Lena’s POV
My phone disappears into my palm so fast I nearly fumble it. Mrs. Patterson's footsteps stop right beside my desk, her arms crossed and an expression that says she's been watching me ignore her lecture.
"Lena," she says, her voice carrying that particular teacher tone that makes everyone go quiet. "Would you mind telling the class what we were just discussing?"
My mouth opens but nothing comes out. My brain is completely blank, wiped clean of everything except that glowing button and those numbers.
I scan the whiteboard desperately for context clues, but the notes might as well be in a foreign language. "I—I'm sorry, I wasn't—"
"You weren't paying attention," Mrs. Patterson finishes, disappointment cutting deeper than anger. "That's not like you, Lena. Perhaps a visit to Principal Morrison would help you refocus?"
Panic spikes through me, sharp and immediate. "No, please, I'm really sorry. It won't happen again, I promise." My voice comes out smaller than I want it to, almost pleading, and I hate how desperate I sound but I can't stop myself. "I was just—I'm dealing with some college stuff and I got distracted. I'm sorry."
From somewhere behind me, Trent's voice rises in a stage whisper that everyone can hear. "College stuff? More like boyfriend finals, right?"
Laughter ripples through the classroom, that same cruel amusement from the hallway, and I want to disappear into the floor. Other voices join in, mocking and gleeful, feeding off my humiliation like it's entertainment designed specifically for their benefit.
"Enough." Mrs. Patterson's voice cuts through the noise, sharp and final. She looks at me for a long moment, and I can see her weighing whether to follow through on her threat or give me a chance I definitely don't deserve. "Sit. Focus. If I catch you on that phone again, we're having a different conversation. Understood?" I nod quickly, emphatically, anything to make this moment end.
"Understood," I whisper, and she finally turns away, returning to the front of the classroom to resume her lecture about Fitzgerald's use of symbolism.
I sit with my phone burning in my pocket and try to focus on Fitzgerald and symbolism, but all I can think about is that button I didn't click.
The terrifying certainty that if I don't do it soon, the opportunity will disappear. The website will vanish. I'll lose my nerve.
The class drags endlessly. Every minute crawls while Mrs. Patterson discusses themes I can't absorb. My leg bounces under my desk, hands gripping my textbook hard enough to leave marks.
I count the seconds until the bell rings.
Finally, mercifully, it does. I'm shoving books into my bag before the sound finishes, halfway out of my seat before homework gets assigned. I need somewhere private to finish what I started before my rational mind talks me out of it.
I make it maybe ten steps before I collide with something solid and warm. The impact sends my bag flying from my hands, books and papers scattering across the linoleum, and I stumble backward with a startled noise that's half gasp, half curse.
"Hey, careful," a familiar voice says, and I look up to find Noah Mercer steadying himself, his hands already reaching for my fallen bag. "Sorry, didn't see you coming."
"It's fine, I've got it." I drop to my knees faster than he can bend down, gathering my scattered belongings with jerky, graceless movements. My hands are shaking and I can't make them stop, can't make anything about this interaction feel normal when all I want is to get away.
He's trying to help, reaching for my history textbook, but I snatch it up before he can touch it. "Thanks, I'm good, sorry."
I don't wait for his response. I shove everything back into my bag without bothering to organize it and push past him toward the cafeteria, mumbling something that might be an apology or might be nothing at all.
I can feel his confusion behind me, the way the encounter ended is wrong and abrupt, but I can't care about that right now. I can't care about anything except getting to somewhere quiet where I can finish this.
The cafeteria is loud with lunch period chaos, but I bypass the food lines and head for the corner table by the emergency exit, the one nobody sits at because the light flickers.
My hands shake as I pull out my phone and navigate back to the browser tab. The Virgin Exchange homepage loads, and I scroll until I find it.
Create Profile.
The button glows like a beacon, and excitement courses through me, electric and terrifying.
My thumb hovers. I take a breath. I'm about to click when a voice cuts through. "Look at Lena, probably texting her imaginary boyfriend."
Some junior laughs as he passes with his friends, and they join in like it's the funniest joke ever. I drop my phone into my lap immediately, heart hammering, and stare at the table until they're gone.
The moment they disappear, I bring the phone back up. My hands aren't steady but my resolve is, hardened by humiliation and desperation and four years of being invisible except when they need someone to mock.
I tap the button before I can think. The page loads to account creation fields.
Username.
Email.
Password.
Date of birth. Mundane details that will transform me from Lena Hart, high school senior, into someone who has options. Someone who can save herself.
My heart beats twice its normal rate as I fill in each field with mechanical precision. An old email for college applications. A password I'll remember. My fingers move across the screen, and with each completed field reality shifts beneath me. There's no going back. Only forward.
I hit submit.
The screen goes blank for a heartbeat. Then my phone glows with a notification that makes everything real.
DONE.
One word in capitals, confirming I've crossed a threshold I can't uncross. Somewhere in the Virgin Exchange infrastructure, a profile exists with my information, my willingness to trade something I've kept for eighteen years for a future I earned but can't afford.
Reality dawns cold and absolute. I did it. I actually did it. This isn't research or curiosity or a hypothetical anymore. This is real.
And I'm in it now.