It was class time again.

Stella sat at her usual spot near the exit — which was great whenever she wanted to get out of there as fast as she could —, watching dust motes drift through the afternoon light while Mr. Jefferson droned on about the Everyday Heroes contest. She’d heard this speech before, once. Twice, thrice, an unbelievable amount of times. Something something “the importance of capturing truth,” the opportunity this contest represented for their futures, something something. Blah, blah, fucking blah. Couldn’t he talk about something more exciting?

Apparently not.

“Today, as you all know, was the final deadline,” Jefferson said, his perfectly styled hair catching the light as he paced. “And I’m pleased to say that most of you rose to the challenge. Your submissions showed real growth, real vision.”

Well, Stella’s photograph was probably already buried in a pile with thousands of others. Pfft. Samuel feeding the birds. It was definitely competent enough, for sure, but honestly forgettable. There would have been at least a dozen kids who had the same idea, and they’d all lose to some kid named Mason from Ohio. It was terrible, really. (Stella could never trust a Mason; her own little brother was a testament to this.) But deep inside, she knew that from the moment she submitted that photo, she had lost. She’d checked all the boxes (not literally, to be fair), but at least this way, she could avoid Jefferson’s disappointed look.

“However,” he said, raising his voice, “I’m disappointed that not everyone took advantage of this opportunity.”

His gaze immediately landed on Max, who was shrinking into her hoodie as if she could disappear into the fabric.

“Miss Caulfield, would you care to explain why you chose not to submit?”

Max mumbled something inaudible.

“I’m sorry, could you speak up?”

“I said I didn’t have anything good enough.” Max’s voice was barely above a whisper.

“Nothing good enough?” Jefferson’s eyebrows rose; he seemed genuinely surprised. “You’ve been here for months. You’ve had every opportunity, every resource. And you’re telling me you couldn’t produce a single image worthy of submission?”

Stella watched Max’s face go red, and her hands were clenching in her lap. Part of her felt bad — nobody deserved the Jefferson treatment, especially not Max, who was genuinely talented even if she didn’t know it. But another part, a smaller, pettier part, was relieved. After all, it was one less competitor. Not that Stella would win anyway, but still.

“I just… I wanted it to be perfect,” Max said.

“Perfect.” Jefferson practically spat the word. “Perfection is the enemy of art, Miss Caulfield. While you were waiting for perfect, your classmates were taking risks. They were putting themselves out there!”

He turned to address the whole class, and left Max forgotten like she was yesterday’s assignment. “Remember, artists who wait for inspiration die with empty portfolios. Those who work despite the absence of inspiration — yes, those are the ones who succeed.”

Luckily, the bell rang, saving them all from more motivational bullshit. As students started packing up, eager to escape that class, Stella stayed seated, staring at her camera bag without really seeing it.

She thought about her submission again. Samuel feeding birds… perhaps it wasn’t as bad as she thought it was. The morning light had been nice, sure, and there was something about the composition that worked, too — the way his weathered hands contrasted with the delicate birds, the seeds falling like snow. It was beautiful, to be honest. But it wasn’t going to win anything. At best, she’d get a polite “nice work” and then be forgotten.

Perhaps it was time she accepted that instead of thinking about it again.

“Miss Hill?”

She looked up to find Jefferson standing over her desk, the classroom empty except for them. Huh. When had everyone left?

“You planning to sit there all day?” His tone was lighter now, thankfully.

“Hm. Just thinking.” She started shoving her things into her bag, hoping he’d take the hint.

“About your submission?”

“Eh. About a lot of things, honestly.”

Jefferson perched on the desk across from her. “You don’t seem too happy with your work.”

“I’m fine with it.”

“Fine.” He repeated the word like she’d said something offensive. To him, perhaps it was. “Art shouldn’t be fine, Stella. It should be exceptional or terrible, yes, but never fine.”

“Well, then I guess mine was terrible.” She stood, slinging her bag over her shoulder.

“Actually, I thought it was quite good.”

That stopped her. “You did?”

“I mean, the composition was excellent. The light, the subject matter, uh… there’s real empathy there. You saw something in Samuel that others overlook.”

“But?”

Jefferson smiled, that knowing smile that made her simultaneously want his approval and want to throw something at him. “But you played it safe. You definitely have the technical skills, but you’re holding back. It’s like you’re afraid to really say something.”

“Maybe I don’t have anything to say.”

“Oh, everyone has something to say. The question is whether you’re brave enough to say it.”

What was he even trying to say? Stella had no clue. At times, it seemed like Jefferson had a way of making every conversation feel like therapy you didn’t sign up for. Given her recent experiences with that, this felt a tad ironic.

“Look,” he continued, “it’s a national contest, thousands of entries. I’ll do what I can to advocate for our students, of course, but only one can win. And sometimes, the winner isn’t the best photographer… it’s just the one who took the biggest risk.”

“Great. So I’m definitely not winning.”

“Probably not,” he said, surprisingly honest. “But that doesn’t mean your photo wasn’t worth taking.”

Sighing, she left before he could disperse any more wisdom, taking larger and larger steps to get him out of her sight. As much as she appreciated and could look up to Jefferson, even he couldn’t hide some of her failures. In fact, he’d just managed to highlight them.

The late afternoon sun was fairly harsh after the dimness of the classroom, making her squint as she crossed campus. Some students were scattered across the lawn, enjoying the sunshine and having their usual conversations. Normal people having normal days, perhaps. Unfortunately for Stella, she was neither normal enough nor had been getting enough normal days.

The knock came at 11:03 p.m.

Stella looked up from her laptop, where she’d been mindlessly scrolling through photography blogs, looking at work that was better than hers would ever be. She shouldn’t have been focusing on it — and to be fair, she had tried, but dwelling on the day’s events was just inevitable for her at this time of night. It was quite unfortunate.

There were three soft knocks, then two more. Who could have it been?

For a moment, she thought it was her friend Courtney; earlier that day, she had come to Stella wondering if she’d be willing to help with one of the Vortex Club’s parties. She’d never been invited to one, that is, but Courtney insisted that she’d be a good bouncer. Not only that, but she actually trusted her with this job; she’d previously asked Evan to do it, and while he initially said yes, he proceeded to ignore her for the rest of the week. Lo and behold, she was chosen.

Ah, heavens…

Back to the knock, she considered not answering. Not necessarily because she didn’t want to, but because her head was pounding — she had too much coffee, not enough water, and also had to deal with the usual cocktail of academic stress and her poor life choices. But it had been days since his last visit, and despite everything, she’d been worried.

Relieved, too, as she could get some much-needed sleep, but also worried.

She opened the door to find Warren looking surprisingly put-together. Clean clothes that matched, hair actually styled instead of just finger-combed, and… uh…. Jesus, what’s that smell? It seemed like cologne.

“Hey,” he said, hands shoved in his pockets. “Can I come in?”

“It’s been a while.” She stepped aside, letting him enter. “I thought you had forgotten about me or something.”

“Sorry. I’ve been… figuring stuff out.”

He took his usual spot on the floor. Warren seemed almost calm, which wasn’t exactly unusual, though to Stella, it was somewhat unsettling. A few weeks back, he’d have been rambling about something she had no interest in. (Except for the one time where they briefly discussed the cancellation of the hit TV series Happily Divorced. That was a shame.)

“So,” Stella said, settling on her bed and pulling her knees up, “what brings you back to my, uh, humble counseling service?”

“I wanted to talk. And also…” He pulled out his phone, showing her something on the screen. “There’s gonna be an epic Planet of the Apes marathon at the Drive-In in Newberg this weekend. It’s like five movies, so seven hours of prime primate content—”

“That’s a lot of apes.”

“It’s the perfect amount of apes! And I got tickets. Plural, that is. In case you wanted to… you know. You, me, my car. It’s gonna be sweet, I tell you!”

Stella looked at him, this boy who’d been showing up at her door for weeks with his problems, now trying to include her in something fun. It should have been sweet.

“Warren, that’s really nice, but—”

“Max said no.” The words came out rushed. “S-she’s busy this week, so it wouldn’t work. And Brooke also said no. So I thought maybe—”

“So I’m third choice?”

“No! That’s not— I mean, technically yes, but not in a bad way. I just thought—”

“Warren.” Stella rubbed her temples. She should’ve done that more often. “Look, I’ll go. Eventually, I dunno, but uh, you see, I don’t think I’m the right person for this.”

He looked confused. “For watching movies?”

Well, not like that. Stella loved a good movie just as much as he did, even though few people liked the movies she watched, such as the excellent 2011 comedy Jack and Jill. A great film, beautiful film, one of the best in the history of best films. Adam Sandler should’ve won an Oscar for that.

And as much as she liked Warren, she still felt something between them didn’t quite fit.

“For being your… whatever this is. Your movie buddy, your person.” She gestured vaguely between them. “Not that I don’t want to, I mean it, it’s just that… I don’t know… maybe you should get someone else who’d be more interested? Like, uh. Well… Nathan?”

As soon as she mentioned Nathan’s name, Warren’s face went through several expressions in rapid succession — surprise, confusion, maybe a bit of something that might have been guilt, and surprise again.

“N-Nathan? Why would I—”

“Oh, come on.” Stella’s headache was getting worse; she could sense it. “You two have been hanging out. Don’t pretend you haven’t.”

“How did you—”

“I have eyes, Warren. And ears, too, which is a good thing.”

This was true, although she had left out useful context; although she knew of the ‘Looney Tunes incident’, for lack of a better term, she only found out they were actively hanging out when one day she caught Nathan waiting for Warren after science class. If it was the opposite, maybe she could blame it on Warren wanting more friends or whatever, but Nathan waiting for him? Oh… that was a different league.

Warren went pale. “But— well— hey! We just watched a movie. Once, maybe twice. It’s not—”

“I get that. I’m just saying…” Stella stood up, pacing to her window. “Maybe it’s not a bad thing? I mean, think about it. At best, you two will hook up, fuck a dozen times, maybe get married at twenty and divorced by… uh… twenty-five, when he realizes he can’t fix his issues with just dick.”

Warren made a choking sound.

“At worst,” she continued, turning to face him, “maybe, I dunno, you’ll become one of those… uh, hold on a bit, um. Uhhh… school shooters or something. In which case, well, you’ll be nice enough to mention in your manifesto that I was always kind to you. In fact… I could probably get a book deal out of it. Like, say, Doubleday… Penguin… Simon & Schuster, probably. If I’m lucky, I can get a Fox News exclusive—”

“Jesus Christ, Stella!”

“O-oh sorry, I got carried away. But still… I’m just being practical. Have you seen the way Nathan looks sometimes? He’s just one bad day away from burning the whole place down, and I don’t think the Prescotts have enough money to cover that up.”

Warren stood up, although his calm seemed completely shattered. “We’re not— it’s not like that. We’re just friends, maybe. Either way, it’s not whatever you’re implying.”

“I’m not implying anything.”

“You literally just planned our wedding and divorce!”

“That was, uh, hypothetical. I’m all about hypotheticals, to be fair. But statistically—”

“Are you jealous?” The question came out sharp, accusatory.

Stella laughed a bit, but it was hollow. “Of Nathan Prescott? Please. You know I’m better than that—”

“Of me having other friends.”

That hit closer to home than she wanted to admit. She turned back to the window, watching her reflection in the dark glass.

It wasn’t that she had no friends, that is; she had a few friends of her own, and even Warren probably had someone he was close enough to — even if that person, up until a while back, was her. That being said, the closest thing Stella had to a best friend was probably Courtney, even with all the Vortex Club crap she’d been busy with for quite a while now. Aside from her, it would probably be Dana, or… uh… what was her name again? Oh, yeah, Kate. Little Kate, Big Kate, Great Kate. She hadn’t seen her around lately. But she was probably fine.

“I’m not jealous, Warren. I’m worried, which is different. You’re getting close to someone dangerous, and you’re too lonely to see it.”

“Oh, maybe I am lonely. Maybe that’s why I keep showing up at your door at stupid hours, I don’t know. Maybe that’s why I’m trying so hard with Max and Brooke and you and, yes, even Nathan. I’m not even seventeen yet, and I don’t have any real friends.”

The vulnerability in his voice made her chest tight. She turned around to find him looking at her with those earnest eyes that made her want to both hug him and shake him.

“Look, I don’t know everything,” she said carefully, “but I’ve been at Blackwell long enough to see, uh, patterns. People like Nathan don’t really make friends. They use them. And when they’re done…”

“Like Dana and Courtney did to you?”

The names hit like cold water. “What? N-no. Not at all. Why did you—”

“You told me before, right?” Warren’s voice was gentle. “They hurt you.”

Stella sat back down on her bed, suddenly exhausted. “No, no. It’s not the same thing.”

“Isn’t it?”

To be fair, it technically wasn’t; Dana and Courtney weren’t dangerous or mean. (Okay, maybe Courtney was a bit meaner.) On the other hand, they were all part of the ‘popular clique’, for lack of a better name, at Blackwell. Stella wasn’t. Even though her friendship definitely helped her blend in a bit more, she never felt as if she belonged in that group.

Of course, it wasn’t always like that, but unfortunately, Stella seemed to lack the charisma of her other counterparts, and fell behind. That is, according to one of the many versions of what may have happened that popped up in her head from time to time.

“Well… it’s just popular girls doing popular girl shit.” She picked at her comforter. “That’s why I play nice with the Vortex Club now. I pay my dues, show up when required, and stay off their radar. It’s easier than being a target.”

“That sounds lonely too.”

“Yeah, well. Welcome to my world.”

They sat in silence for a moment, letting the dorm’s ambient noise fill the space for a moment. It was amazing that, despite it all, there was life happening around them while they sat in their bubble of mutual dysfunction.

“I’ll be careful,” Warren said finally. “I promise.”

“You don’t even know what you’re being careful about.”

“No, but… I trust you, really. Even if I don’t agree with you.” He stood up, moving toward the door. “But I do promise to tell you all about the ape marathon, okay? You’re gonna love it.”

“Can’t wait,” she said, trying to inject some warmth into it.

Warren paused at the door, but then suddenly turned and hugged her. It was awkward, him standing and her sitting, but he held on anyway. She could smell his cologne — well, it was something trying too hard to be sophisticated — and feel the tension in his shoulders.

She patted his back, expecting him to let go, but he didn’t. The hug went on one beat too long, then two, then three. His arms tightened slightly, and she could feel him breathing, slow and deliberate, like he was trying to memorize something.

“Warren.”

“Sorry.” He pulled back quickly, face flushed. “I just… thanks. I don’t know. I just needed that.”

“Yeah, well. Next time, I’m gonna be charging 25 cents for one.”

He laughed, but it was shaky. “Heh, I like that. Anyway, good night, Stella.”

“Night.”

The door closed with a soft click. Stella sat for a moment, staring at the spot where he’d stood, still feeling the phantom pressure of his arms around her. That hug had been… different, maybe.

She didn’t really trust Nathan, although there was one thing that puzzled her. Warren was, well, actually going out and having fun — and she wasn’t. Sure, there were all the Vortex Club gatherings she’d get the chance to participate in, maybe get a drink or two from outside the VP area and end up dealing with people high as hell like Trevor and Justin (both of whch she didn’t mind). But she wouldn’t be having too much fun…

Of course, she could’ve just said yes. Maybe, if she was in a better mood and had less of a headache, she would have. Oh well. But perhaps that wouldn’t be a major issue; there were many great things to watch on the internet.

But maybe it was time for her to go outside, touch grass, and do something that would probably be worth it. The good news was that there would be many other ways of having fun outside the Academy.

She just realized she would have to do it all alone.