“Okay,” George says, tapping his fingers against the edge of his laptop in that annoying way he always does when I’m trying to think. “We need to come up with something really good to win the state competition this year.”
It’s after school on the first Friday of the year, and it’s still way too hot outside even though it’s almost mid-September. We’re all sweating inside Highbury High, which was constructed of solid brick and sadly built long before central air. But coding club is my favorite thing about school—partly because I’m co-president this year, along with George. And partly because last year we came in third in the state coding competition, and this year I really believe we can come in first. I also want to come up with something that will look good on my Stanford application. That’s right, if Izzy can go to California for college, then I can, too. And not for a boy, either.
I blow at my bangs in an attempt to lift them from my sweaty forehead and circulate some air. They’re damp and barely move.
George fans himself with the paper that has the deadlines for this year’s competition. The air movement pushes his sandy blond curls up, causing him to look more disheveled and overheated, not less. But George doesn’t notice, or care—he keeps on fanning himself. “We just need to solve global warming,” he says. “Should be easy enough.”
A girl, whose name I haven’t learned yet, giggles a little, and I shoot her a look to say: George is not funny. Don’t encourage him. We have only four weeks to submit the application with our idea and proposal, and then get it ready for the regional competition in November. I don’t want to waste any time. She’s small, I’m assuming a freshman, and she’s all curly red hair, which nearly covers her face more than frames it. She gives me a little shrug, and then glances back down at the competition guidelines, so all that’s visible is her hair.
Coding club meets every Friday, even this very first one, and I’m excited to be back here, heat and all. The first week of school has felt interminably long and lonely without Izzy, and I’ve been looking forward to this meeting and starting our project. George, evidenced by the tapping of his fingers, is excited to be back, too. Ms. Taylor, our faculty adviser, not so much. She’s staring out the window, somewhere between bored, exhausted and sweaty, and not paying much attention to us at all.
We’re a relatively small club, but we’re dedicated. We’ve lost some members—a few graduated last year. And we’ve had a little attrition, too. Phillip decided to run cross-country instead this year, which really is fine by me, since he spent more time messing around on YouTube than working on code last year, anyway.
I look down at the list of members in front of me and determine, by process of elimination, that the red-haired freshman must be Hannah Smith, as I already know the other girl on the list—Jane Fairfax—a junior who is sitting to my right and who always and un-ironically wears a lab coat as a fashion accessory. She’s wearing one now, even though it is way too hot to wear any kind of coat. There are two boy names aside from George on the list and I don’t recognize either—Robert Martin and Franklin Churchill. Though, glancing around the table, one is clearly a very small, very nervous-looking freshman. The other looks older, and...maybe new to the school? He has olive skin, dark wavy hair and bright green eyes that catch mine. Then he smiles.
I look away. “Ms. Taylor,” I say, clearing my throat. “Should we do introductions for new members first?” I remember now, probably ten minutes later than I should’ve, that this is my duty as a senior and president of the club. To make sure everyone knows one another before we jump in.
Ms. Taylor has her gaze fixed out the window and doesn’t seem to hear a word I’m saying to her.
I stand and walk to the window, to see what she’s looking at. The only thing I see in the parking lot is my calculus teacher, Mr. Weston, sitting on the hood of a bright red Prius, talking on his phone. “Ms. Taylor,” I say her name again, a little louder.
“What?” She snaps her head around, seems to see and hear me for the first time. “Oh, yes, right, Emma. State competition.”