What's Not to Love - Austin Siegemund-Broka Page 0,2

and onto Fairview’s. I hate the effort he puts into his clothes, his hair, his everything. I hate how he does it to spite me, to show me he’s not only prepared for this test, but he had the extra time to look “good.”

Not that I’m attracted to him. Ethan’s just objectively good-looking. His nearly constant stream of short-lived relationships proves his conventional desirability. I’m mature enough to admit it, although it gives me no personal pleasure to do so.

I resent the fact I’ve had to lay eyes on him this morning while he’s not even spared me a glance. It’s an upper hand, if barely. With Ethan, every loss counts. Even the infinitesimal ones.

Consequently, it’s one I’m determined to rectify. “You’re going to have to work late on the paper today,” I inform the top of his head while he reads his damn phone. “Your piece on the gym funding was poorly organized, per usual.”

I feel a rush of victory when finally he looks up, eyebrows furrowing. Point: Alison.

His story wasn’t poorly organized, truthfully. They never are. I, however, will never forgo the chance to exert the dominance I hold over Ethan in the student newspaper. I’m editor in chief of the Fairview Chronicle, and Ethan’s one of our strongest reporters, not that I’d ever tell him that. Consequently he’s the writer most often assigned to exposés and complicated pieces. The one he’s preparing on the construction of Fairview’s new gym will undoubtedly be prominent in our upcoming issue, which I will be submitting for the National Student Press Club Awards at the end of the month. I want it to be perfect.

“Poorly organized?” he repeats. I hear the note of protest in his voice. “Honestly, Sanger,” he drawls, “your ploys to get me to spend time with you have grown thinner and thinner.”

I roll my eyes. Around us, our classmates have started to congregate. Everyone’s concentrated on flashcards or notebooks, hoping to fit in a little cramming in the final minutes before Mr. Pham opens the door. Not Ethan and me. We’re the only ones who look calm and collected.

“I wish you were a good enough writer we didn’t need hours of in-person edits. I’m the victim here. You—” I clamp my mouth shut, the retort half finished. My stomach lurches uncomfortably. Not now.

He arches an eyebrow, no doubt surprised by my sudden silence. “Did—did you just nearly throw up on me?” Pocketing his phone, he smirks, his confusion fading. “Don’t you think you’re taking your revulsion act a little far?”

“It’s no act,” I reply, ignoring the rising wave of nausea in me. For a moment, I wonder what would happen if I just puked directly on Ethan, spattering his stupid sweater and his repugnant leather oxfords. I kind of wish I could, just to watch horror fracture the impassivity in his eyes. Except then, Mr. Pham would definitely send me home before the exam.

Instead, I lean on the wall, hoping the posture projects confidence, not light-headedness.

Ethan scrutinizes me. “You’re sick.” There’s no small measure of glee in his voice.

“No, I’m not.”

“Your skin is unusually blotchy, even for you,” he says, smiling now. “You know, Mr. Pham would let you make up the exam if you need to go home.” It’s not a well-intentioned suggestion, I know. It’s a taunt. An I win. Which he will, if I retreat to the nurse’s office now.

Ethan and I compete on every exam for the highest score. It started out informally—me peeking over his shoulder to check his grade, his intolerably smug face when he knew he’d done better. In sophomore chemistry, we made the competition official. Whoever scores worse on each exam does an unpleasant task of the winner’s choosing, whatever comes up in the newspaper or Associated Student Government, where we’re co–vice presidents. Fixing the printer in the newsroom, meeting with Principal Williams, picking up the work the student government president forgot or decided not to do.

If you miss a test, you forfeit on the grounds that makeup exams offer extra time for reviewing. Hence my coming to school with food poisoning.

“I’m fine,” I say firmly.

“Sanger, seriously.” Ethan is faux sympathetic, enjoying every minute of this. “If you have the flu, don’t force yourself to be here. It’s okay to forfeit. Self-care is important.”

I glare. Self-care? Please. I’ve had a SLEEP IS AN INADEQUATE SUBSTITUTE FOR CAFFEINE coffee mug since I was fourteen. Ethan’s crossing his arms, facing me. The feet separating us feel painfully insufficient for the size