Chapter 2:three years
1135 Words
HATE FLOATS TOGETHER WITH LOVE
PART 1: THE REVENGE
CHAPTER 2: THREE YEARS
Three years is 1,095 days. I know because I counted. Every single one.
Day 1: I met Ethan Sterling. I was 15, freshman at High-chain Prep, glasses, braces, eating fries alone because smart girls do not get invited to tables. He walked over like he was granting a wish. “You are the scholarship kid, right? Mr. Kane said you are good at math.”
He needed someone to do his calculus. His dad would take his Porsche if he failed. I did it. He said “thanks, you are a lifesaver” and smiled like I should frame it. I did. In my head. For 1,095 days.
Day 1,095: Expelled. Today.
For sending Victoria Lane photos of Ethan kissing a girl behind the gym at Spring Fling. Photos I took. Photos he said I “faked.” Photos that got me labeled “obsessed” by Dean Morrison while Ethan got a warning and Victoria got a new bracelet.
Three years. And all I had was $200, a frayed bag, and a note on my phone: Justin Sterling.
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Mom moved us to North Ridge that night. New zip code. New school.
North Ridge High. Public. Lockers that do not lock. And, according to page six of my stalking doc, the school where Justin Sterling was a senior.
Ethan went to Prep. Justin did not. The Sterling brothers had not spoken since their dad’s will gave Ethan the name and Justin the money. And the scars.
Perfect.
First day, I did not wear the H&M dress. That was for Ethan. Ethan liked librarian.
Justin? Justin wrote his Forbes algorithm at 3am in a Sailor Moon hoodie, according to one blurry photo. Justin did not like librarians. Justin liked ghosts.
So I went with soft. White sweater. Hair down. Lip gloss that tasted like strawberries. Not for him. For the version of him that lived in his head. The version that never got talked to unless it was about code.
Homeroom. Mr. Davis: “Banks, Chloe? Seat is next to Sterling. Back row.”
I looked up.
Justin Sterling was not cold. He was red.
He heard his name and mine in the same sentence and his ears went pink. Like I caught him Googling “how to talk to girls” on the school WiFi. Black hoodie, strings chewed, laptop covered in stickers: sudo make me a sandwich, there is no place like 127.0.0.1. His fingers hovered over the keyboard like it was the only thing that would not flinch if he touched it.
I walked over. Dropped my bag. Our knuckles brushed.
He flinched. Actually flinched. Mumbled “s sorry” to the desk.
“Hi,” I said. Not flat. Warm. Like I had been waiting to meet him. Because I had.
He glanced up. Gray eyes, but not empty. His were like browser tabs, 47 open, all buffering. He saw my face and his blush went from ears to neck.
“H hi,” he said. Then went back to typing. Furiously. Like if he stopped, I would disappear.
---
AP CompSci. Assigned seats. Him. Me. Again.
He did not talk. But his laptop was angled so I could see the screen. Accident? No. Justin does not do accidents. He does controlled leaks.
It was his algorithm. From Forbes. And it was broken. Line 88. Buffer overflow. He knew. He was waiting to see if I would notice.
I pulled out a pen. Wrote in my notebook, big enough for him to see without looking like he was looking:
His typing stuttered. His ears went red again. He deleted a whole line, retyped it, deleted it again.
Then he pushed a post it toward me. Did not slide it. Pushed it. Like it was radioactive.
On it, in tiny, precise handwriting:
I wrote back:
Slid it back. Our fingers touched for half a second.
He yanked his hand away like I shocked him. Opened a new terminal window. Typed:
Then deleted it.
Cute.
Lunch. I did not sit with him. Predators do not chase. They sit and let curiosity bleed.
He sat alone. Back to the wall, hood up, eating a protein bar like it was a punishment. Victoria Lane found him. Of course she did. She transferred to “be closer to family.” Her family is money. Money is Ethan.
“Hey, Justin.” She set down a strawberry smoothie. “Your favorite.”
He went rigid. “I am, I am allergic to strawberries.”
“You are not.”
“E Ethan is. You are thinking of Ethan.” His voice cracked on Ethan’s name. Like saying it hurt.
She flushed. Looked at me. Like I programmed him.
I licked my lip gloss. Slow. Watched his eyes flick to my mouth for 0.2 seconds before he slammed them back to his screen.
Got you.
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Library Study Hall. He sat at my table. Did not ask. Just appeared. Like a shy virus.
Fifty minutes of silence. Him typing. Me pretending to read Pride and Prejudice. Actually watching him.
His tell: when he is stuck, he bites his hoodie string. When he is lying, he pushes his glasses up even though he is not wearing any. When he is interested, he saves and recompiles every 30 seconds.
He had recompiled 17 times in ten minutes.
Bell rang. He stood. Shoved his laptop in his bag. Knocked over his water.
“s**t, sorry, I—” He bent to grab it. Our heads almost bumped.
I caught his wrist. Light. Two fingers. “Relax, Sterling. It is water. Not malware.”
His pulse jumped. I felt it. Fast. Like bad code.
He stared at where I touched him. Like my fingers were admin access.
“Y you should, you should be careful,” he stammered. “Ethan, he does not like people touching his things.”
I leaned in. Just an inch. Enough for him to smell the strawberry gloss. “I am not touching his things,” I whispered. “I am touching you.”
His breath hitched. He dropped the water bottle. Again.
He did not pick it up this time. He just backed up, red to his hairline, and bolted.
Left his post it on the table.
New one. Same handwriting. Messier:
No question mark. Like he was afraid to be rejected in punctuation.
I pulled out my pen. Circled . Added a smiley.
Under it, I wrote:
Then I drew a tiny heart. Next to line 88.
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Chloe Banks was expelled. Chloe Banks was dead.
Chloe was going to make Justin Sterling blush every time he compiled.
And then she was going to use that blush to crash his brother’s empire.
- Writer
