The Code for Love and Heartbreak - Jillian Cantor Page 0,1
George says kindly. She smiles at him and nods, and it’s like no one even remembers that I’ve already said this. Sometimes it’s frustrating to watch the way that George seems to be just naturally better with people than I am.
“Of course,” she says now, her gaze trailing back out the window again.
George raises his eyebrows at me and shrugs.
“Okay, I’ll go first,” I say. I tell them only the basics, that I’m Emma Woodhouse, a senior, club president. That I expect them all to treat this club with the utmost seriousness, and that my first choice for college is Stanford. Green Eyes whistles lightly under his breath, like I’ve impressed him, and I’m annoyed to feel my face turning hot. I fan myself with the paper now, in case anyone notices and thinks it’s any more than this heat. Honestly, it’s not. “You next,” I say, meeting his eyes.
He smiles again, and it feels like it’s just at me, which makes my face feel even hotter. “I’m Franklin Churchill the third, which is the world’s most pretentious name, I know. And though I’m sure that’s what it says on the sheet there, my middle name is Samuel and everyone calls me Sam.” I glance at George, who has gone back to fanning himself and looks bored, hot and unimpressed. “I just moved here, and I was in coding club at my old school. But we mainly messed around. Never entered any state competitions or anything like that.”
“Welcome,” George says, and I realize too late that I should have said that first. Then George jumps in and starts talking about himself. He mentions how his goal in life is to use technology to change the world, and I’ve heard it from him before. George is noble, maybe; much too idealistic, definitely. And I stop listening to him, turning my focus back to Sam. He looks away from George, smiles at me again. For some reason, I think about what Izzy said to me before she left, that part of what I need to make it through this year without her is a boyfriend. But it’s a ridiculous thought.
What I need is a brilliant idea for our state competition project, something amazing enough that will get us first place and help me get into Stanford. Numbers are better than people, and my senior year is going to be all about how numbers are going to help me ensure my future after high school.
* * *
After the meeting ends, I drive George home. His parents let John take their third car out to LA. My dad, on the other hand, told Izzy she’d have to make it through at least her freshman year in California without the car, so I could use our second car for my last year of high school. Really, he doesn’t have time to drive me around, and he knows Izzy has John out there. And though we never really sat down and discussed it, everyone seemed to assume that I could just drive George to and from school this year, and it would be fine. George likes to talk, and I don’t, and I was worried that driving him would annoy me. But so far, it hasn’t. The nice thing about George, I’ve come to notice, is he doesn’t talk just to hear the sound of his own voice. He usually only talks when he has something to say.
“Sam seems smart,” George says to me now.
“Mmm,” I murmur, like I didn’t notice Sam. “I hope so.”
“And he has experience,” he says. “Hannah and Robert will hopefully be quick learners. And we still have Jane, who really is amazing working with servers.”
Jane is never very friendly to me, and she always annoyingly acts like she’s so much smarter and better than I am. But George is right about her. I’m good with algorithms, George with animation. Jane is amazing with the back end, and I’m glad we have her for that.
I pull into George’s empty driveway, and his two-story brick colonial is pretty similar to mine, which is in a nearly identical subdivision five minutes farther from school, down Highbury Pike. The blinds are all pulled shut tightly, and I imagine the house is dark and empty inside. It’s after five, but his parents both work in Manhattan and probably won’t be home for hours. Dad only works twenty minutes away in Princeton, but he rarely ever makes it home before eight. My house is similarly dark and