Chapter 2: The Flirt Formula
2272 Words
"See the arm brush?" I tilt my head toward the vending machine.
Lana squints. "That wasn’t on purpose."
"It was. Three-second delay before the laugh—classic mimic flirtation."
She sips her drink. "You're not well."
"I'm observant."
I cross the hallway, eyes on target—Ben Matthews.
"You're chewing gum like you’re auditioning for a toothpaste ad," I say, smiling.
He blinks. "Uh… thanks?"
I lean against the locker. "It was a compliment. Mostly."
He laughs, scratching the back of his neck.
Hook set.
He says, “Wanna hang after school?”
I pretend to consider. "Raincheck. Rule #2."
"Rule what?"
"Don’t chase," I whisper. "Let them come to you."
I walk away before he can reply.
Back at my locker, Lana raises an eyebrow.
"You get bored mid-charm again?"
I shrug.
"Predictable," I murmur.
I open my journal.
Rule #2: Never Chase—Let Them Come to You.
Underneath, I add:
Ben = textbook.
"Stand up straight. You’re slouching again," I whisper, adjusting my blazer.
Lana walks past. "Your spine’s straighter than my GPA."
"Good posture intimidates weak men," I reply.
I unscrew the gloss cap. Vanilla mint. My armor’s scent.
Mirror. Swipe. Press.
“Blair?” Lana calls from down the hall.
“Two seconds.”
I hold the compact higher. Angle left. Smile.
Then pause.
The glossed girl staring back… doesn’t blink.
My fingers freeze.
"You okay?"
“Always.”
Except I’m still holding the mirror.
"Why are you looking at yourself like that?"
“I’m… optimizing.”
Another smile. Too fast.
I close the compact with a click, tuck it in my bag.
“You’re late,” I call. “You need me.”
She laughs. “You need you, babe.”
I follow.
But behind me, the locker mirror catches one last glimpse—me, mid-turn.
Eyes not shining.
Just glass.
The piano in my head swells.
Then fades.
Smile resets.
I walk.
“Is that a new cologne or expired confidence?” I ask, barely glancing at him.
“Damn, Blair. That sharp tongue’s gotta be dangerous.”
I smile. “Only if you touch it.”
He laughs, leaning closer. “Can I get your number?”
I tilt my head.
“Did you just ask like it’s your first time speaking to a girl?”
“Is it working?”
“It’s… adorable.”
I tap my nails against my phone, then rattle off a number.
He grins. “Thanks.”
I raise a brow. “You didn’t even ask if it was real.”
He shrugs. “Is it?”
I wink. “Only one way to find out.”
As I walk away, I hear him mutter, “That’s hot.”
Poor boy.
He’ll figure it out at 3 a.m.
Behind me, silence stretches.
I don’t look back.
But I can picture his face: stunned, charmed, slightly confused.
Classic.
I smooth my skirt, catch my reflection in the trophy case.
Smile: precise.
Posture: perfect.
Rule #2? Still undefeated.
“Laugh pitch—high. Touch duration—2.4 seconds,” I murmur, jotting the notes beside a half-drawn heart.
“Arm lean equals interest,” I add, watching a sophomore rest her elbow a little too comfortably on her boyfriend’s knee.
“Predictable.”
Across the quad, a girl tucks her hair behind her ear.
“Three… two…”
Her date mirrors her movement.
I smirk. “Synchronization. Classic mimic technique.”
Behind me, a voice says, “You always narrate people like they’re a zoo exhibit?”
I don’t turn. “Only when I’m bored.”
I shift my legs, notebook steady on my lap.
“Eye contact: four seconds. Nervous blink,” I say.
“No one’s flirting,” Lana replies, sitting beside me.
“Exactly,” I whisper.
“That’s why it works.”
Lana snatches the notebook.
“Are these… diagrams?”
“Flow charts. For efficiency.”
She whistles. “You’re scary.”
“I’m organized.”
She grins, handing it back.
My fingers brush the page.
Ink smudged.
Wind catches a corner.
I hold it down.
Tightly.
Lana leans over my shoulder.
“Are you grading these people?”
“Observing,” I say, adjusting my handwriting.
She taps the corner of my page.
“‘Knee touch = probable crush’?”
“Backed by research.”
She sighs. “You’re exhausting.”
“You’re welcome.”
Her brows lift.
“Seriously, B. Do you ever just… feel it?”
“Define ‘it’,” I counter.
“Like—chemistry. Without analytics. Without checklists.”
I flip the page. “That’s dangerous. Messy.”
“That’s kind of the point.”
I give her a smile. One of the glossy ones.
She stares at me longer than I like.
Then quietly, “You’re allowed to be messy sometimes, you know.”
I pause.
Pen stills mid-word.
Even the wind seems to hush.
Then—scratch. Ink resumes.
She nudges me with her shoulder.
“You’re the most put-together disaster I’ve ever met.”
“I take that as a compliment.”
“You would.”
I don’t look at her.
But I hear her voice—again.
Feel it.
Too clearly.
Blair tries her formula on a quiet art student.
“You like art, right?”
He looks up, startled. “Yeah… you—wait, you know that?”
I smile, tilting my head. “You carry charcoal on your sleeve. Literally.”
He laughs softly. “It’s messy.”
I lean in. “So’s life. But beautiful.”
He shifts nervously, eyes flicking from my lip gloss to his sketchbook.
“Do you model?” he asks.
I yawn—softly, politely.
He fumbles. “Sorry—was that boring?”
I shake my head, standing. “No. You’re just… already solved.”
He blinks. “Solved?”
“You’re sweet. Predictable. Gentle. And you’d text back in full sentences.”
I tap his sketchbook. “Good luck with the wings.”
I walk away, heels quiet against the stone.
Behind me, his voice tries, “Wait, do you—”
I don’t stop.
My fingers tighten on my phone.
I don’t look back.
Okay, maybe I do.
Just once.
He’s still sitting there—watching. Confused.
Hurt.
Lana’s voice echoes: Do you ever just feel it?
I press my lips together.
Then keep walking.
“Oh my god, is that her?”
“I swear she looked at me and my brain just… stopped.”
“She could get, like, *any* guy.”
Their heels click out.
I step out of the stall.
Silent.
Calculated.
Fixing my collar.
I lean toward the mirror.
Hair: smooth.
Lip gloss: undisturbed.
Expression: curated.
The door creaks behind me—empty now.
“She’s perfect,” one voice echoes in my head.
I lift my chin.
“Damn right,” I whisper.
The automatic faucet whirs on as I reach for paper towels.
But my eyes catch the mirror.
Still.
Sharp.
A beat too long.
No audience here.
Only me.
And the version of me I never blink at.
Because I might miss the slip.
I adjust the second button of my blouse.
Smoother lines. Cleaner silhouette.
Another smile. Perfect tilt.
But it doesn’t quite rise to my eyes.
“Still got it,” I say, stepping out.
Bathroom door swings closed.
Compliments echo.
But don’t follow.
In the library.
Click.
“Flirting,” I whisper under my breath, “is choreography.”
Click.
“Rule #2: It’s not about hearts—it’s about patterns.”
Click.
“Eye contact: three seconds. Smile: soft. Exit: sooner.”
I tap the spacebar twice.
“Never show your cards.”
The cursor blinks. I inhale.
Click.
“Make him feel seen.”
Click.
“But keep him guessing.”
My fingers hesitate, hover.
Then—click.
“Rule #2.2: Let silence do the flirting.”
I lean back, studying the lines.
Each one crisp.
Cold.
“You’re terrifying when you’re in this mode,” Lana mutters beside me, sipping her drink.
“Efficient,” I reply.
She squints. “Detached.”
“I’m writing rules, not poetry.”
She lifts a brow.
“That’s kind of the problem.”
I don’t answer.
Click.
I bold the sentence: Never reveal intention. Only effect.
Lana leans in. “So what’s the effect you’re after?”
I glance up, then down.
My mouth opens.
Shuts.
Click.
“Page saved.”
Silence.
But something unsaved hums under the words.
“Never been rejected,” I write.
Pause.
“Never even been caught off guard.”
My pen taps the corner of the page. Once. Twice.
Lana’s voice drifts from two tables away—laughing about something that doesn’t involve me.
Tap.
Tap.
I stare.
The words blur slightly.
I squint.
Then—scratch.
One long, unapologetic line crosses out the sentence.
The pen hovers.
Then lands again.
“Unpredictability is a myth.”
There.
Safe.
Curated.
My fingers press into the page, smudging the corner.
A gust of air from the vent chills my spine.
I shift.
Around me, the library is quiet. Familiar.
But I swear—for one flicker—every clock ticks louder.
As if something just slipped.
And I covered it too fast.
I close the notebook gently, pressing it flat with my palm.
No one saw.
No one has to.
I breathe out—slow and quiet.
The kind of exhale you don’t notice.
Until it leaves.
And something stays unsettled.
“So you’re saying,” I say, brushing his arm lightly, “you’d pick calculus over coffee with me?”
The guy laughs—too loud, too eager. “Depends. Do I get to survive both?”
I tilt my head. Smile locked.
Nailed.
Timing, perfect.
Footsteps.
Steady.
Close.
I glance without meaning to.
Eli.
He walks past. No glance. No pause.
Just… walks.
I blink.
“You okay?” the guy asks.
I turn back—half a second too late. Smile off-beat.
“Totally,” I lie. “Just remembered something.”
He keeps talking, but I hear nothing.
My heart is quiet but uneven, like a skipped metronome.
I shift my weight. Wrong side.
I’m off.
I’m off.
I’m off.
And he didn’t even look.
“Anyway, I’ll text you?” he says, hopeful.
“Sure.”
I walk away.
No wink.
No last-line tease.
Just… stillness.
My reflection in the glass door catches my eye.
Smile faded.
Eyes sharp.
Lips parted.
Timing: missed.
I scroll.
Still no message.
I refresh.
Nothing.
“You’re waiting,” Lana says, not looking up from her phone.
“I’m not.”
“You are.”
“I gave him a fake number anyway,” I say.
“That never stopped them before.”
Silence.
I angle the screen away.
Open my inbox.
Empty.
My thumb taps the messaging app.
Drafts a reply to no one.
“Hey, so today was—”
Delete.
“Did you want—”
Delete.
“Never mind.”
I stare at the blinking cursor.
Lana glances over. “You okay?”
I shrug.
“You’re quieter than usual.”
“Just tired.”
My hand still rests on the phone.
It buzzes.
Only an update.
My pulse slows again.
Then flatlines.
Disappointment. Stupid. Unwelcome. True.
I slide the phone into my bag.
Zipper up.
Wall back on.
Lana watches.
“Blair.”
“Yeah?”
“You sure you’re not… slipping?”
I smile.
“Please. I don’t slip. I glide.”
But the silence answers her first.
Back in bed, she opens her rulebook.
“Unpredictability is a myth,” I write.
Underline.
Once.
Twice.
I click the pen closed with more force than needed.
My lamp hums.
Rain whispers outside the window.
The kind of whisper you only hear when the silence inside you gets louder.
I stare at the ink.
The words tilt. Slant.
“Fix it,” I murmur.
But my hand doesn’t move.
I press my palm flat across the page.
It’s still warm. Still fresh.
Still wrong.
If someone saw this page, they’d think I rushed it.
Like I wasn’t sure.
Like I—
“No.”
I flip the page.
Blank.
Clean.
I breathe in through my nose, sharp.
Hold it.
Let it go.
The paper rustles.
But my pulse doesn’t settle.
From the hallway, Mom’s voice: “Lights, Blair.”
“Yeah,” I say.
I close the journal slowly.
Then tuck it beneath my pillow like a secret I haven’t decided to keep yet.
I roll over.
Eyes open.
Still.
The next day.
“Same hallway. Same light.”
Lana nudges me. “You’re doing that thing again.”
“What thing?”
“The one where your eyes go glassy when you’re not winning.”
“I’m always winning,” I murmur.
Then I see him.
Eli.
Walking.
Calm. Unbothered. Unfolding space.
He passes.
No nod.
No smirk.
Just a single glance over his shoulder—quiet, deliberate, like he’s not looking at me, but through something.
Me?
“I think he clocked you,” Lana says.
“No one clocks me.”
“Mm-hmm.”
He keeps walking.
And I—
I forget to smile.
Or wink.
Or flip my hair.
I do nothing.
He rounds the corner.
And I’m still staring at where he was.
Not where he is.
“Blair?”
I blink.
I walk.
Not my usual strut. Not in tempo.
Just… movement.
“Wait, where are you going?”
Lana calls behind me.
But I don’t answer.
Because for the first time—
I don’t know.
- Writer
