Today Tonight Tomorrow

by Rachel Lynn Solomon

  Have the three of us taken any photos since then?

  “You talk about the three of us having this great last summer,” Mara continues, “and I’m sorry—you know we love you—but it’s a little hard to believe.”

  Her words weigh me down, dragging my shoulders nearly to the floor. Our lane goes wobbly. My friends and I don’t ever argue like this. In my head, our relationship was rock solid. It can’t be true that in reality, it was crumbling.

  “You guys keep playing,” I say, slipping off the bowling shoes. “I need to get some air.”

  Several Occasions on Which I May Have

  (Inadvertently) Abandoned My Friends for Neil McNair

  NOVEMBER, JUNIOR YEAR

  Kirby and I were in the same AP US History class, and Ms. Benson let us pick partners for an end-of-semester project. Kirby assumed we’d work together, but because I knew Ms. Benson did not buy into the bullshit “everyone in the group gets the same grade” philosophy, I locked eyes with McNair instead. We traded a nod that meant we were on the same page: we’d try to sabotage each other by working together. We each got a 98.

  MARCH, JUNIOR YEAR

  McNair and I stayed late after quiz bowl practice. We argued for so long about one of the answers that we got hungry and wound up continuing our debate at a hole-in-the-wall Mexican place down the block from school. He was so annoying that I could barely enjoy my veggie burrito. I was supposed to be at Mara and Kirby’s dance recital, but I lost track of time and only caught the second half.

  SEPTEMBER, SENIOR YEAR

  Kirby and Mara and I planned to go to the opening night of Kirby’s favorite Marvel franchise sequel, but I had to help student council tally the votes for president because it just wasn’t possible they were split exactly down the middle. By the time we finished counting and recounting at one a.m., it became clear that it was possible. And I had missed the movie.

  MAY, SENIOR YEAR

  It’s tradition for seniors to hold a silent auction every year to raise money for the school. Everyone in the senior class and their parents are invited to offer something—an item, an experience—and we make the rounds of the room to scribble down their bids. It’s pretty posh for public school. Kirby, Mara, and I dressed up and ate fancy food together most of the night—until a basket of high-end cheeses disappeared, and as copresidents, McNair and I had to track it down. Turned out, a little kid had wandered off with it, but it took us the better part of an hour to find it tucked into a stroller.

  TODAY

  … Oh.

  2:49 p.m.

  THE ARCADE’S PINBALL machines devour my quarters. Obsessed with Neil McNair—it’s laughable, really. We’ve had nearly all the same extracurriculars, the same classes. That’s not obsession: that’s both of us working toward a singular goal only one of us could ever get.

  What would the alternative have been? I had to get inside his head, figure out how to take him down, solve problems only the two of us could. I never fully cracked him, though. That’s the strangest part. All these years without dark secrets or embarrassing confessions. With us, it’s strictly business.

  Still, I can’t get my friends’ words out of my mind.

  I think you’re a little obsessed with him.

  God, even now I’m thinking about McNair instead of my friends, the people I’ve all but abandoned this year.

  We’re not allowed to leave the safe zone until three, and pinball is easier than self-reflection. It reminds me of one of my favorite romance-novel first dates. In Lucky in Lust, Annabel and Grayson spend hours in a run-down arcade, drawing a crowd as she grows closer and closer to beating a pinball machine’s high score. The whole time, she’s almost fully focused on the game. She can feel adorable history teacher Grayson’s presence next to her, the heat of his body, the scent of his cologne. And when she claims the high score, he wraps her in this incredible victory hug that she feels down to her toes. I didn’t know hugs could be that hot.

  I don’t have Annabel’s luck in lust or in pinball. After I lose a few more dollars in quarters, I check the time on my phone. Somehow it’s been only five minutes, but I’m not ready to go back quite yet.

  Distantly, I hear someone say my name. I turn my head, but the given way the conversation continues in hushed tones, I’m not sure anyone was actually calling me. I’m not being beckoned—I’m being talked about. The arcade is on the top floor, above the lanes, and it’s tough to make out the conversation amid the sounds of pins clattering and people talking, laughing. I’m alone in here, probably because everything looks like it hasn’t been cleaned in the last twenty years, including the carpet, which is the saddest shade of greige.

  But then I hear my name again, and this time I’m sure it’s coming from the food court across from the arcade.

  There’s no door separating the arcade from the hall or the food court—but there’s a potted plant at the arcade’s entrance that’s roughly my height.

  What I’m doing is ridiculous. I’m aware of that. And yet here I am, creeping toward the plant, hoping its leaves can hide most of my body. When I peek between them, I spot about a dozen Westviewers huddled in the food court, the kind that serves plastic pizza and one-dollar sodas. Savannah Bell is at the head of the table, and she looks about as thrilled as I did when I learned the votes for student council president were split right down the middle.

  “Aren’t you sick of Rowan and Neil winning everything?” she’s saying, waving a cup for emphasis. “Every test, every competition, it’s Neil and Rowan, Rowan and Neil. If I never hear their names together again, it’ll be too soon.”

  You and me both.

  “It’s the last day of school, Sav,” says Trang Chau, Savannah’s boyfriend. “Why does it matter?”

  “Because if one of them wins today,” Savannah continues, her earrings trembling with the indignity of it all, “then they win high school. They get to go off to college all smug, thinking they’re better than the rest of us. Think how satisfying it would be to take them down a peg. Valedictorian and salutatorian, beaten at their very last game.”

  This conversation feels sinister, somehow. McNair and I earned every accolade, every win.

  “I always assumed they were hooking up,” says Iris Zhou, and I fight the urge to gag myself with a plant leaf.

  “No. No way,” Brady Becker says. Bless him. “I did a group project with them last year, and they nearly killed each other. It was fucking brutal.”

  “I don’t know.” Meg Lazarski taps her chin. “Amelia Yoon said she saw them go into the supply closet together during leadership last month, and when they came out, Neil’s hair was a mess and Rowan was totally blushing.”

  I muffle a laugh. The closet was tiny, and I’d accidentally brushed against him while reaching for a jar of paint. Simple proximity to another human being in an enclosed space would make anyone feel flushed. As for his hair: well, it was AP test week, and some people play with their hair when they’re anxious. Guess we have that in common.

  “I don’t care if they’re hooking up or not,” Savannah says. “All I want to do is take them down.”

  “Isn’t this a little… unsportsmanlike?” Brady asks before shoving half a slice of pizza into his mouth.

  “We’re not doing anything that breaks the Howl rules,” Savannah says. “I tried to kill Neil earlier, but Rowan swept in to save him.”

  “Hooking up,” Iris singsongs, like this explains everything.

  Savannah fixes Iris with a death glare.

  “Besides,” Savannah continues, “it’s not like Rowan needs the money.”

  “What do you mean?” Meg asks.

  “Jewish?” Savannah says as she taps her nose.

  She taps. Her nose.

  I can’t hear what anyone says next—if anyone laughs or if anyone agrees with her or if anyone calls her out. I can’t hear. I can’t see. I can barely think. A panic I haven’t felt in years flares through me, red-hot.

  I curl one hand around the plan
t’s fake bark in an attempt to anchor myself. In bluest-blue Seattle, a place everyone claims to be so open, this still happens: the jabs people think are harmless, the stereotypes they accept as truth. There aren’t many Jews here. In fact, I can name every other Jewish kid at Westview—all four of us. Kylie Lerner, Cameron Pereira, and Belle Greenberg.

  When you’re Jewish, you learn from a young age that you can either go along with the jokes or fight back and risk much worse, because you don’t have the words yet to tell anyone why those jokes aren’t funny. I chose option A. It makes me sick sometimes, thinking about how I egged people on in elementary school, because if you can’t beat ’em, join ’em, right?

  I run my index finger along the bump of bone in the middle of my nose. In fourth grade, I failed an eye exam on purpose, hoping glasses would detract from the monstrosity in the middle of my face, but I felt so guilty about it that I ultimately confessed to my parents. Even now, it’s not my favorite feature. One comment, and it drags me all the way back to that place where I hated looking at myself.

  “If you’re here,” Savannah’s saying, and I force myself to refocus on the conversation, “it’s because you want to take them down too. Anyone who doesn’t can feel free to leave.”

  At first no one moves. Then Brady gets to his feet.

  “I’m out. Rowan and Neil are cool, and I don’t want to ruin anyone’s fun.”

  “And I was just here for the pizza,” says Lily Gulati. “Which was wonderfully mediocre. Good luck with your revenge, I guess.”

  No one else stands up.

  I’m not naive enough to assume everyone in high school liked me, but I figured at the very least they didn’t hate me quite this much. This harsh reality makes me unsteady. Maybe I underestimated Savannah. She’s clearly someone who can summon power when she wants to, given the group she’s established here. And after what she said, the way she tapped her nose—she’s never been my favorite person, but now she’s gone full villain.

  My neck is starting to cramp. I’m so desperate to twist the other way for some relief, but I can’t risk drawing attention to my hiding spot.

  “Now that that’s settled,” Savannah says, “let’s talk strategy. I still have Neil’s name.” She waves the paper for everyone else to see. “But he knows I have it.” This last part, she lets hang in the air, as though waiting for her followers to grasp the hidden meaning.

  “I think I get what you’re saying,” Trang says. “Have one of us kill you, then take Neil’s name, so he doesn’t see it coming?”

  A wicked smile from Savannah. “Exactly.”

  “Artoo? What are you doing?”

  The voice startles me so much that I let out a gasp, then immediately clap a hand over my mouth.

  “Shit, shit, shit,” I hiss, whirling around to find McNair staring down at me with a very confused expression on his face.

  Heart hammering, I grab his shirtsleeve and drag him into a crouch behind the unoccupied shoe-rental booth. He stumbles but quickly rights himself, following my lead and ducking his head. Our knees meet the greige carpet a little more harshly than I hoped. Bowling shoes are stacked in neat rows in front of our faces. I’m positive we’re out of sight, but I can’t hear anything Savannah’s saying.

  “You can let go of me now,” McNair whispers.

  Oh. It’s only then that I realize how close we are, and I’m still holding on to his sleeve. While I feel like I haven’t taken a normal breath in hours, his chest rises and falls in the steadiest way, that mysterious Latin phrase moving up and down.

  I release my grip on him, trying as best I can to avoid contact with his skin as I sit back on my heels and busy myself with readjusting my sweater. I started sweating when I was spying, and being this physically close to someone else—even if it is McNair—isn’t exactly helping.

  My mind is reeling. Savannah wants her army to go after McNair and me. As what, some kind of twisted revenge for being good at school?

  McNair opens his mouth to say something, but I hold a finger to my lips. Slowly, slowly I creep to the left until I can just barely see the food court. The group looks like they’re wrapping up, heading back to their lanes. Whatever else they decided to do, I completely missed it.

  I crawl back to Neil, who, much to his credit, is being both very still and very quiet.

  “I’m lost,” he says. “Is this part of the game?”

  “I’ll tell you what’s going on. I promise.” I check my phone. Our safe-zone time is almost up. “But not here.”

  He claps his hands together and grins in this over-the-top way. “Does this mean I get to ride in your car again? Oh, Artoo, say it isn’t so!”

  I roll my eyes. “Meet me back at my car as soon as they let us out. And make sure no one follows you.” I don’t want anyone to see us together.

  A flicker of amusement crosses his face, but he nods. He has to be able to tell how serious I am about this. I can trust him.

  I think.

  * * *

  “I would make a really excellent spy,” McNair says as I approach my car. He’s already leaning against it, one foot propped against the back tire. If he were anyone else, he might look cool. “In case you were wondering.”

  I ignore him and inspect our surroundings to make sure no one followed us. After I left the arcade, Mara said I could still join her and Kirby, but I shook my head and told them I’d see them later. A heavy silence passed between the three of us, as though we were unsure how to navigate this new stage of our friendship where all our problems—my problems—were out in the open.

  All I know is that McNair and I aren’t safe.

  Now that he’s seeing another angle of my car, he notices my front bumper and draws in a sharp breath.

  “Oh,” I say, wincing. “Yeah. I, um. Hit someone. This morning.”

  “That’s why you were late?” He bends down to examine it.

  “I was too embarrassed to say anything.”

  Something unexpected happens then: his voice turns soft, his eyes full of something that, if I didn’t know any better, might be concern. “Are you okay?”

  “I’m fine.” I pull my sweater tighter around myself. “I wasn’t going very fast. My dress is the one that really suffered.”

  “Still, I’m sorry. I was in the passenger seat when my mom got rear-ended last year, and the car was fine, but it rattled me. I didn’t realize, or I wouldn’t have given you such a hard time this morning.”

  “It’s—thank you,” I manage, recognizing that this is maybe a normal conversation between two people with one who cares that the other didn’t die this morning. “I don’t see anyone. Get in.”

  We shut the doors, but we’re too close to the bowling alley for comfort. I drive for a couple minutes in silence, weaving through residential streets until I find a parking spot deeper in Capitol Hill.

  “You’re starting to freak me out,” McNair says when I kill the engine.

  I let out a long sigh. “I know this is weird… but I heard Savannah Bell talking in the food court about us. She had a group of ten or twelve people, and they were planning to team up to take us out of the game.”

  His face twists. “What? Why?”

  “To be assholes? To get us back for being the best in school?”

  “Technically, you’re second best,” he says, and I’m too anxious to be annoyed by it.

  “The way Savannah phrased it, it was like getting back at us after all these years. They sounded pretty serious about it. And Savannah said—” But then I break off, realizing I was about to tell him how she tapped her nose. I’m not sure I can explain to someone who isn’t Jewish, who’s never experienced this, how equating Judaism with wealth is anti-Semitic. Centuries ago, Jews weren’t allowed to own land and could only make a living as merchants and bankers. It evolved into a stereotype that we’re not just rich, but greedy, too. “That she, um. Has you now.”

  McNair nods, tugging at a loose thread on his backpack.

  “But from
what I could tell,” I continue, “they were going to have someone kill her just to take your name.”

  “Who?”

  “I didn’t get to hear. That was when you interrupted me.”

  “And—you don’t know who has you, either?”

  “I do not. As I said, that was when you interrupted me. Keep up,” I say. “They’re all going to be out to get us. And they don’t care about sacrificing themselves for the cause, either. It’s clearly not about the money for them.”

  A brief silence falls over us. McNair’s brow is furrowed, as though trying to make sense of Savannah’s plan.

  I don’t know how to explain to him that the longer I stay in the game, the longer I remain in high school, the longer I don’t have to face the reality that I didn’t turn into the person my fourteen-year-old self wanted to be. On Monday morning, I want to walk right back into homeroom with Mrs. Kozlowski, debate with McNair during AP Government, joke with Mara and Kirby at lunch. I’m not ready for the world beyond Westview yet.

  Or maybe I don’t need to explain. Maybe he feels exactly the same way.

  “Well… shit,” he says finally, and despite everything, it almost makes me laugh. It’s such a resigned thing to say, and McNair has never been resigned about anything, not as long as I’ve known him. “What do we do?”

  It’s weird he asks this. Not just because he uses “we” as though we’re a unit, but because it’s exactly what I’ve been wondering: How are we going to deal with it?

  I summon all my strength to utter this next sentence. Given every time we’ve been tied together throughout high school, maybe my suggestion is fitting. I’ve been going over it in my head since I heard them talking, and I’m pretty sure it’s the only solution. My jaw is tight, my throat rough as the words climb up it, fighting every urge for self-preservation.

  “I think we should team up.”

  HOWL STANDINGS