Chapter 8 THE TARGETED NOTEBOOK

"Has anyone seen a dark blue notebook?"

Elara's voice was soft, more directed at the empty space around her than at anyone in particular. She stood by her locker, one hand pressed against the door while she rummaged through her bag for the third time. She had already checked twice, and it wasn't there. The only thing worse than knowing something was missing was the faint hope that she might have miscounted.

She checked again.

Still gone.

She paused for a moment and took a deep breath.

The notebook was more than just a notebook. It held seven weeks of self-study. The quantum notes, the incomplete Maxwell derivations, the Feynman citations, and the sketches. She hadn't thought about the sketches being in there until now, and now she couldn't stop worrying about them.

She slammed the locker shut.

Around her, the morning hallway buzzed on, indifferent. Groups of students milled about. Noise filled the air. Someone's music leaked from their headphones. It was the typical scene at St. Jude's, where students walked around as if they had somewhere important to be, even when they didn't.

She pulled out her phone and typed quickly.

Has anyone turned in a dark blue notebook at the admin desk?

Without thinking, she sent it to the class group chat. As soon as she did, regret washed over her. The group chat had eighty-three members, and not all of them were her friends.

Responses started to come in.

No idea.

What notebook?

Check lost property?

Then, a message from an unknown number appeared:

Oh, that one? I think I saw Mila with something like that this morning lol

Elara read the message twice. Then she tucked her phone into her pocket and walked away.

She didn't run. Running drew attention. She moved in a way she had trained herself to move through difficult situations quickly, steadily, without giving anyone anything to notice.

The thing about Mila was that her cruelty was never subtle. She thrived on having an audience. That meant wherever she was with the notebook, she wasn't alone, and she was making sure people noticed.

Elara found them in the courtyard.

Mila, Sophie, and three other girls she recognized from the edges of Chloe's group were gathered near the fountain, the one St. Jude's referred to as "the Atrium" as if that made it grander. Mila held the notebook open in both hands, reading it with the exaggerated focus of someone who had just stumbled upon something hilarious.

"Listen to this," Mila called out, loud enough for others to hear. "Page forty-four. She's written, she's drawn a diagram. Of some physics concept. With citations. She put citations in her personal notebook. Like who does that? Who does that at home, alone, for no reason?"

Sophie laughed. "That is so sad."

"It's not sad, it's insane." Mila flipped to the next page. "She's like a little science robot. Does she even have a social life? Has she ever touched grass?"

She paused.

She had turned another page and something she saw there made her expression shift from amused cruelty to something sharper. Something more curious.

Elara was close enough now to see the change in Mila's face.

But she was not close enough to stop what happened next.

"Oh," Mila said, a slow smile spreading across her face. "Oh, this is good."

"What?" Sophie leaned in.

Mila held up the notebook. "There are sketches. She drew specific people." She turned to show Sophie. The other girls crowded around. "Is that..."

"Don't."

Elara's voice cut through the courtyard clearly. It wasn't loud, but it was firm. Mila looked up, and the small group went quiet, every person within ten feet turned to stare.

Elara walked the last few steps to where Mila stood.

She extended her hand.

Mila regarded her hand, then the notebook, and finally looked at Elara with the kind of smile someone has when they realize they hold something valuable.

"I was just looking," Mila said sweetly. "You left it lying around."

Elara kept her hand out.

"It fell," Mila said. "From your bag. I picked it up. I was planning to give it back."

"Then give it back."

Three simple words. Sharp at the edges, but they were out.

Mila tilted her head. "It's really interesting, though. The sketches, especially." She pointed to a page. "This one. The one in the classroom. The two people." She showed it to Sophie, deliberately ensuring Elara saw her doing it. "You're quite good, actually. Very realistic. I really like the way you drew the hair on the person in front." She paused. "He has really distinctive hair, doesn't he? Julian."

The name hit like a stone.

Elara's hand remained steady, extended outward. She wouldn't let it shake.

"Imagine if I shared a picture of this in the group chat," Mila said. "Everyone would know. About the notebook girl and her little..."

"Give it back."

The voice came from behind Elara.

She felt the air change before she turned to look. The presence was unmistakable, the way the surrounding students reacted, straightening up and focusing their attention.

Julian stepped beside her.

He was still in his training kit, slightly out of breath, as if he'd rushed over from the pitch. A grass stain marked his right knee. He regarded Mila with the specific look of someone who had stopped being polite.

"Give it back, Mila."

Mila's smile didn't fade; it adjusted. "Julian. I was just looking at something Elara left in the..."

"No, you weren't." His tone was calm. Not raised or aggressive, just devoid of any room for argument. "You took it and you're standing in the courtyard putting on a show. Give it back."

Mila looked between him and Elara, and then at the small group watching with the intrigued attention of spectators at a thrilling match.

"It's just a notebook," Mila said, though her tone had become more cautious.

"Then give it back. If it's just a notebook, there's no reason to keep it."

A brief silence passed.

Sophie shifted. One of the other girls focused on her shoes.

Mila extended the notebook toward Elara. Not graciously, but she held it out.

Elara took it, pressing it against her chest. She remained silent, refusing to glance at the open page, determined not to acknowledge that her heart was racing.

"We were just having fun," Mila said, mostly to Julian. "You're taking this way too seriously."

Julian looked at her for a moment.

"I know," he replied. "That's the problem."

He turned and walked away, retracing his steps.

For two seconds, Elara stood in the courtyard with the notebook held tight against her chest and the echoes of Mila's words hanging in the air.

Then she walked away too.

She chose a different path, not heading in Julian's direction. Instead, she went around the side of the science block, down the covered walkway that no one used because it smelled like old paint and the lights flickered.

She needed thirty seconds without anyone watching her.

She got twenty.

"Elara."

Julian had taken the main path and circled back. She heard his footsteps before she spotted him and stopped, tired of pretending she didn't notice he was there.

"Are you okay?" he asked.

She turned to face him.

He stood at the end of the walkway, hands in his jacket pockets, looking at her with the same concern he had shown since the chemistry lab, a look she hadn't yet sorted out if she could trust.

She opened her notebook, making sure the right page was closed. She checked the sketches, still there and undisturbed, not captured by anyone, thank goodness, and then she closed it and looked back at him.

"She mentioned your name," Elara said. "About the sketch." The words stumbled out. She hated it but pressed on. "I want you to know I wasn't...it was practice. I draw to practice. Hands. Figures. It wasn't about you."

Julian's face remained carefully neutral.

"Okay," he said.

"I'm telling you this so you don't... so it's not..." She paused and started again. "So it's not a thing."

"Okay," he repeated, maintaining the same tone. But something in his expression hinted at deeper thoughts that she couldn't decipher and couldn't ignore.

She pulled out her phone.

Thank you for helping me earlier. With Mila.

He read her message. "Don't mention it."

I mean it. You didn't have to step in.

"I told you. I repay what I owe."

She looked at him, and he met her gaze.

"Also," Julian said, his voice shifting just slightly, warmer and lighter, "the sketch was good. You got the proportions right." He paused. "Most people give me a much stronger jawline when" "Honestly, it's exhausting," Elara said. She stared at him. "I'm not saying it was me," Julian insisted, sounding serious. "I'm saying if it was a classmate with my height and hair, they got it right." She looked at him for three full seconds. Then, against her will, she felt her mouth twitch. She turned away before it could turn into a smile. "I have to get to class," she said. Four words. Mostly unchanged. "Yeah," Julian replied from behind her. "Me too." She walked on. He didn't follow, which she appreciated.

As she approached the corridor door, her phone buzzed. A message. Unknown number. No, not unknown, Chloe. Elara didn't recall when Chloe had gotten her number. The class list, like Kobe. The same list that was in the group chat where eighty-three people saw her ask about a missing notebook.

The message contained no words, just a photo. Elara opened it. It was a screenshot of her notebook. Not the sketches; something worse. The page with three index cards she had drawn from memory late one night when she couldn't sleep. The small cards she kept above her desk. She had sketched them just as they were, labels clear, in handwriting small but readable.

You are not what they say.

Two semesters.

The answer is always in the work.

And the last one, in her mother's handwriting, which she had copied from memory until her hand knew the curves of each letter. Mila had taken a photo before she returned the notebook.

The message under the photo was from Chloe. Interesting. What exactly do they say about you, Elara? I'd love to know.

The corridor door opened in front of her. Students filled the hallway. Elara tucked her phone into her pocket. She walked to class. She sat in the back row.

She opened her notebook to a clean page, away from the index card sketches, away from the two figures in the classroom, and put her pen to the paper. Her hand was shaking. She pressed it flat against the page until it stopped. Two semesters, she reminded herself. Just two semesters. But somewhere in the group chat, she knew, Chloe's screenshot was loading.