INSTALOVE

Chapter 2: Missed Connections

Chapter 2: Missed Connections

E L L I E

I stand in the center of my dorm room, staring out the narrow casement window that overlooks the stone-lined courtyard down below. It's empty. Like this room...

I'm not sure what I expected in terms of accommodations, but it wasn't this. The room feels cold and sterile, with worn-out beige carpeting and featureless white walls. The place is completely unfurnished, aside from the low sleigh bed and the wooden desk stuffed in the corner.

No bunkbeds, then.

I feel the disappointment in my chest. I assumed I'd have a roommate for the duration of the program. That's one of the reasons I applied. Female bonding has never been my strong suit, but I figured this program would be full of other girls. Girls like me.

I heave a sigh. What made me so sure this room would come furnished with some InstaBestFriend? I had all kinds of daydreams about my mythical nonexistent bunkmate. Some girl my age, obsessed with TeenHack and Wired Magazine, who would stay up half the night debating the relative merits of Java versus C++. A girl who spent her Saturday nights tinkering in the garage, figuring out how to retrofit her dad's lawnmower with a self-propelled motor and GPS navigation system. I'm not the only girl on the planet who makes robotic landscaping equipment for fun, am I?

Maybe I am. Heck, maybe that's why my "Smart Mower" proposal got me accepted to this program. Maybe the admission committee read it and looked at each other all bug-eyed, like:

"Hey, should we admit this freakish freak-girl for the summer?"

"I don't know, Bob. Robotic lawnmowers? This is some next-level freakishness right here."

"Her technical skillset is impressive though."

"Clearly, this applicant has nothing more normal to do with her time."

"Perhaps we could let her in but keep her quarantined from all the non-freakish kids..."

"No roommate?"

"Safer that way. This degree of freakocity might be contagious."

Ugh, the idea of people talking about me makes my skin crawl. I shudder, sinking down heavily next to my suitcase on the edge of the twin mattress. At least they didn't house me in a totally separate building. I saw a Resident Advisor's suite at the top of the stairs, and I can hear the echo-y sound of other girls laughing somewhere down the hall.

I should probably be brave and introduce myself, but I don't budge from my perch on the bed. What if that girl is there? The one I saw outside earlier, addressed by my first name. Eleanor. The other Eleanor. The pretty Eleanor. The kind of Eleanor who inspires cute boys to drop conversations in midsentence and go chasing after them.

I press my hand against my chest. I feel like a popped balloon, no longer puffed up with hope, now thoroughly deflated. I can't imagine a girl like That scrolling through a tech blog – or having anything in common with me other than a first name. She looked way too perfect. Perfect hair. Perfect skin. Perfect clothes. Was she even in high school? She reminded me of one those ridiculous twenty-five year old actresses they always cast to play teenagers on TV.

Maybe it's a blessing I don't have to share my room. This way I have someplace safe to hide out when I'm feeling hopelessly insecure. Which is basically anytime I'm not hunched over my laptop, editing code.

With a scowl, I unzip my suitcase and begin unpacking my clothes. The laughter down the hall grows louder, and I glance uncertainly toward my door. I'll meet those other girls eventually. My orientation packet mentioned a Welcome Dinner tonight at the Program Director's residence. That seems like a logical place to make introductions. Official school-sponsored activities are my friend. Random socializing outside of school hours? Not so much.