“Okay, seriously, I’m starting to consider plastering my face with foundation. I thought gay boys were supposed to be good for a girl’s self-esteem?”
Ethan laughed. “I don’t know where you got that idea.”
“Fine,” I said, shaking my head and readdressing Oliver, who hadn’t stopped grinning at me. “I was up all night working on homework last minute, just like you said I would be, oh prophetic one.”
“Sometimes I hate being right.” The smile said quite the opposite.
I went back to eating my veggie lasagna. Oh heavenly carbs, at least you’ll never betray me.
“Anyway,” Oliver continued, unfolding a napkin onto his lap, “I need you to make sure this one gets his work done. I worry I’m distracting him too much.”
“You know my babysitting rates double on weekends.”
“I’ll pay. Pretty certain being your friend is paying my dues.”
I chuckled. “Most of the time. But yeah, I’ll make sure he doesn’t slack off.”
Ethan leaned across the table and waved his hands. “Um, guys? Still here. Can hear every word you’re saying.”
“Of course,” Oliver said, completely ignoring his boyfriend, “this goes both ways. You only get paid if you both have your theses finished.”
My hands shot to my heart. “Lo! I am slain!”
Ethan slugged Oliver on the shoulder. “I told you never to mention that word to her.”
“What? Finished?”
“Thesis,” Ethan gasped. “The word of death.”
As expected, Oliver just chuckled to himself and went back to eating. Ethan shot me a glance, one that read both I’m sorry he said anything and Oh gods, we really do need to finish these soon. “Thesis” was one of those words that carried the same sort of weight between me and Ethan as “juxtaposed” or “post modern.” We simply didn’t use it—ever—out of mutual respect for each other’s feelings. Oliver knew this, but it didn’t carry the same punch for him. He thought it was funny, the way we squirmed around like he’d just asked which of us he should behead first.
Trouble was, he had a point. Ethan and I needed to get our shit together. Otherwise we’d both be showcasing Post-it notes of stick figures for our senior theses. And we couldn’t copy Jeremy.
“Fine,” I relented. “We’ll do it. Prepare your kidneys, Ethan. We’re about to consume more coffee than any mortal has before.”
Islington wasn’t like most high schools. Actually, that’s sort of an understatement. I’m pretty certain the original founders had a meeting and said, “Let’s take everything they do at public schools and reverse it.” Like most boarding schools, we had things like evening sign-in and curfews and ridiculous lights-out rules that no one actually followed. Boys and girls were only allowed to mingle in public spaces or—if you got permission and kept the door open—in dorm rooms during specific hours. Unlike most boarding schools, we didn’t have a uniform or a dress code beyond “try not to expose too much skin because, after all, most of the school year is covered in snow.” We also didn’t have any sports teams steeped in glory, unless you counted ultimate Frisbee. And no one really did. Not even the team members.
Islington was an entity unto itself—a bastion of learning and creativity. Or so the admissions guide proclaimed. Four hundred teenage artists from every discipline, gathered in one place in the middle of nowhere, each aspiring to be the Next Big Thing. No parents. Extreme workloads and stress. Raging hormones. Endless days of isolation and dark winter skies.
As one could expect, it was a reality TV show waiting to happen.
After leaving the cafeteria, I headed toward Myth and Folklore. Being a lit course, it was one of the few academic classes I had to take to graduate, though unlike the other options—like Russian Literature and Postmodern Poetry—I was actually interested in the subject. Not that it prevented me from spending the majority of class doodling in the edges of my notebook and passing witty notes back and forth with Elisa. I had to be careful and look like I was paying attention, though—the instructor was Mr. Almblad (aka Jonathan), my faculty adviser. Screwing up with him could screw up the rest of my year.
Elisa passed me a tightly folded note while Jonathan scribbled the names of Norse gods and their associations on the whiteboard.
“Wild party tonight?” the note read.
I grinned and nodded. Elisa and I had been roommates from the get-go, and we had our own little code. In nerdy art-school land, “wild party” translated to “soda and bad movies night.”