Paper Flowers (Pretty Plastic People) ★

001. Paper Notes

001. Paper Notes

At Aquino High, to be wanted is everything.

I'm a nine.

That's what the sticky note on my locker says--the bright blue one that means there's someone out in this school who has a crush on me. Spencer O'Brien told me that Celia Carter told him that it's Luke.

Luke Horton is nice enough, but we exist in different friend circles as if we live in parallel universes. I live in a world where school is in a precarious balance with social life, parties, and sports games. He lives in a world where school is all-consuming, and when his homework isn't, Star Wars and video games are.

Just like on every Monday morning before first period, I pull the sticky note off of my locker to realign it. None of the senior girls take their numbers off of their lockers--that's just how it works. I wouldn't want to, anyway: a blue Post-It note, particularly one with the number 9 written on it in black Sharpie, is the most valuable kind of note a girl at Aquino High can receive. It means I'm wanted. Liked. Sought-after.

At Aquino High, to be wanted is everything.

I barely have time to straighten my Post-It note in the middle of the metal door before Celia Carter herself bounds up to me, her loose blonde ringlets pulled back by a black fabric headband. As always, her makeup is impeccable and her lips shimmer with the slightest trace of gloss. There is no doubt that Celia dresses to impress.

"You're a nine again?" she asks, her baby blue eyes flickering passively over the piece of paper I've just pulled my fingers away from. "You've been a nine every day since the beginning of the school year."

"I know," I say, twisting the combo on my locker before swinging the door open. This means someone has liked me since the start of the school year. And because Luke has about as much of an attention span for girls as I do for his Star Wars obsession, I know Spencer O'Brien is wrong.

It has to be someone else.

I don't tell Celia this though, because her lips have formed a perfect pout as she finishes surveying my locker. Then she eyes flicker up and down me once, surveying my skinny jeans and bright blue shirt, before frowning.

"You have no idea who it is?" she asks, and I would never have known that she was dying for an answer except for the sparkling hunger in her eyes.

So I bait her. "Not really," I say. "It could be anyone."

And then, because I don't have time for people like her, I slam my locker shut and make my way down the hall, towards math class.

People part ways for me like I'm some kind of impeding force and they're succumbing to the pressure. I never have to push aside underclassmen or skirt my way around groups of gossips just to make a path to class. I've never known why--I'm not like Celia Carter and I'm not like her wannabe friends, who hang on her every word like they're starving and she's got the last cookie on the planet. I'm a different kind of popular. The smart, admired kind.

It's hard to be well-liked at Aquino High, just like it's hard to be liked in the surrounding suburban Hampton. I don't know how I've done it, but somehow I'm there.

I sit in the front of AP Calculus BC, where I can stretch out my legs without hitting the desk in front of me and where I can get an unobstructed view of our teacher lecturing on integrals and limits. When I sit down, I notice that Spencer O'Brien is already seated behind me, just like he always is. His fingers fly across his sleek iPhone and his dark brows are creased as he studies the screen.