Chapter 4
Chapter Four
The locker slams closed, leaving my tablet locked inside.
New connections are not needed here! It's not like I need more people in my life. There’s Braden Patel (love of my life since third grade), Jenna (best friend since kindergarten), and my family.
What more do I need? Sure, Braden and I see each other way less now that he’s across the country in college, and missing him hurts.
My parents are also living on different continents, which means I pick up the slack at home.
But it’s fine. I have enough people in my life and don’t have time for more.
Besides, it’s practically guaranteed that Connection Services is going to cause students to fail their classes left and right, not to mention blow up the already sky-high levels of drama found in a private high school.
Staying out of this ridiculous beta test is the smart and mature thing to do.
Jenna’s ponytail bobs above a sea of heads near the volleyball girls.
Voices ricochet off the cafeteria walls as I make my way to her table, and the smell of something expensive and delicious (maybe truffle fries?) makes my stomach grumble.
The brown bag in my hand feels like a neon sign, pulsing with the message 'scholarship kid,’ like it does at the beginning of every school year.
Most students here buy lunch with a premium meal plan their parents don't think twice about.
Mine make decent money—Mom's an ER doctor, Dad works in film—but decent and wealthy aren't the same thing.
No one mocks me over my lunches, but it's one more thing that makes me feel different from the kids here sometimes.
Braden always understood. He lived in my neighborhood, not in a mini-mansion like Jenna and Jake, and he worked hard for his scholarships.
It was one of the many things we bonded over growing up.
A pang of sorrow hits—Braden’s dark eyes, those lush lashes, the way they look straight through me and know.
I fish my phone out of my pocket and text him, I miss your chocolate eyes, while walking over to our usual lunch table.
“Hey, girl,” Jenna chirps as I slide into the seat next to her.
The table is filled with her volleyball teammates, but she always saves me a seat.
Everyone’s got a school tablet out, even Jenna.
That’s definitely not the norm. Those warm, premium-plan lunches aren’t even getting eaten. What a waste.
I smile in response and grab my PB & J sandwich. “Let me guess, everyone is freaking out over their new connections.”
“Av, I’ve got two connections already! I already know who one is. Amanda and I were sitting next to each other when we texted our new connections and we pinged at the same time. Isn’t that funny?” She chuckles and shakes her head. “I’m not sure who the other one is yet. Someone hot, I hope.”
Amanda and Jenna are almost always together.
Amanda was sitting next to Jenna at the assembly this morning, just as she’s sitting on the other side of Jenna at the table right now.
She and I are… neutral. We say ‘hi’ to each other.
It’s hard to imagine it turning into anything more.
The only thing we have in common is Jenna.
And now even Connection Services validates their friendship as destiny, or whatever.
The one thing Jenna and I have in spades is history—you can’t compete with a friendship that’s lasted for twelve years.
Jenna looks up from her tablet and eyes me. “Where’s your tablet? Let me guess, you haven’t even turned it on yet? You’re so opposed to change, Avery James.”
I bristle at her assessment. Connection Services doesn’t interest me, but that doesn’t make me allergic to change. The stakes are high for me this year and I can’t afford to fumble anything. Braden is waiting for me to join him at MIT.
“It is turned on, actually. And I have a connection. But I’m focused while I’m at school. You should try it sometime.”
Jenna giggles, completely unbothered. “Yeah, ok. You’ll be sucked into it like the rest of us in no time. Just wait.”
Lunch turns into a chorus of tapping thumbs and loud guesses. I opt out and let my brain do what it does best: overthink.
I flick my eyes across the cafeteria, landing on the worst sight ever. Analiese. Ugh! Her glossy black hair falls forward over one shoulder as she reads a textbook, likely already angling to steal my valedictorian slot. Unbelievable.
I look away and catch a glimpse of Jake at a table with other hockey players, laughing at something his buddy said.
Why am I even looking? I can’t recall a single time I’ve ever noticed Jake in the Valley Prep dining hall before.
Apparently all it takes is my boyfriend to move across the country and another guy to braid my hair for me to fall prey to self-inflicted teenage drama.
This can’t continue. I refocus on the girls at my table to ask them about their day, but all their heads are bent over their school tablets.
Getting their attention will be like screaming underwater.
Instead, I pull my phone out to see if Braden has responded to my text. Nothing.
After lunch I have two more classes, AP history and art.
Art is—by far—my least favorite class of the year.
I thrive on directions, structure, precision.
Art is subjective. How am I supposed to know how to get an A?
Regardless of my feelings about it, I needed an elective and thought taking something different would help round out my transcript.
The entire room is set up with stools in front of easels.
With a sigh, I slump onto one of the stools and am surprised to see a blue envelope taped to the top of the easel.
A quick glance around the room proves this is intentional—every station has one.
My fingers flick it open to reveal a note from the teacher.
It’s a welcome to the class note, along with instructions to use this first day to explore my feelings and paint whatever ‘feels right’ on the blank paper on the easel.
My teeth grind in frustration and I take a deep, cleansing breath. This is exactly what’s terrible about art! ‘Freestyle’ is terrible (unless we’re talking swimming). Directions are gold.
There are exactly zero artistic bones in my body, unless having an innate ability to color-code binders or arrange stickers in a very tactful way counts. Pretty sure that’s not what the teacher wants.
I roll my neck from side to side, considering the options. What thought brings me the most joy today? Two things come to mind: the M&M cookies in my backpack calling my name, and Braden’s molten chocolate eyes.
Painting cookies seems like something that would merit a C, and C’s are basically worse than death when college acceptance is on the line, so Braden’s eyes it is.
They are large and soft-looking, like a fawn, and are the most beautiful, dark chocolate brown.
The next half hour is spent attempting to paint an eyeball.
About halfway through I realize it looks weird and robotic without an eyelid, so I go back and try to paint one on top.
A growl slips out as the colors run together but I keep pushing through.
Is there too much water? Not enough? Was I even supposed to use water with this type of paint? Ugh!
The stool starts to dig into my behind, and the flickering of the fluorescent lights seems to be keeping pace with the twitch developing under my right eye.
Braden. MIT. Valedictorian.
I let the mantra flow through me, willing my limbs to relax with each repetition. Finishing a painting, even a badly done one, will probably earn a better grade than something incomplete, right? That’s my working theory, at least.
Just as I’m adding some nice, thick eyelashes, the air shifts behind me. I cringe, thinking it must be the teacher.
“What is that? A tarantula? No, there are too many legs. A fat centipede?”
There’s only one person it can be. “Jake, am I going to have to look into a restraining order? Are you stalking me?” I ask without turning around.
Jake drags a stool over next to me and sits down, uninvited. “I think you’re the one stalking me. Since when do you take art?”
“Since I talked to my counselor and realized I needed another fine art credit for graduation.”
“I see. Well. I’d say fine arts has certainly been neglected in your education, based on the uh… art, you’ve produced today.”
After setting down my paintbrush, I whack his arm, secretly hoping some of the goopy paint on my fingers permanently stains his shirt. He only grins, which somehow makes it worse.
“What kind of class is this anyway? We received zero instruction and yet we’re supposed to just sit down and create a masterpiece?
It reeks of instructional neglect and I’m tempted to make a visit to Principal Fisher’s office to discuss the issue.
” I sniff and turn back towards my painting and cringe inwardly. It really is bad.
“Relax, Aves. This is kind of Mr. Z’s MO—he likes to let us sweat it out the first day so we realize how difficult art can be. It won’t always be this way.”
The last school bell finally rings, signaling the end of this art-induced torture.
I’ve had enough of Jake Taylor to last me for a week!
I grab my backpack and rush towards the door.
Predictably, based on how the day has gone, Jake is hot on my heels.
I attempt to pick up my pace to shake him, but his legs are roughly twice the length of mine and it’s pointless.