* * *
Four hours later,I’m in my project meeting. It’s been hard trying to concentrate today. Boyles’s distance, compounded by my running into Hercules, has really thrown me off balance.
I wonder, though… is that all it takes? One look at Hercules, and Boyles isn’t so important anymore?
Speaking of Boyles, it’s yet another day that I haven’t heard from him. My project meeting is for my philosophy class, an elective that I forced myself to take. Jillian, a mousy girl who thinks the classroom is a fighting pit—she’s always racing to raise her hand to answer questions, whether she knows the answer or not—is going on about a cultural theorist named Jean Baudrillard. She’s explaining hyperreality, and even though I’m checking my cellphone for messages, I’m following her every word.
“Paisley?” she asks.
I look up. “Yes.”
“Am I boring you?”
“Not at all. I like the idea of evaluating emerging technology with Baudrillard’s theory of hyperreality. I even have some ideas.” Then I articulate a list of products we could textually analyze.
Truthfully, I’m showing off. When it comes to classwork and academic studies, I—like Jillian—try to never miss a beat. Why can’t relationships with the opposite sex be so easy?
Before our group disperses, we have a clear idea of our project and all five of our members’ roles. I’m the first to leave, wanting to grab a burrito or something else that’s quick to eat before my final class of the day.
“Paisley?” Jillian calls after me.
A bit peeved that she’s throwing me off schedule, I come to a halt and spin around. “Yes, Jillian?”
Her tiny face looks left and then right as she approaches me cautiously. “Thank you for choosing my idea,” she says in a low voice.
“We all chose Baudrillard,” I snap. I can’t believe she stopped me to say that.
“Everybody knows you’re the leader.”
I shake my head adamantly. “But I never offered to be the leader, nor was I dubbed the leader.”
She shrugs indifferently. “Well, people look up to you because you’re a Grove, even though you don’t act like one.”
I fight the urge to rebut that statement and let her know that I’m insulted by it. But the fact that I’m so irritated by her alarms me. I’m usually more patient with others.
“And then there’s the NTE scholarship, which you rightfully deserve,” she adds as if it’s an afterthought.
I don’t believe she thinks that at all. Thoroughly insulted, I thumb over my shoulder. “Okay, well, thanks for the appreciation. I gotta…”
She steps closer to me, making it clear that at the moment, she’s the only person I need to be focusing on. “I heard you’re going out with Boyles Bellingham.”
I lean away from her, shocked that she brought up my boyfriend’s name. And why does this feel like a trick question? “Yeah, I am.” At least, I think I still am.
It’s like her eyes are conveying something that her lips can’t. I’m trapped in her gaze until she says, “Give me a second.”
She takes off her backpack, opens it, takes out a notebook, and starts drawing a diagram.
I don’t feel pressured by my schedule anymore. I watch her draw, and she’s quite a good sketcher. Jillian’s making a map. She writes the building name at the top of the page and3:30 p.m.
“Go here at that time.”
“Johnson Cray Library?” I ask.
Strapping her backpack on again, she nods. Her eyes are sympathetic, and so is the tiny smile she's showing me. I don't want to ask what I'll find. I don't want to push it. However, I know it's not going to be to my liking.
My throat is tight, but I'm able to whisper, “Okay.”
* * *
