Chapter 13 Most Likely to Be an Influencer
MOST LIKELY TO BE AN INFLUENCER
“We should do poems,” someone says.
“No, short stories,” says another.
“What about romance?” a quiet voice from the back suggests, and everyone boos.
The creative writing club meets every Wednesday during lunch, and every meeting has looked exactly the same: a lot of talk about what we should be writing with no actual writing anywhere to be seen.
Since I joined late and most of the other students have been in this club for the last couple of years, I choose not to contribute.
I sit off to the side of the room with my lunch tray and listen as everyone else argues.
Mrs. Grafton has tried to encourage us to put together some kind of anthology of our work and has graciously offered to edit and publish it for us.
The idea is to have a book to showcase at the end of the school year.
At this rate, we’ll be lucky to have written one coherent sentence by the time I graduate.
At least it’ll look good for Citrus Scholar.
I use my plastic fork to mix my dressing into my salad then take a bite.
I’m half-listening, half thinking about the chess club that gathers across the hall.
They also meet on Wednesdays during lunch, and while I’ve never bumped into him in the hall, I recently discovered that Connor Williams is a member.
I’m not really sure if this is a new development or if he’s been involved all of high school.
He’s not in any of the yearbook pictures from previous years, but David accidentally let it slip that he had a chess match last week—and won.
When I asked for more details, David’s lips became a steel trap. Now, I’m dying to know more.
I look at the small window in the door hoping for a small glimpse of what’s happening over there, but I can’t see anything. Meanwhile, the battle in the creative writing club wages on.
“What if we did a collection of horror stories?”
“I don’t like scary stuff.”
“We could write an original myth?”
“Something nonfiction?”
“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 my salad.
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 go back 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.
I pack up my things in a mad rush. With my backpack slung over my shoulder, I toss what was left of my lunch in the trash can by the exit. If I can just sneak out fast enough—
The bell rings on cue as if it’s a living creature that knows this is the worst imaginable time.
I stand in the doorway trapped. It feels weird turning around now that everyone else is trying to leave, but I don’t want to go out knowing I might come eye-to-eye with the very person I’m trying to avoid.
I stand there paralyzed with indecision until the door across from me opens. Connor is the first one out, his phone in hand. When he sees me, a giant grin spreads across his face.
Any hope of him not realizing my stalker-like behavior flies out the window.
Heat floods my cheeks. I don’t get to avoid him, but maybe I can ignore him.
Our classes are in different directions, and I start walking down the hall.
Instead of going the opposite direction though, he follows me.
Soon, we’re in step with one another. I tilt my head ever so slightly away from him so he can’t see me blushing, but I’m still hyperaware of his presence next to me.
When I pick up the pace, he matches it. When I slow down, he does, too.
When we get to the stairwell, Connor holds the door open for me.
I eye him warily before going through. He holds it for some more of our classmates, and for some reason, I wait for him.
That was my chance to disappear, and I blew it.
But as we make our way down, I know that I did that on purpose.
I’m dying to know if he saw, but the casual way he keeps his hands in his pockets as we go down the stairs gives nothing away.
I keep waiting for him to bring up Instagram, to tease me for looking at his page, but he’s silent the entire way down. The door at the bottom of the stairwell opens up to The Yard, and we walk out together.
Why hasn't he turned around yet? Why isn’t he going to his class? He’s going to be late, and he’s still walking next to me. My anxiety levels are through the roof by the time he speaks.
“How was creative writing club?”
I force my gaze straight ahead. “It was fine.”
“Did a lot of people show up?”
“The normal amount.”
“What did you guys do today?”
“Talk about college essays,” I say slowly, still confused.
“I’m surprised you weren’t interested in that.”
“Who says I wasn’t?”
“Well, I just assumed the meeting had to be pretty boring for you to be so deep in the archives on my Instagram.”
I stop and spin so that I’m facing him dead on. When I look up, he’s smirking. I wish I had some clever retort, but I don’t, so I say the first thing that comes to mind. “Well, at least it’s not chess club.”
His smirk turns into a full smile as he laughs. With a hand to his chest, he asks, “Was that supposed to hurt?”
No, but I thought he’d have some reaction to it. Shame. Embarrassment. I tuck a strand of hair behind my ear. “Well…”
“It’s no surprise we’re both trying to beef up our extracurriculars.”
I bite my bottom lip as I digest his response. His being there isn’t as simple as joining clubs to look good for Citrus Scholar. I can’t prove it, but I think he’s been in the club for longer than these last couple of weeks. He’s actually good at it; he won last weekend’s tournament.
Judging by the way he’s looking at me, he doesn’t know that I know. I test my theory. “Why did you choose chess club?”
He shrugs. “I figured it looked smart. Seems like the perfect way to impress teachers.”
My eyes narrow. “And you just eeny, meeny, miny, moe-d it?”
“Isn’t that how you’re choosing yours?”
“Yes, but—”
The tardy bell rings. My eyes widen. We’re late.
Thankfully, I’m just outside my next class, and the teacher is pretty chill about walking in a minute or two late, but Connor has math with Mr. Smith. He’s not as forgiving. He’ll definitely get a yellow slip for this.
I feel bad for a split second until I remember he followed me all the way here just to torment me. He’s so annoying. I straighten my spine. “Too bad disciplinary action doesn’t look nearly as good as chess club.”
Connor’s arrogant smirk is back. “Worth it.” He starts to walk away but turns back around. “And don’t feel bad about being obsessed with me. I did some snooping on your page, too.”
I watch in disbelief as he strolls back across The Yard toward the Bates building.
What’s that supposed to mean? I race inside my classroom, take a seat, and pull out my phone.
I pull up Instagram and look at my notifications.
Connor has liked two of my posts. My most recent one, a picture of me and Lily at the beach a couple of weekends ago, and one from sophomore year’s National Honor Society’s induction ceremony.
I’m not sure what this means. There’s no way we could ever be friends, but I’m starting to wonder if there might be more to him. Maybe he’s not as evil as I thought. It’s too early to say for sure, but my opinion of him is morphing into something new. Something I can’t quite figure out.
I go back to Connor’s page and like the Banff post again. Might as well at this point. But when I put my phone away, I realize I’m smiling.