Today Tonight Tomorrow

by Rachel Lynn Solomon

  “When are they fashioning a bust of your head to appear in the entryway of the school?” I ask.

  “Just got done with the measurements. I insisted on marble, not bronze. Looks classier.”

  “That’s… good,” I say, slipping. Usually we keep pace with each other, but this past hour has thrown me. I’m off my game.

  After a few moments’ hesitation, he slides onto the bench next to me. Well—there’s two feet of space between us, but given we are the only two people on the bench, I suppose he is still technically next to me. He pushes up a sleeve to check his watch. It’s not digital, and it can’t do anything except tell time. It’s old and silver, with Roman numerals instead of numbers. He wears it every day, and I’ve always wondered if it’s a family heirloom.

  “I meant what I said earlier. About competing with you all these years. You’ve been a truly formidable opponent.” Only Neil McNair would say something like “formidable opponent.” “You’ve pushed me to do better. I don’t mean this in an asshole way, but… I couldn’t have become valedictorian without you.”

  My temper flares—I can’t help it. Maybe he’s trying to be genuine, but it sounds like he’s mocking me. “You couldn’t have become valedictorian without me? What is this, your fucking Oscars speech? It’s over, McNair. You won. Go celebrate.” I flick my hand in a shooing motion, mimicking the one he made by the trophy case earlier.

  “Come on. I’m giving you an olive branch here.”

  “If I can’t smack you with it, what’s the point?” I heave out a sigh and rake my fingers through my bangs. “Sorry. It’s all just hitting me. Everything ending. It’s… a weird feeling.” But “weird” is much too tame a word for how I stack up against Rowan Roth’s Guide to High School Success.

  What it really feels like is failure.

  He exhales, his shoulders visibly softening, as though he’s been tensing them all day or maybe even all year. Evidently, we are both doomed to dreadful posture.

  “Yeah,” he says, tugging on his tie to loosen it some more. In another odd display of humanity, he adds: “I don’t know if it’s sunk in yet for me. I’m half convinced I’ll show up at school on Monday.”

  “Strange to think about it all going on without us.”

  “I know. Like, does Westview exist without us here? If a tree falls in a forest and no one’s around to hear it and all that?”

  “Who’s going to torment Mr. O’Brien in AP Chemistry?”

  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.

  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.

  “I really am going to miss hating him next year,” I say as my mental gears kick into overdrive. I defeat McNair, and I’ll have accomplished something on that success guide, arguably the biggest, grandest something. A perfect ten.

  Kirby and Mara exchange a glance. “Don’t you guys text each other ‘good morning’ every day?” Mara asks, tentative.

  “We tell each other to have a shitty day,” I explain, because I imagine it’s easy even for my closest friends to misinterpret the relationship I have (had?) with my rival. “It’s different.”

  “You’re going to miss him telling you to have a shitty day?” Kirby asks, and shakes her head. “Straights, I swear.” She tucks a wisp of hair back into her crown braid. “If we’re all dead by tonight, we should have a sleepover. It’s been forever.”

  “Definitely,” Mara agrees. We used to have a sleepover every last day of school. In fact, there used to be a time we slept over at someone’s house once a month before surrendering to the stress of senior year.

  “I—um…” I stumble, because tonight is Delilah’s signing.

  I can go to the signing and still best McNair, but if Howl hasn’t ended by then, I’ll have to sneak away from it. While I’m not worried I’ll see any of my competitors there, I don’t know if I can explain the signing to Kirby and Mara. I can’t tell them how badly I want to see Delilah’s signature rubber stamp, the one made from a mold of her lips that she presses into crimson ink so it looks like she’s kissed every book.

  The fantasy: my friends love Delilah Park’s books as much as I do.

  The reality: my friends think my favorite books are trash.

  Once at the mall, we passed a bookstore display of romance novels, and Mara scoffed at it. The way she tore them down with a single sound made me ashamed I’d read every book on that display. Another time, Kirby noticed the romance novels on my bookshelf. “They’re my mom’s,” I lied. Kirby proceeded to pull them out one by one, laughing at the titles. My face flamed, and I didn’t know how to ask her to stop.

  Once upon a Guy: that one distracted me in the hospital waiting room freshman year when my dad needed an emergency appendectomy.

  Lucky in Lust: that one made me realize women could make the first move in a relationship.

  The Duke’s Dirty Secret: well, that one just made me happy.

  “Let’s see how Howl goes?” I finish.

  The bell on the restaurant’s door dings, and I glance over on instinct, not expecting to see McNair’s three closest friends: Adrian Quinlan, Sean Yee, and Cyrus Grant-Hayes, presidents of the chess club, the robotics club, and the Anime Appreciation Society, respectively. McNair is notably absent, which immediately raises alarm.

  I used to go to school with these guys, I think, because after today, it will be true. Seattle will be full of used-to-be’s.

  “I’m going to get more food,” I say, pushing out my chair and getting in the buffet line behind them.

  “ ’Sup, Rowan?” Adrian says, scooping basmati rice onto his plate.

  “Hey, Adrian. Where’s McNair?” I ask as casually as I can.

  Individually, his friends are decent humans. As a group, they’ve assisted him with the Roth-McNair war on a number of occasions. There was the time he stacked student council with them to swing the vote his way, and once they did, they immediately dropped out. Then there was the time they teamed up to mess with the curve on a calculus test. Most of the time, though, they just shake their heads and smile, like we’re a show they’re not that invested in but that entertains them just enough to keep it on.

  Cyrus goes for the saag paneer. “Already missing your other half ?”

  The question throws me. Other half. I’ve always hated being paired with McNair, but there’s something about the way Cyrus says it that makes me hate it less than usual. Almost like it’s not necessarily a bad thing.

  “Miss him? I just want to make sure he’s ready for Howl. I don’t miss him. I saw him a couple hours ago,” I say, forcing a laugh at the sheer ridiculousness of Cyrus’s suggestion. “And I’ll probably see him again in another hour. I definitely don’t miss him.”

  “Chill,” Adrian says. “Dude’s not here. There was some emergency, and he had to pick his sister up from school.”

  “Oh.” An emergency? “Is everything… okay?”

  I should have just sucked it up and signed his yearbook. We’ve exchanged so many jabs over the years, and yet it’s only now that I managed to hurt him with a single word. That hallway version of McNair seemed oddly vulnerable, a word I’ve never associated with him simply because he’s never shown any vulnerability. No cracks in his armor.

  Sean shrugs, adding a couple samosas to his plate. “He didn’t say much about it. He’s… not the most forthcoming about his personal life.”

  “Come to think of it, I can’t remember the last time I was at his house,” Cyrus says.

  Adrian gives him a pointed look I can’t interpret. “He doesn’t really have people over much.”

  I take stock of what I know about McNair’s personal life. He must live near Westview, but I’m not sure where. Evidently, he has a sister, but until Adrian said that, I would have guessed he was an only child like me because he’s never mentioned siblings. Not the most forthcoming about his personal life. What could be so, well, personal, that he wouldn’t share it with his friends?

  Even confronted with this emergency, it’s impossible to picture McNair in any role except capital-R Rival.

  “But he’s still playing, right?” I ask.

  “Oh yeah.” Sean flicks black hair out of his eyes. It’s doing this swoopy thing I’ve always found cute. McNair’s hair could never achieve that kind of effortless swoop. “He said he wouldn’t miss this.”

  That helps me relax. The emergency can’t have been that serious. I won’t let it distract me from my new goal, the one that fills me with a familiar rush of confidence.

  I’m going to destroy McNair one last time.

  Maybe then I’ll feel like myself again.

  HOWL: Official Game Rules

  Property of the junior class of Westview High School

  TOP SECRET

  DO NOT SHARE.

  DO NOT DUPLICATE.

  DO NOT LEAVE UNATTENDED ON THE COMPUTER WHILE YOU GET A CHEESY PRETZEL FROM THE STUDENT STORE EVEN THOUGH YOU’RE “PRE
TTY SURE” YOU SAVED IT. (THAT MEANS YOU, JEFF.)

  HOWL is a citywide scavenger hunt with a twist: you’re being hunted by your classmates.

  OBJECTIVES

  Find and photograph 15 scavenger-hunt clues located around the city.

  Send to the junior class for verification.

  Don’t die.

  At the beginning of the game, you will be given the name of your first target. You can only eliminate your target by removing their blue armband. Once you eliminate your target, you will assume their target.

  Anyone using real weapons will be immediately disqualified and reported to the police.

  Once you’ve found all 15 clues, you must be the first person back at the Westview gym to win.

  GRAND PRIZE: $5,000

  GOOD LUCK… YOU’LL NEED IT.

  11:52 a.m.

  BY THE TIME we reach the football field, nearly the entire senior class is here. Kirby and Mara drift toward their dance friends for selfies and yearbook swaps. It’s finally starting to warm up, so I slip off my cardigan and fold it into my backpack. I feel much better now that I have a plan. Destroy McNair. Regain confidence. Meet Delilah and hope she loves me.

  Just as his friends assured me, McNair’s here, standing by the bleachers and rummaging through his backpack. The sun on his fiery hair is nothing short of an ocular hazard. If I look directly at it, it’ll probably fry my corneas. Total eclipse of McNair. I hold a hand to my forehead and wrench my gaze downward. He’s changed into a black T-shirt with a Latin phrase scribbled across it, and his dark jeans have a hole in one knee. Below them: scuffed Adidas, the laces chewed and frayed at the ends. I wonder if he has a dog. For once, he looks like a teenage boy, not a tax attorney or middle school assistant principal.

  The T-shirt is the real mystery. Usually he wears sweaters or button-downs, the occasional grandpa cardigan with elbow patches. For all I know, this is his summer uniform; we’re only ever around each other the nine gloomy months school is in session. Freckles up and down his pale arms disappear into his sleeves, and I think he has biceps. In sophomore-year gym class, he was a scrawny little thing, twig arms poking out of the boxy Westview gym shirt that fit exactly no one. This T-shirt, though—it definitely fits him.