Chapter 12: Placeholder

Lena looked at the phone in Chelsea's hand and didn't take it.

"I'll read it from here," she said.

Chelsea turned the screen toward the room, and the first row of tables leaned in.

It was a thread of texts from an unknown number, like mine.

The top message was dated March 3.

Dear Future Me, who do I end up with?

The answer was underneath.

Malcolm Lindahl. He wins Young Scientist of the Year when he's twenty-five. You're in the front row, in the green dress.

I read it twice.

Nobody at Kingswell knew what a Young Scientist of the Year was yet. I had never told Chelsea that I wanted it.

I had only ever told Toby, when I was fourteen, drunk on soda, that I would win a prize like that someday.

"You had this in March," I said.

"I had it before the SAT."

"Before the exam."

"Before everything." Her voice was almost steady.

"It told me you'd be somebody. It told me everyone would know your name."

She scrolled and held it out again.

He leaves Ashford for a school with a bigger name. If he leaves, you lose your place. Keep him home.

Another text, a day later.

Toby is a placeholder. He's fun. He's not your future. Don't let him get attached.

A noise came from behind her.

Chelsea's head whipped around.

Toby stood in the doorway of the dining hall with a backpack hanging off one shoulder.

He was out of breath and sunburned, and his shirt was wrinkled.

"I got on the next bus," he said. "I wanted to talk to Mal. I didn't know you'd be here."

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