Owen stood paralyzed as the "Inner Circle" swallowed Amy whole. The hallway, usually a chaotic blur of slamming lockers and shouted jokes, felt unnervingly quiet around him, like the eye of a hurricane.
"Dude."
A hand smacked Owen's shoulder, nearly sending him into a locker. It was Marcus, still holding his half-eaten, slightly dusty bagel. His eyes were dinner plates. "Did... did Amy Vickers just mark her territory on your face? Is this a hidden camera show? Am I going to be on YouTube?"
"I don't know, Marcus," Owen breathed, his hand still hovering over his cheek. "She picked me up. In the convertible."
"The White Ghost?" Marcus whispered, referring to the car's school-wide nickname. "Owen, you're not just dating a girl. You're dating a corporation. You're like... the subsidiary of Amy Inc. now." Marcus leaned in, his voice dropping. "But for real—why? I mean, I love you, man, but you're a guy who literally cried when they demoted Pluto. She's... she's the girl who once asked if the moon was made of gas."
Owen felt a flare of defensiveness. "Maybe she's different when it's just us. She said she liked my 'vibe.' Intellectual but elevated."
Marcus squinted at Owen's Schrödinger's Cat shirt. "Elevated? You're wearing a shirt about a dead-and-not-dead cat, Owen. The only thing 'elevated' here is your heart rate. Be careful. Girls like that... they don't just 'date.' They colonize."
Owen checked his watch. Marcus's warning was still ringing in his ears as the hallway began to thin out. "I have to go, Marcus. I have to change."
"Change? Change what? Your personality?"
"My shirt," Owen muttered, gesturing to the heavy shopping bags Amy had left with him. "She bought me an 'aesthetic.' Apparently, I'm an actor on a press tour now."
Marcus watched him walk away toward the locker rooms, shaking his head. "Godspeed, Major Tom. Hope you don't burn up on re-entry."
Inside the humid, fluorescent-lit gym bathroom, Owen pulled the first garment out of the bag. It was a black, heavyweight cashmere sweater. It felt unnervingly soft—nothing like the scratchy, thrift-store flannels he usually wore. He peeled off his Schrödinger shirt, feeling a pang of betrayal as he folded it and stuffed it into the bottom of his backpack.
He pulled the sweater on. It fit perfectly, hugging his shoulders in a way that made him look broader, older, and entirely unrecognizable to himself. He looked in the cracked mirror. He didn't look like Owen the Star-Gazer. He looked like a character from a moody indie film—exactly what Amy wanted.
The morning classes were a blur of whispered names. Every time he walked into a room, the conversation died. He felt like a rare specimen under a microscope. He spent his fourth-period study hall staring at the clock, the luxury fabric of the sweater making him feel like he was wearing a costume.
At 12:15, Owen arrived at the cafeteria.
The "Cool Table" was located in the center of the room, under a skylight that seemed to purposefully illuminate the chosen few. Amy was already there, flanked by Chloe and Madison. She was laughing at something a guy named Brandon was saying, but the moment she spotted Owen, she went into "performance mode."
"Owen! Over here!" she called out, waving him over with a flourish.
The entire cafeteria went silent. Hundreds of eyes tracked his movement as he navigated the maze of tables. He felt the weight of the black sweater, the heat of the room, and the crushing pressure of the "Inner Circle's" collective gaze.
"Look at you," Amy purred as he reached the table. She stood up and ran her hand down the sleeve of his new sweater, her eyes flicking to her friends with a look of smug triumph. "Didn't I tell you? Totally elevated."
"Hey," Owen said, his voice cracking slightly. He cleared his throat. "Hi, everyone."
Chloe, who was sipping an iced matcha, looked him up and down with the clinical detachment of a high-fashion judge. "It's a start," she said, her voice dripping with artificial sweetness. "Though we might need to do something about the hair. It's a bit... 'I just woke up in an observatory,' isn't it?"
The table erupted in sharp, jagged laughter. Amy joined in, though she kept her hand firmly on Owen's arm.
"Sit," Amy commanded, pulling him into the chair beside her. "We were just talking about the spring formal. It's only a few months away, and we need to start coordinating the theme."
Owen sat, feeling like he'd landed on a planet with ten times the gravity of Earth. He looked at the lunch tray in front of him—a salad that Amy had apparently ordered for him. There wasn't a burger in sight.
"So, Owen," Madison said, leaning forward, her eyes narrowed. "Tell us. What makes an 'Indie Guy' tick? Amy says you're 'deep.' Give us something deep."
Owen felt the sweat bead on his neck. He wanted to talk about the James Webb telescope's latest infrared captures or the way the light from the Andromeda galaxy takes two million years to reach their eyes. He wanted to tell them that they were all literally made of stardust.
But he looked at Amy. She was watching him, her smile tight, her eyes warning him not to embarrass her. She didn't want "deep." She wanted the appearance of deep.
"I... I play bass," Owen said, falling back on the safety net Thomas had suggested. "In a garage band. We're mostly into, you know, lo-fi stuff. Very atmospheric."
"Atmospheric," Brandon mocked, grinning at the soccer players. "Is that code for 'we don't have an amp'?"
Amy laughed again, a little too loud. "Oh, hush, Brandon. It's mysterious. I love a man with a mystery." She leaned in close to Owen, her hair brushing his ear. "See? You're doing great. Just keep it quiet and let the sweater do the talking."
As the lunch period wore on, Owen realized he wasn't part of the conversation; he was an exhibit. Amy would occasionally pull him into the light to show him off, then push him back into the shadows when the talk turned to people he didn't know and parties he hadn't been invited to.
He looked up at the cafeteria skylight. The sun was shining, but all he could think about was how much easier it was to track the stars than it was to track the social cues of the girl sitting next to him.
Across the room, he saw Marcus sitting at their usual table by the trash cans. Marcus raised a single tater tot in a silent salute. Owen felt a hollow ache in his chest. He was at the center of the solar system, but he'd never felt more isolated in his life.