“There’s nothing creative about that.”
“What about you, Ella?” Mrs. Grafton asks, finally interrupting the student-led discussion. “What do you think we should do?”
I drag my gaze from the window and look down at mysalad. What do I think? Personally, I don’t care what we write. It almost doesn’t matter to me if we write at all. I get credit for being here regardless, and I don’t necessarily want to do any extra assignments. It’s been hard enough keeping up with my school work with all the other activities I’ve added in. My Calculus grade is slipping, and if I don’t focus, I might end up with an A-, maybe even a B, in that class.
Everyone has thrown out perfectly good ideas, but there’s nothing everyone wants to do. I tap my fork against the plastic container my food is in as I think, and my heart jumps when an idea suddenly pops into my head. “What if we do our college essays?”
I’m met with a collective groan.
“Why not?” I set my fork down. “Most of us are seniors and most likely have already written them. At least it’s something.”
For a moment, no one says anything.
“That could work,” Mrs. Grafton says. “But only as a jumping off point. I want it to be a little different from what’s sent to college admissions offices.”
For the first time, there’s silence. Everyone looks from Mrs. Grafton, to me, then to each other. There’s some shrugging and lifting of eyebrows between the rest of the club. I sit there waiting to see what they decide. I still don’t mind if we never write anything, but at least this way I’ll have some help perfecting my essay.
“Okay, let’s do it,” the club president says. Her vote is practically approval. Satisfied that a decision has been made, everyone starts talking again.
I vaguely listen as I finish my lunch, but I’m really more interested in Connor. I pull out my phone to see if I can find any more dirt on him. Most clubs at Citrus Prep have social media pages. Nothing too crazy, but you can usually find pictures of the members and upcoming events.
I type in Citrus Prep Chess Club and am pleased when it appears at the top of the search results. I click on the page and start scrolling. It’s mostly pictures of the same kids I saw in my old yearbooks. No Connor, not even in the most recent post that is from the match last weekend.
I swipe through the pictures. Then I look again. David said his brother was there, and he’s not the type of person to lie about that. So, where is Connor? I’m about to turn my screen off and put my phone away when hair in the background of one of the shots catches my attention.
I feel like an absolute stalker as I use my fingers to zoom in on my screen. Thankfully, everyone else in Mrs. Grafton’s room is still distracted by college essays and what kind of changes would be necessary for the anthology. I look at the way the slightly wavy brown hair touches his collar, and I know it’s Connor. He was there, but that’s all I can determine from this post. I wonder if he has anything about it on his personal page.
I search his name. We don’t follow each other, never have, so I’m pleasantly surprised when I discover his account is public. I glance back up to the rest of the class just to double check that no one is paying attention to me and that I won’t get caught stalking Connor’s page. Then I start scrolling.
I’ve never even peeked at Connor’s social media pages before because I’ve never had a good reason to. I’m not sure what I expected to see once I started scrolling, but this is not it. There are pictures of him and David, a couple with a dog I can only assume is his, and a post of him at the top of a mountain. I instantly recognize it. He’s in Banff. I’ve never been, but it’s my dream destination. Lily went with her family last summer, and the pictures of Lake Louise were unreal. Maybe one day I’ll get to go and get to see it in person. In the meantime, I live vicariously through others.
Momentarily sidetracked, I scroll through the images on his Banff post. Connor is barely in them. It’s mostly the scenery, and it’s beautiful. I wonder what it would be like to hike that mountain, to see the unnatural blue of the lake, to feel something other than the oppressive humidity of Florida. Connor has done a surprising job of capturing the beauty of the place. It almost feels like I’m there.
Then I get to the last picture. It’s Connor. His hair is sticking up slightly on one side like there’s a breeze, and there’s a tint of red to his face from the cold. But the thing that strikes me most is he looks really happy. He’s grinning widely at the camera, and there’s a whisper of a dimple on his left cheek. In all the years I’ve known him, I’ve never noticed it.
He looks beautiful.
I drop the phone like it’s made of hot coals. It hits the plastic salad container and makes a loud screeching noise that draws everyone’s attention—but only briefly. They goback to their conversation, and I quickly snatch my phone hoping no one saw the screen.
Connor isn’t beautiful…is he?
Nope. Absolutely not. No way.
He’s fit, and I’ve been caught checking him out, but that doesn’t mean I think he’s hot. I shake my head. No, because if I think he’s attractive, I might become attracted to him. And that can’t happen.
Some dressing got on my screen and it covers half of his face with a white blob that looks like he was hit in the head with a pie. Seeing him like that snaps me back to reality. Definitely not attractive. I use my finger to wipe it off, but my stomach drops when a heart appears over his face.
I just liked Connor’s picture.
From last summer.
And I don’t follow him.
I stare at the little heart on my screen as my own thuds erratically against my ribs. It’s possible he didn’t see it. We’re in our lunch period. He’s in a club meeting. He shouldn't be online right now. Of course, neither should I.
If I do nothing, he’ll see that I liked his post no matter what. But if I unlike it really fast, maybe he won’t? I hold my breath as I touch the heart with my finger, and it becomes an empty outline again.
I lean back in my chair, staring at nothing in particular. I’m not sure it was the right thing to do, but I’ll find out soon enough. But my morbid curiosity has made bumping into Connor in the hall considerably less appealing. I’ve got to get out of here.
