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.
I pull out the orientation packet from my suitcase and look it over, although I must have reviewed it twenty times since it showed up in the mail last month. If only this program were a bit more structured... Aside from tonight's dinner, the only other official gathering is the Maker Fair at the end of the month.
The lack of routine makes me nervous. I'm used to high school, with classes at set times and teachers guiding afterschool activities. But this program is all about independent study and peer-based learning. In terms of faculty, there's only the program director, Dr. Carlyle, and a Resident Advisor living in each of the dorms. Otherwise, the students are on our own to work on self-directed projects – although we're supervised 24/7 from afar. It wouldn't be safe to leave a bunch of teenagers completely to our own devices. The surveillance cameras are everywhere on campus. I must have passed half a dozen of them earlier, including the one in the hallway outside my dorm room door. Nobody comes or goes without someone on campus security knowing about it.
At least I don't have to worry about my laptop getting stolen. My door doesn't have a lock, but I don't need one with the camera keeping watch outside.
I drop the orientation packet on the desk beside my laptop, considering what to do between now and dinnertime. My phone is resting on my desk chair, and I pick it up. I'm still not sure exactly how this InstaLove app works. Does it keep records of all the other avatars I've encountered? There's only been one so far... but I wouldn't mind seeing that particular avi again. The mere thought of him warms my cheeks and pops a goofy grin onto my face.
I have to check. I can't resist.
I open InstaLove, and it shows a view of my empty dorm room, with various options arranged in a frame around the edges. The lower left corner shows a number:
-24
Is that my score? I tap it and an explanation fills the screen.
InstaLove (IL) Score: -24.
Show some love, Ellie! There are currently 16 InstaLove users in your area. Find them and interact to raise your rating!
Yikes. A negative number? That should probably hurt my feelings, but I can't help but giggle. I guess Ellie 2.0 is no more "instaloveable" than plain old Ellie. I didn't need a game to tell me that.
But the truth is, I don't take it personally. I know why my score sucks so much. That was the first thing Maddox said to me when I bumped into him before. "That wasn't one of the choices... It'll drop your score... You're not supposed to turn it off until you pick a choice..."
(And yes, if you're wondering, I have our entire conversation permanently imprinted on my memory. Don't judge. You'd memorize it too if a boy that perfect ever talked to you in real life.)
There's one thing bothering me though. I wonder if I dropped his score as well when I froze up. Crap. Did that annoy him? There goes any chance of ever talking to Maddox again... Not that there was much chance of that anyway. Maybe I should try to apologize somehow?
I flick back to the InstaLove home screen and choose another option from the menu in the top right corner:
History
I brace for it show me an empty screen, but instead I see three columns.
InstaFriends...
InstaCrushes...
Missed Connections...
Interesting.
Maddox's face looks slightly different here. Am I imagining it, or did his avi change from before? No, I realize with a gasp. The avatars aren't static. They're like emojis with different moods! My finger hovers over his lips, and his expression shifts when I touch the screen, from sad puppy-dog eyes to a knowing smirk.
His InstaLove Score appears beneath his picture:
Maddox's IL Score: 27,048
"Oh my God," I whisper. No wonder he's smirking. My -24 feels more ridiculous by the second. How long has he been playing this game? There must be some way to see more details. Like his history... Or his age... Or his shoe size... Or whether he's straight or gay or... Let's be honest. There's one thing in particular I really want to know: whether that girl who glared at me earlier is his girlfriend.
I lift my finger from his face and another text bubble pops up on my screen, prompting me (or taunting me?) to do something other than stare.
InstaLove requires interaction, Ellie! What did you think of Maddox? Drag his pic to put him where he belongs:
I suck my lower lip between my teeth. Friend or crush? Obviously, I know the answer, judging from the way my stomach flutters at the thought of his easy smile and messy hair.
But I hesitate before I make my selection. Can I really trust InstaLove with this? It has to be secure, right? I mean, it has a Privacy Policy. And TeenHack recommended it. And there's no way this app could get so popular if it made a habit of broadcasting everyone's secret crushes to the world...
Right. I shake my head, annoyed by my own nervousness. This constant internal monologue is getting really old. I downloaded this app for the same reason I came to this program: to do something different, experience something new. To shake myself out of my comfort zone.
"InstaLove requires interaction, Ellie," I mutter to myself. So what am I waiting for? What exactly am I so afraid will happen?
I press my index finger to the screen and drag his face where it belongs: InstaCrushes. For a moment, his avatar smiles wide and his dark brown eyes are replaced by two red hearts.
Another text bubble emerges, but I don't have a chance to read the prompt. My head jerks up at the sound of footsteps, echoing down the corridor. They're coming toward my door. Maddox's hearteyes stare back at me, and a flush of guilty color floods my cheeks. I don't know how to exit this screen. It's too late to figure it out. Panicked, I click the phone off completely and shove it in my pocket, as a firm knock rattles the doorframe.
Who is it?
I say the words inside my head. Not out loud. My lungs aren't functioning properly. I hold my breath as I reach for the doorknob. It's not Maddox, is it? The real Maddox? Did I summon him somehow?
I don't know why, exactly, but I have the weirdest feeling that it's him.
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