Today Tonight Tomorrow(12)

“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.