Chapter 16: The Proposal (Part One)

E L L I E

I hate this library.

OK, maybe not hate. Hate's a strong word. I can appreciate the fact that this place is aesthetically gorgeous, with massive skylights and soaring high ceilings. There's even a "living wall" over there, covered with ivy and vegetation to make cooped-up students feel like we're still outside.

But whatever fancy architect designed this space clearly did not have students like me in mind—students who prefer study rooms with actual walls, instead of putting us on display behind floor-to-ceiling glass like goldfish in an aquarium.

With a sigh, I slide my laptop to a different section of the study table, and hunker down to conceal my face as much as possible behind the screen.

To be fair, it's not the library stressing me out right now. It's the blank page staring back at me.

I'm so screwed. I have no ideas that don't make me want to vomit. No partner. No group. No peers who are even willing to accept my app-facilitated attempts at friendship.

I tried. I really did. After that brief lapse into Maddox-induced insanity in the Communication Kiosk, I remembered Reese's other piece of advice. Not just to be careful around certain overly attractive boys... She actually told me something else, way more important.

Get yourself a group. Otherwise you'll drown in the workload.

I'm here at Winthrop to work on a project, not to flirt with Maddox. Remember? So I shut down that InstaQuest Invitation unsent, and came here to the library in search of likely partners. I wore my visor and everything, hoping InstaLove might help.

No such luck. All the other students in here are already holed up in their own glass-walled display chambers, clustered together in groups. No one even looked up when I walked by... so I did what any self-respecting introvert would do: scurried into the nearest empty room and hid behind my laptop.

How do they all have groups formed already? Day two of the program, and somehow I missed the boat. Am I really so utterly and completely devoid of social skills?

Apparently so.

I'm so tired. Tired of feeling like an outcast. Tired of second-guessing every interaction I have with my fellow human beings. I thought things might be easier with InstaLove to grease the wheels. But no. No, I'm still me. Ellie Sandberg. Unaugmented. No app is going to change the reality of who I am... and who I'm not.

Hot tears prick my eyes. I lean forward and bury my face in my hands.

Tap, tap, tap.

Tap, tap, tap.

Someone's knocking on the glass. Probably some other group needs the room. They came to tell me to take a hike. I mean, why would I need a whole room to myself when I'm solo? Group-less... Partner-less... Hopeless.

Tap, tap, tap.

Ugh. I swipe at my eyes and move to gather up my things, spread out across the table.

Thunk. Thunk. Thunk.

I finally look up. Two large hands press palm-first against the clear partition, and a dark-haired head gently headbutts the glass.

Thunk. Thunk. Thunk.

I know that head—that shaggy mop of hair. My stomach does a half-hearted flutter. (Did you know even stomach butterflies can be depressed? Apparently so.) I stare at his hands for a moment. I never noticed before how big those are. They must be twice the size of mine. He has his fingers splayed wide against the glass, and I have this weird urge to press my own hands to the other side and compare...

My stomach butterflies seem to be recovering rapidly. OK, Ellie. Get a grip.

Maddox finally stops thunking and meets my gaze. I lift a hand in a non-committal gesture—half-waving, but fully prepared to convert into hair-adjustment-mode at any time.

He breaks into a wide grin and waves back.

I'm never going to get any work done, am I? "Go away," I mouth to him, but I don't really mean it. He ignores me and pops the door open.

"What's the matter?" He hesitates in the doorway, flashing a quick glance over his shoulder down the long row of study rooms to make sure no one is watching. Then he comes in. "Why do you look like someone just killed your puppy?"

"I'm fine."

"Homesick?"

I shake my head. "I'm just trying to get some work done."

He doesn't take the hint. He plops down in the chair beside mine and spins it around in a 360. His feet stomp the floor when his chair faces mine. Then he leans in toward me, peering at my blank computer screen.

"Interesting proposal, Miss Sandberg. I'd say it has... limitless potential."

Is he making fun of me? Is that why he came in here? I move to shut the laptop, but he stops me. The smirk leaves his face.

"Don't. I'm just teasing!"

"It's fine. I was about to leave anyway."

"Wait! No. Talk to me. What's wrong?"

He actually looks like he cares. I should be flattered, but somehow it only makes me feel worse. I place my forearms on the table and bend forward to rest my head against them, hiding my face. I can sense his hand hovering by my shoulder, not quite making contact.

I sit back up again, and his hand brushes against my arm. I can't tell whether or not the contact was accidental. Probably.

It doesn't matter anyway. What's the point of liking a boy, when I'm never going to see him again? Not after I fail to turn in a proposal tomorrow and get kicked out of this program on Day 3. "I don't belong here," I whisper.

He sticks out his lower lip, mirroring my own pathetic-ness back at me. "That's not what I heard."

Somehow the exaggerated pout makes me forget to be forlorn for half a second. "What did you hear? That my name is Lowercase, and no one wants to be my partner because I suck at life?"

He grins. "No. Actually, I heard you're the best coder here... and you had some kickass proposal that impressed the hell out of the admissions committee."

I blink. He's not still mocking me, is he? Something in his face makes me believe him. "Well, you heard wrong."

"Let's see it."

"What?"

"Your kickass proposal. Not the blank one."

"I deleted it."

"Permanently?"

No, not permanently. I suppose I could resurrect my stupid smart-mower. Maybe that's my best option at this point... "You don't understand. It seriously sucks!" I bury my head in my arms again.

"Why did you propose it if it sucks?"

"I didn't know it sucked! I thought it was good!"

"And?"

"And then I saw the InstaLove mod that Reese and Eleanor are doing."

He shakes his head. "Don't try to compete with them."

"It's a competition, isn't it? Maker Fair?"

"Yeah, but they're guaranteed to win. It's not a level playing field."

I don't understand. What does that even mean? I still have my head bent forward, and I address my words to the tabletop.  "Because Eleanor's last name is Winthrop?"

"No, because Reese's last name is Kemp."

Of course I recognize the name. I look up from my arms, brow furrowed, as I attempt to process this new tidbit of information.

"Wait. Kemp... as in...?"

He nods in confirmation. "You've heard of Emerson Kemp, right? He's Reese's older brother."

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