Page 39 of Call It Chemistry

I shake my head. “I’d like that.” I hear myself sounding calm, but inside my organs are rearranging themselves like a packing algorithm with a time limit.

“Cool,” he says, and gives me a lopsided grin. “There’s this movie marathon in the student center. We could, I dunno, watch people try to break the world record for popcorn eating.”

“Sounds terrible,” I say. “I’m in.”

He laughs, and the noise of the world recedes until it’s just the two of us, on a campus suddenly smaller and brighter than it was before.

We don’t talk on the way to the science building, but it’s not like before. The quiet is comfortable, expansive. We walk in sync, matching strides, and at the door he catches my hand, fingers slotting into place like they were designed for this.

He holds it for a second, then lets go. “See you tonight?” he asks, and I nod.

He’s gone before I can overthink it, melting into the crowd of backpacks and winter jackets.

I stand on the steps, the afternoon sun sharp and clean on my face, and for the first time I don’t want to hide from it.

I check my phone, out of habit, and see a new message from Sara:

WELL???????

I grin, type back:Tell you everything at studio. Bring caffeine.

She sends three heart emojis and a GIF of a cat hugging a coffee mug.

I slip my phone in my pocket, start toward the art building, and catch my reflection in the window. For once, the person looking back doesn’t look like a before-and-after photo. Just a person, a story in progress, caught mid-reaction.

I walk faster, eager for what comes next.

Chapter 11

The phone is already buzzing by the time I clear the stairwell, vibrating through my jeans with the urgency of a live wire. It’s only ten-fifteen and the group chats have mutated from idle memes to a kind of campus-wide surveillance, every notification a fresh hit of dopamine-laced dread.

First, there’s Hunter:Dude. They’re making memes about you. Some of them are actually kind of hot??

Then Sara, her text like a bandage over the wound:Ignore the noise. Coffee after class? I can bring pastries.

Then, just for flavor, the Wilcox U account:

@WILCOX_OVERHEARD:When the guy you roast in Chem becomes the hero of your bisexual awakening. #DeadpoolWasRight #SpicyLabPartners

I swipe through the notifications in the semi-dark, thumb moving faster than my brain. There are at least twelve new posts—some with my face, most with Aaron’s, one particularly haunting with our heads photoshopped onto that famous Spiderman double-pointing image. The comment threads are a minefield, half speculation and half blood sport.

The hallway outside Organic Chemistry is a live feed of the student body’s attention span. Every third person is scrolling, heads bent to screens, thumbs flicking. As I join the river of students shuffling toward the east entrance, I start to feel the weight of eyes—not just the casual, background checks for potential friends or threats, but the laser focus of people who think they’re seeing something new.

I walk faster. My shoes squeak on the tile, echoing louder than they should. Somewhere behind me, a girl whispers, “That’s him,” and I can tell without looking she means me. Iwant to evaporate. Instead, I keep my head down and count the steps to the next door.

The quad is staked out with benches and early adopters of parka season, all pretending to read but really tracking the flow of gossip. Even the squirrels seem to pause mid-fight, just in case they miss the next plot twist. I consider detouring around the arts building, but that would only guarantee more stares. So I push forward, every muscle in my back braced for impact.

Halfway to the cafeteria, my phone goes off again. This time, it’s a text from a number I don’t recognize:

UNKNOWN:You’re famous, lol. Don’t let it go to your head. ;)

I delete the message without replying, but the residue lingers. Famous. It tastes like battery acid. It’s the price to be paid for dating Aaron Thompson. I begin to wonder if I can afford it.

The entrance to the dining hall is a funnel of sound and fluorescent light. I scan my ID, slide past the salad bar, and beeline for the back tables—my usual spot, the one furthest from the glass wall where upper class students set up their daily tribunals.

The place is already packed. There’s a steady drone of voices, but above it all is the cackling of Aaron’s friends, clustered around two pushed-together tables near the front. They’re all here—Malik, the guy from the lab who once turned a whole titration into a stand-up routine; blonde dude from Aaron’s baseball days; a guy with teal hair who I think is his roommate. They’re loud enough that I can hear individual words, even over the sizzle of the fryer.

I grab a tray, try to look like I haven’t noticed, and start the pilgrimage through the buffet line. As I reach the pasta station, the volume spikes.