Literally two people cheer. I’m pretty sure one of them is Mr. Davidson.
The lights dim, and the video is projected onto a screen behind us. We laugh along with everyone else at the ridiculous moments captured on camera, but I can’t ignore the anxiety brewing inside me. There are shots from football games and spirit assemblies and drama club productions. From prom. A few seniors in the front row of the auditorium are crying, and though I’d never admit it, I’m grateful for McNair’s pack of tissues in my pocket. Maybe I didn’t love every single one of these people, but we were a unit. No one else would understand how perfectly in sync the Kristens are, to the point where they showed up with their dates at homecoming in the same dress, or the hilarity of Javier Ramos attending every home basketball game wearing a carrot costume.
Deep breaths. Keep it together.
After McNair and I rattle off more highlights from the past year, Principal Meadows takes the microphone back. We retreat to a couple chairs on the side of the stage while she announces the departmental awards, presenting trophies with molded plastic wolves to the top students in each academic discipline. It stings when McNair wins not just for English but for French and Spanish, too, the latter of which makes me a little salty. I stopped taking Spanish junior year to make room for more English electives. I’d wanted to one day be able to talk to my mom’s side of the family, and I guess that “one day” isn’t here yet. Number five on the success guide—another goal unaccomplished.
“Next up is the perfect attendance award,” Principal Meadows says. “Of course, it’s not academic in nature, but we always think it’s fun to recognize the students who managed to make it all 180 days without a single tardy or unexcused absence. This year we’re pleased to honor Minh Pham, Savannah Bell, Pradeep Choudhary, Neil McNair, and Rowan Roth.”
That has to be a mistake.
“Rowan?” she calls again when I’m the only one who doesn’t stand up, so I scramble to retrieve the certificate with my punctual peers.
Back in our seats, I stab McNair’s leg with the edge of the paper certificate.
“I, uh, didn’t end up turning in your late slip,” he mutters. “Figured I’d let you have this one. Since it’s the last day and all.”
“So charitable of you,” I say, but I don’t actually mean the sarcasm. I’m confused, more than anything. McNair and I don’t give each other any freebies.
There’s no time to dwell on it because Principal Meadows is gesturing to us, preparing for the only honor that really matters. “It’s been stiff competition for valedictorian this year,” she says. “Never before have we had two students so equally matched in their grades, extracurriculars, and devotion to this school.”
I grip the certificate tighter. This is it. Our last battle.
“You’re already well acquainted with these two, but what’s most astounding about them is that they care not only about their own accomplishments, but so deeply about Westview High School as an institution. They’ve both done incredible work to ensure future Westview students will have the best experience here imaginable.
“Let me start with Neil. He’ll be going to NYU in the fall to study linguistics. He had a perfect SAT score and achieved all fives on the AP Spanish, French, and Latin exams. He was the creator and head of the student-faculty book club, and during his student council leadership, he established an activities fund to generate money to support club activities on campus, which I know a lot of students are going to benefit from for years to come!”
Polite applause. I join in half-heartedly. A flush and his freckles fight for control of McNair’s face.
“And then we have Rowan.” I swear, she smiles more when she says my name. “She’ll be an undecided freshman at Emerson College in Boston. Here at Westview, she’s been captain of our quiz bowl team, editor of the yearbook, taken a total of twelve AP classes, and served on student council all four years. As copresident, she campaigned for all-gender restrooms, and she was also responsible for helping the school become a little greener. We now compost and have a trash sorting system, thanks to Rowan.”
I wish she hadn’t concluded with that. My legacy: garbage.
Mentally, I consider my odds for the hundredth time over the past few months. AP classes were weighted with some complicated math, so I can’t accurately predict how his GPA compares to mine.
“Artoo,” McNair whispers as Principal Meadows goes on about prominent valedictorians in our school’s history and what they’ve accomplished, rounding out his earlier lesson.
I ignore him. Everyone can see us when we’re sitting up here. He should know by now not to talk.
Gently, he knocks my knee with his. “Artoo,” he repeats, and I’m certain he’s going to remind me of the latte stain. “I just wanted to say… it’s been a good four years. Competing with you has really kept me on my toes.”
His words are slow to sink in. When I steal a glance at him, his eyes are soft, not sharp, behind his glasses, and he’s doing something weird with his mouth. It takes me a split second to realize it’s a smile, a genuine one. I’ve grown so accustomed to his smirk that I figured it was his only expression.
I have no idea how to respond. I’m not even positive it’s a compliment. Should I thank him, or tell him “you’re welcome”? Or maybe just smile back?
At this point, I’ve been staring too long, so I direct my attention back to Principal Meadows. For four years, I’ve dreamed of this moment. Now it’ll be the one item I can cross off my list, the proof I did something right. I can practically see my name on the principal’s lips, hear it through the speakers.
“Without further ado, I’m thrilled to introduce your valedictorian: Neil McNair!”
10:08 a.m.
THE REST OF the assembly blurs by. In a symbolic gesture, McNair and I pass the microphone to next year’s student council president, Logan Perez, though I am so numb I drop it. Then it’s my turn to wince at the distorted sound.
Principal Meadows informs the underclassmen that while the seniors are done for the day, everyone else needs to be back in class by ten o’clock sharp. When she dismisses us, the auditorium turns thunderous, and I allow myself to get lost in the storm. I can’t find Kirby and Mara, but our group text fills with weeping emojis from Kirby and encouragement from Mara. The two of them are still there when I exit out of my messaging
app. My phone background is a photo of the three of us last summer at Bumbershoot, a music festival we’ve gone to every year since middle school. In this photo, we’d pushed our way to the main stage; 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.
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