The Rival

Chapter Three

By the end of the first week at Maple Ride my biggest foreseeable problem with college is that I might never leave. Just fully unsubscribe from the real world and live forever in this place where I get to wear sweatpants whenever and wherever I want, and not focus so much on my grades because I actually enjoy the classes I’m taking. This place where I can study in the sunshine by day and stay out late at parties with other kids on our floor by night and get to live in a perpetual sleepover with my best friend.

A best friend who is now at my side on the quad, where I’m scoping out the different groups at the Student Organization Fair to figure out which one might make a good subject for our first submission to Newsbag. It’s due in two weeks, so I don’t have a moment to waste. Which Christina is clearly not considering when she raises her arm up in the air and yells, “Sebastian ‘Middle Name I Don’t Know’ Adams!”

Despite the sea of curious freshmen and transfers packed into the maze of booths, Seb’s head immediately bobs up at the sound of Christina’s voice. I haven’t seen him since the ill-fated Newsbag meeting, but he’s still sunkissed and breezy in his white shirt and jeans, with a new green Maple Ride baseball cap slung over his tousled hair that does nothing to detract from the boyish brightness in his eyes when he spots us.

“She’s a runner, she’s a track star,” says Seb, raising his hand up to high-five Christina. “Never got to say congrats on the scholarship.”

Christina high-fives him with gusto, because, incidentally, my long-running rivalry with Seb has done nothing to deter the two of them from enjoying each other’s company.

“They had me in conditioning here the whole summer,” says Christina, jutting a long leg out and flexing like a cartoon character. “And hey, congrats on getting off the waitlist.”

Seb beams and then, of all things, leans in and wraps me into a hug.

His grip is warm and soft, and my voice is anything but. “Excuse you,” I say, as if avoiding not a hug but a sneeze.

“Admit it,” he says, close to my ear, “I’m a good hugger.”

Irritatingly, he’s not wrong. It’s rare we’ve ever had a reason to hug, but those moments stick out enough in my mind that I’m already anticipating the way he shifts his arms up slightly, the way he scratches lightly at the base of my neck.

Usually I stay still and unfazed, per our usual game of closeness chicken. Only this time my skin tingles and my own arms lift reflexively, almost hugging him back. Seb leans into it, but I catch myself just in time, stepping out of his grasp.

“Save your strength,” I tell him curtly. “I think the Hugging Club is back that way.”

Seb steps back, too, eyes vaguely amused and trained on my hand, which is now clamped to the back of my neck. “I’ve got another mission to accomplish this afternoon,” he says. “But you already knew that.”

Seb’s smile sharpens, and I can’t help getting caught on the edges of it. This past week is the longest we’ve gone without seeing each other since—well, ever, come to think of it. I could never miss him as a person, but as a fixture it’s only logical. Like missing a pillow or a toothbrush. Just part of a routine.

One I’ve decided to shake up a bit now, because Christina’s right. I’m not good little conflict-avoidant Sadie anymore. I’m new-haircut out-for-blood Sadie, and I do whatever the hell I want.

And what I want this morning is to throw Seb off so fully that he loses the entire plot on his mission here. If he thinks he can knock me off my game with a friendly hug, I’ll do him one better than that.

“Let’s join forces, then,” I offer.

It’s Seb’s turn to be surprised, but even as his eyes widen he doesn’t miss a beat. “Thought you’d never ask.”

“I’ll leave you two to it,” says Christina. “I heard the Apocalypse Club is handing out stickers with Pedro Pascal’s face on them. Priorities and all.”

She books it for a booth across the quad, and Seb and I fall into step with the rest of the freshmen and transfers milling around. This is in some ways a “two birds, one stone” situation. I FaceTimed my parents last night—or rather, I watched the screen get yanked all over the house like a rag doll as various members of the family took turns picking me up and setting me down in random places—and they spent no less than half the call over the moon that Seb was at Maple Ride and demanding that the two of us “stick together.” My mom even had the audacity to say she “feels so much better” knowing that the two of us are here “looking out for each other.”

And I plan to do exactly that. With one eye open, even when I sleep.

“So how was your first week?” I ask.

I keep my tone deliberately neutral so Seb can make the call on whether we’re in School Mode or Lawless Mode. He apparently can’t decide either, because he shoves his hands in his pockets and says back just as vaguely, “Oh, you know. Math-y.”

Apparently I’m steering the ship today. Lawless it is.

“Right. Because of the engineering major you decided to take on, despite what I thought was a lifelong allergy to math.”

Seb perks up, leaning in conspiratorially. “You know how it is. Can’t stay away from things that don’t like me. Speaking of, you never told me what you were majoring in.”

“Communications, with a minor in avoiding boys prone to spilling smoothies all over me.”

Seb’s eyes are gleaming when they meet mine. “Oof. Let’s hope they’re grading on a curve, then. You’re already failing spectacularly.”

He looks me up and down, and only then do I realize we’re more or less in the same outfit—I’ve got a white tank top tucked into denim shorts and an almost identical blue version of the baseball cap he’s wearing. Embarrassing.

“Free jelly bean?” someone offers, thrusting a bowl of them at us. “If you guess the flavor correctly you win a free key chain.”

We turn then to see a brightly decorated booth for the Jelly Bean Appreciation Society, which is just one among many delightfully ridiculous booths I’ve already passed this morning. There’s the Starbucks and Target Club, which apparently meets up on Sundays to do just that for what they’ve dubbed their “weekly church.” There’s Random Acts of Chaos Club, which apparently involves taping flyers that just say things like EGGS??? all over campus and putting glittery HAVE A DAY!!!! stickers on strangers’ backpacks when they’re not looking. There’s even a Paranormal Investigation Club, which is handing out flyers in the shape of ghosts and offering free haunting assessments for dorms and apartments.

Seb takes a jelly bean from the bowl. I follow suit and regret it immediately. The only discernible flavor I can think of is “absolute abject misery.”

“What is happening to me,” I say flatly.

It’s sharp and foul and somehow warm at the same time. I can feel some baseline evolutionary instinct demanding I spit it out before the poison spreads to every organ in my body, but I’m too stubborn—I am yet again in a competition with Seb, however petty and small, and I can’t back down now.

Seb chews his own with similar disgust, his tan face blanching, and says, “Nothing good, that’s for sure.”

The collective jelly bean society looks a little too pleased with themselves at our reactions. “Any guesses?” one of them asks.

“Death?” I wonder out loud. Because I feel like this just shaved a good ten to twenty years off my life.

They cackle delightedly. I make a mental note to never ever pass a Jelly Bean Appreciation Society meeting at night.

Seb swallows his theatrically, then asks, “Rotten… plant?”

“Mold! Close enough,” says our new enemy, handing Seb a key chain. It’s a bright purple jelly bean with a deceptively happy smile on its face. “You earned it.”

“At what cost,” I say under my breath, making Seb laugh as he pockets the key chain. “Can’t believe I just rubbed that close against my mortality and I don’t even get a consolation prize.”

“C’mon,” says Seb, hooking his arm through mine. “I saw a Cookie Monster Club farther down. Maybe they’ll get the unholy taste of this out of our mouths.”

I let him lead me only because the jelly bean broke my brain, and also because it’s not an unpleasant feeling, being the person on Seb’s arm. We may want to destroy each other, but I’m not above indulging in the occasional smugness of letting strangers think I have a hot boyfriend.

“But will they be able to give me a tongue transplant?” I ask. “Scratch that club off the list for the first piece. We’d never make it out alive.”

“So you’re competing for the spot after all.”

If I’m not mistaken, Seb sounds strangely relieved. By the time I glance over at him, though, his eyes are glinting in that way they usually are when we’re about to have it out over something.

“Scared?” I ask him.

“Mortally,” Seb says, without missing a beat. “But I wasn’t sure whether I should be, the way you booked it out of the meeting.”

I turn my head, pretending something from the Sad Bitch Book Club caught my eye. “Yeah, well. I had places to be. No time to waste.”

“You’ve got an idea of what you’re writing already?” Seb asks.

I do and I don’t. I know the kind of tone I want to strike, but I don’t know which organization I’m going to focus on—hence this scouting mission. I haven’t written so much as one word.

But Seb doesn’t need to know that. “Sure,” I say. “You?”

“No clue,” he admits candidly.

I slow my pace. “Since when do you want to write for Newsbag anyway?” I ask. It’s the closest I can come to asking, Why are you trying to make my life a living hell? without giving him the satisfaction of knowing he is, in fact, doing just that.

Besides, I’m pretty sure I know the answer. Odds are he decided he wanted to write for it around the same time I did, back when one of our high school’s alums came and did a whole talk about Newsbag with members of the school paper freshman year. She was fresh off a summer internship with a sketch-comedy group in New York and was so sharply funny and at ease with herself that I remember just staring at her, riveted, like I’d spent my whole life trying to figure out what lock fit the key of me. And then suddenly: click.

This is it, I remember thinking. All these funny little thoughts I had no direction for, all this pent-up energy in me that didn’t have an outlet yet. This is what I want to be.

I raised my hand in a trance at the end of it and asked if she had any advice. It was simple. “Read, read, read,” she told me. “Every issue of Newsbag. Any funny thing you can get your hands on. And then write as much as you can until you find your own style. And read some more.”

So that was exactly what I did. I read myself into a comedy black hole—memoirs, articles, movie scripts, and of course, the zine. If every back issue of Newsbag written in the last four years was lost in a fire, it would still solidly live inside my brain. Not just because I want so badly to write for it, but because I genuinely, earnestly love it. The distinct voices. The ridiculous articles. The chaotic way they blend to make something irreverent and impactful at the same time. It’s honest and expressive and real —all the things I wanted to be but couldn’t quite manage yet.

Which is to say, I know why I’m here. I just didn’t realize it had that much of an impact on Seb, too. And if I’m really planning on bringing him down a second time, I should probably figure out why.

But Seb’s answer is uncharacteristically vague. “I love writing.”

I tighten my grip on his arm as if to remind him we’re not in our first two modes. We’re in the one where we’re brutally, irritatingly honest with each other, so he might as well tell me the truth. Except Seb doesn’t take the hint, his eyes grazing the booths.

“Yeah, but Newsbag is like, a big commitment,” I press on. “And isn’t engineering one of those majors that eats up your whole life?”

Seb is back now, his expression amused. “Aw. Are you trying to scare me off?”

I straighten my back. “Please. I’ve got a whole lot more in my arsenal to scare you than that. ”

“Don’t I know it,” says Seb appreciatively.

It occurs to me that he really does. We didn’t just compete, but actively tried to sabotage each other. I’d swap out his typed-up debate speech against me with a transcript of a SpongeBob episode. He’d swap out the gym uniform I needed to crush his eight-minute-mile time with a banana costume. It was all done without uttering a single word, but from the smug looks we’d give each other in the half, there was never a doubt in our minds who was behind the pranks. I think the only reason it never escalated enough for our friends to notice was because we were hyperaware of that one spot at Maple Ride, and the stakes were too high to risk doing anything that might get us in trouble.

I wonder how wild it might have gotten if either of us knew we’d both end up here just the same.

“And anyway, I could ask you the same thing,” says Seb. “You barely ever wrote for the paper by the end. Why do you want to do Newsbag ?”

It strikes a nerve, but not an unexpected one. It’s a fair question. But he’s not getting an answer he wouldn’t give himself.

“I love writing,” I parrot back at him.

I feel his eyes on me, wry and knowing.

“Well, then,” he says. “Seems like we’ve both got our work cut out for us.”

What Seb failed to mention about the Cookie Monster Club booth is that it’s right next to the one for Newsbag. I slide my arm out of his just before Amara looks up and spots us. She seems to be strategically straddling the two clubs, one foot with the booth full of people eating off plates of random cookies of all shapes, sizes, and frosting ratios, the other with the booth full of Newsbag staff writers.

Thankfully I’m too distracted by my taste buds getting laced by the grim reaper to be appropriately nervous.

“Oh, hey,” says Amara, who—thank every god in every pantheon ever to exist—immediately hands us cookies off the plate closest to her. “These ones are mine. Cinnamon marshmallow sweet potato.”

Before we can so much as say hello, Rowan plops another cookie into each of our hands on top of hers. “Mine are matcha walnut with dried fig.”

They’re both watching us so expectantly then that I can’t help asking, “Oh, shit. Is this a test?”

“Yes,” says Amara gravely. “And if you choose Rowan’s over mine, you’re both out of the running for the position.”

“Oh, what a coincidence,” says Rowan, stepping slightly in front of her and crossing their arms. “If you choose Amara’s over mine, you’re also both out of the running for the position.”

Another student pipes up from behind them. “And then we have zero contenders for the role, and Newsbag ’s future is even more doomed than usual.”

It’s the boy from the interest meeting, the one who handed me a cookie and probably was attempting to introduce himself before I fled the room like my carriage was about to turn into a pumpkin. He smiles warmly when I meet his eyes. Now that I’m actually looking at him I can tell he’s not a freshman like the rest of us in the meeting—he’s wearing a worn-out Newsbag shirt, looking entirely at ease leaning against the booth.

“Sadie, right?” he says.

“Yeah,” I answer, surprised. I take in his distinctively shaggy brown hair and earnest smile, but I don’t recognize him from anywhere outside the meeting. “How do you…”

“Joey. I’m our entertainment writer. And cookie mediator.” He points at my open cookie-filled palm. “Eat Rowan’s first, then Amara’s.”

Seb doesn’t need telling twice, immediately taking matcha to the face. I do the same as Joey explains, “And I know your name because the two of you just made Newsbag history. It’s the first time we’ve only had two people going for one role.”

It is a testament to how good Rowan is at baking that the cookie doesn’t go to ash in my mouth. “You’re kidding.”

“Nope,” Joey says cheerfully. “There were four, but one of the applicants transferred out and I guess you two scared the other one off.”

More like Seb did. I take a bite of Amara’s cookie next, attempting to process, but no amount of delicious sweet potato is going to make this go down easy.

Seb snaps his fingers ruefully. “It must have been those smoothie stains all over us. Intimidation tactics 101.”

I blink, because we’re shifting back into School Mode again—cheerful banter, “friendship!!!” on full-volume blast. The smile that locks into place is so practiced and reflexive I could pull it out in a hurricane.

“It’s true. We frequently covered ourselves in fruit to incite fear at our old school,” I add.

“Also I swear I’m not saying this to butter anyone up, but damn,” says Seb, who now has a cookie in both hands and is alternating between the two. “These are delicious.”

I nod. “I’m seconding that to butter you both up, but also because it’s true.”

Amara beams appreciatively as Rowan leans in, brow furrowed.

“Is it going to be weird?” they ask. “Competing for the spot, I mean. I wasn’t sure if it might get a little, you know. Personal.”

My brain skips a beat, wondering if they might have overheard a few of the choice words Seb and I have exchanged since we got here, but they seem genuinely curious.

“Nah. Seb and I go back so far that it’s old hat, trying for the same stuff,” I recover. “We wouldn’t know what to do with ourselves otherwise.”

Seb nods. “Yeah. It’s lucky, really. You’d think we’d get competitive, but really we just push each other to be better.”

Even I have to admit he might have gone a little too Nick Jr. with the wholesomeness of that sentiment. I raise my eyebrows at him and he raises his back, but before either of us can say anything, Amara tilts her head at us and says, “Huh.”

Seb and I both stop midchew, but Amara just keeps staring like she’s running a diagnostic.

“What?” Joey prompts her.

She doesn’t take her eyes off us. “I’m curious. How long have the two of you wanted to kill each other?”

I blink, but Seb cackles, turning to me.

“I dunno,” he says. “Ten years, give or take?”

Oh, shit. So we’re doing this. In that case, I’m not going to let him catch me off guard.

“Has it really been that long?” I ask mildly. “You’d think I’d have made more progress knocking down your ego by now.”

Seb’s eyes meet mine, crackling and electric. It’s oddly like breaking the fourth wall of a scripted Seb and Sadie sitcom we’ve kept going for god knows how long. It feels like a weight has been lifted. Like watching those ten inches of hair plop to the floor.

“Must have gotten sidetracked marveling at how impressive I am,” says Seb cheekily.

I wince. “Ah, buddy. You mispronounced ‘pitiful.’ But no worries, I know how you get with big words.”

Seb aims a grin so broad and deliberate at me that it feels for a thundering second like we’re alone on the quad. Like we aren’t just shifting between modes the way we usually do, but there’s a larger under-the-earth kind of shift happening between us now. The impact of it knocks some of the air out of my lungs, and I almost forget which one of us is supposed to speak.

“Well, shit. This is going to be fun,” says Rowan, snapping us out of it.

“Fun for us, to be clear,” says Amara. “For you two—yikes. Here. Have some more cookies.”

She gestures at the rest of the table, which is so overwhelmingly full I wouldn’t know where to start. But I don’t get a chance to, because before I can move Rowan says, “So I’m following Adams’ Apples on Instagram now. Impressive stuff. How long ago did you start it?”

“A few years back. It’s all aggregated, though,” says Seb, politely refusing to take the compliment the way he always does when it comes to the account.

“Sure, but how do you find it all?” Rowan asks.

Seb scratches the back of his neck. “I’m way too online, is the thing. I’m just a glorified meme butler.”

This earns him a sharp laugh from Amara. “Meme butler! I have to tell you that one about school lunch pizza killed me. I don’t know how much experience you’ve had with our dining halls yet—”

“Oh, god,” says Seb, already laughing, “I’m terrified. I swear I saw someone drop a slice last week and it bounced back up like it was trying out for the soccer team.”

Amara leans over to Rowan. “See? I told you not to eat that stuff.”

Rowan shrugs. “Just because it’s terrifying doesn’t mean it isn’t delicious.”

Seb says to Amara, “You know what, joke’s us on when they get powers from the toxic runoff in that pizza and we’re still sitting here as the side characters in their superhero arc.”

It’s not just Rowan and Amara laughing now, but most of the Cookie Monster Club and Newsbag booths. I step back, taking this as my cue to leave. I may be able to compete with Seb for the writing role, but I have no interest in competing with his charm. But just as I’m about to turn, Joey lifts up my palm with his to put another cookie in my hand. I glance up at him in surprise.

“I heard a rumor that these oatmeal chocolate chip ones are top-notch,” he says, almost shyly.

My lips tug back upward. “Just a rumor, huh?”

His eyes crinkle happily. “It’s my mom’s recipe, so I can’t really take credit. But hey, let me know if you have any questions about campus or anything. I saw your major on your application. I’m in communications, too.”

“Oh. Yeah, thanks,” I say. “I, uh…”

Am not exactly sure how to ask if that might be a conflict of interest. Joey must see the thought cross my face, because he adds quickly, “Don’t worry, I’m not on the judging panel or anything. I’m only a sophomore. But my email is on the list of Newsbag writers they sent over, so feel free to hit me up whenever.”

My smile is genuine now. I’ve never had trouble making friends, but it’s always felt a little harder to do when Seb is around. But maybe that was just the old Sadie’s way of thinking. Now that I’m fully in this new Sadie Does What She Wants Instead Of Being The Nice, Responsible, Boring One era, it might just be a whole lot easier than I thought.

“I will,” I tell him, and strangely, it’s that exact moment I feel Seb’s eyes on me. “Thanks.”

That seems like the most graceful opportunity for an exit I’m going to get, so I nod and duck out of the booth. I catch Seb’s eyes before I go, planning on raising my eyebrows at him gamely, but he’s busy looking over at Joey. I almost stop, because for once Seb looks uncertain.

Something Amara says catches his attention then, and the twitch in his brow is gone as fast as it came. He’s probably just confused that someone might want to talk to me over him, is all. What a concept.

I stash Joey’s cookie in a napkin and put it in my tote bag before I throw myself back into the fray of the quad, moseying around the rest of the booths and eventually locating Christina. Only later that night, when Christina laments that we didn’t smuggle any dessert out of the dining hall, do I remember the cookie. I tell her if she wants to split it, she can help herself.

Not a minute later, Christina pauses, her hand still in my tote bag. “What on earth is this?”

I feel that same electric crackle from before, only this time it’s less shocking and more grounding. Because, sure enough, when she pulls her hand out of my tote bag, she’s holding one cursed jelly bean key chain that somehow snuck its way inside.