Once everyone’s graduated and we’ve thrown our hats into the cloudless sky, Ethan draws me by the hand in the direction of the teachers’ section.

“Ethan,” I say, laughing, “I kind of have plans to see my parents.”

“In a minute,” he replies. He walks up to Pham, and I realize what he’s doing.

The only outstanding grade of our final semester is our final English essay. While Pham reported our overall class grades—A’s, of course—he never released our essay grades. Nobody else cares. Except for us. It’s our very last grade of high school.

“Mr. Pham,” Ethan starts with forceful casualness, “could you just tell us which of us submitted the stronger paper? We don’t even need the point totals.”

Pham exhales sharply. “It’s your graduation day, Mr. Molloy. Can’t you just celebrate?”

“You did read our essays, right?” I narrow my eyes on him. “I wouldn’t want to have to inform Principal Williams you didn’t grade our finals.”

“I read them,” Pham gets out, clearly disgruntled by our undimmed competitiveness.

“Tell us and you’ll never have to talk to us again,” Ethan’s voice is simultaneously sweet and sharp.

Pham considers us. “Mr. Molloy scored a point and a half higher.” Then, taking Ethan up on his offer, Pham walks off immediately.

Ethan faces me. “There. I win the final, most important contest.”

I tap my valedictorian sash. “Agree to disagree.”

He ignores me. “You owe me one final task.”

I say nothing, a little scared. Despite our new relationship, our tasks have remained as undesirable as ever. When I won valedictorian, I made Ethan man the prom ticket booth for three days straight.

“Don’t find a new rival next year.” He’s earnest, even nervous. It dissolves my apprehension. Our relationship might not last. We might grow out of it as we grow into ourselves. I won’t force it to end because high school has, though. I’m holding on to this piece of now proudly, loving it for what it could become and for the confusing, inimitable place it began.

I entwine my hand with his. “Obviously.”