Chapter 4: Lowercase

E L L I E

I reach for my dorm-room door, expecting to see Maddox on the other side. But of course it isn't him. How random would that be? Get a clue, Ellie. As if we're some kind of star-crossed lovers, destined to bump into each other over and over until we finally give in to the inevitability and fall into each other's arms...

Never mind that the real Maddox couldn't even be bothered to finish his sentence the last time he spoke to me. We were talking about those super-slick VR glasses, and he was just about to tell me how they work when... BOOM. Eleanor happened.

There's a scowl on my face, but I shake it off. At least someone came to my door. They knock again, and I pull the door open. A girl I haven't seen before stands in the hallway with her knuckles poised. "Good," she says, lowering her hand. "You're here."

Um. Who are you?

She pauses, eyeing me up and down, and I wait for her to say more. She's bound to introduce herself eventually. But she doesn't, and the silence of my non-reply lingers in the air a beat too long.

"Oh! Hey!" I answer finally. "Hi! Come in." Can you believe I actually sounded friendly there? That happens once in a while. In moments of high awkwardness, random words come out of my mouth—unpredictable, but occasionally friendly.

This girl does not seem overly impressed by my A+ social skills, however. She cocks her head sideways, continuing her examination like I'm some kind of imposter. "You're Ellie?"

I nod, still confused. Could this possibly be Ms. O'Leary, the resident advisor? No... I can't imagine anyone who looks like this on the faculty of a posh boarding school. This girl can't be more than a couple years older than me, with matte magenta lipstick and sleek, shoulder-length hair dyed an unnatural shade of neon blue.

She takes a step inside the threshold. "Maddox said you're on InstaLove, right?"

I gape at her for a moment, trying to ignore the ridiculously disproportionate amount of pleasure I feel at the sound of that name—Maddox—and the fact that he considered me noteworthy enough to remember my existence. My stomach leaps and does a somersault, but then it comes crashing down again. The girl has finished her examination and her disapproving stare has come to rest on my right hip. My hand flutters to my side as I realize what she's glaring at: the outline of the cellphone in my pocket.

Oh wait... I know who this is. I've never laid eyes on her avatar, but I can imagine what it looks like. I suddenly remember Maddox's warning when I first crashed into him, eyes fixed upon my cellphone screen:

Reese will be pissed if she catches you using your phone....

"Sorry," I mumble, fishing in my pocket with a guilty flush of color. "I just got here. Are you Reese?"

She merely points over my shoulder toward the corner of my room. "The top drawer of your desk locks. That's probably the safest place to leave it."

Wait...

Leave what?

My phone?

She crosses her arms, waiting with eyebrows raised, and I realize it wasn't a suggestion. I get the distinct impression that she's used to being obeyed. I can't remember the last time I didn't have my cellphone on me, but... that's what people do here, apparently? I should at least try to fit in...

"OK, cool." I slip my phone in the drawer and don't even bother to remove the little metal key. Knowing me, I'd probably lose it. And it's not like anyone will steal my phone. There are only twenty students in the whole program—ten girls and ten boys—and a gazillion security cameras watching our every move.

When I turn back toward the doorway, it's empty, but I hear Reese's footsteps retreating down the hall. "Well, what are you waiting for?" Her voice floats back to me. "Come on!"

That didn't sound like a suggestion either.

I wipe my damp palms against my shorts as I step out into the hall. Reese has her hand on the doorknob of a room at the far end, waiting for me to catch up. I follow her inside.

This room is furnished identically to mine, but twice the size with double the furniture. Two desks. Two windows. Two beds. Not everyone gets assigned a single, I guess. This room looks like it's built for two, but I count four girls lounging on the beds. No doubt they're the source of the laughter I heard earlier from my isolation chamber.

"Hi," I say softly, but I'm not sure anyone heard. The nearest two girls have their heads bent together over a laptop, blocking my view of their faces. I can only see their hair: one with a strawberry blond pixie cut, and the other with dark springy coils pulled into thick pouf on top of her head. A third girl in a gray beanie sits cross-legged on the other bed. She has her mouth full of bobby pins, weaving the pin-straight black hair of the fourth girl into a French braid.

None of them moves a muscle to acknowledge my presence, and my eyes dart uncertainly to Reese. She enters before me and perches herself on top of one of the desks. She clears her throat, and the rest of the girls immediately look up.

"This is the new kid," Reese announces. "Another Eleanor."

That got their attention. The silence lengthens as all eyes turn to me. I shift my weight from side to side, raising my hand in a weak attempt to wave hello. "You can call me Ellie," I say. "What are all your names?"

No one answers me. They were all laughing and chatting before I came in, but now they look grave.

"Eleanor won't like that."

"She's going to need a nickname."

I take another step into the room, approaching the bed with the two laptop girls. "Um, I have a nickname. It's Ellie."

The one with the hair pouf squints at me for a moment, before turning to the pixie-cut blonde beside her. "What about Big Elle and Little Elle?"

"Big Elle?" Pixie-Cut replies. "Do you have a death wish?"

They all crack up, erupting in a chorus of nervous giggles. The only one who doesn't laugh is Reese. She slides off her desk and stoops in front of it, riffling through the contents of the bottom drawer. "Eleanor is Eleanor. This one—" she jerks her head in my direction— "she can be Little Elle, I suppose."

French-Braid Girl swivels her head around to look me up and down. Her eyes light up. "Lowercase L?"

Beanie-Girl smiles. "Aw, that's cute!"

"What if we just call her Lowercase?"

"Oh my gawwwd." Hair-Pouf bounces on the bed. "That's perfect."

I'm not sure whether I should be flattered or offended. These girls do realize that I'm still standing here, right? Not one of them has told me her own name yet, and no one seems inclined to fill me in. It reminds me of the time my family went to the animal shelter to adopt a new pet. I went around to all the cages, 'oohing' and 'ahhhing' and assigning each tail-wagging puppy a tentative new name... but it never once occurred to me to introduce myself.

Clearly, these girls don't consider me a member of the same species. Oh well. At least they were considerate enough to adopt five distinctive hair styles—to help us clueless puppy-dogs keep track of their nameless faces.

Ugh, I hate this feeling, hate being in this room. I have the overwhelming urge to turn and flee. In the life of an insecure teenager, there is only one situation more painful than declaring your unreciprocated feelings to your crush. It's called: "attempting to insert yourself into a preexisting group of friends." Honestly, I'd rather sew my own eyelids shut.

How do they all know each other already?

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