I shrug my left shoulder, and think of Ryan. The way he shrugs his shoulder like it’s a signature move. I straighten my back, click images, and search again for Amy London. Halfway down the page, I find a poorly pixelated photo of a nine-year-old Amy London standing with a giant 54 hanging around her neck. Amy London’s hair is long and pulled back in two side braids. She looks so different I’m not sure if it’s even her.

“Give me your phone.” Adam hands it over, and I hold up Katie’s text next to the screen to see if the pictures are of the same person.

Adam peers at the comparison. “Braids are hideous, but it’s her. Not exactly Swarm material.”

I click on the image, and it takes me to someone’s personal blog. Adam and I both lean in to examine the picture. Next to her, Amy’s well-dressed father stands with his hand resting on her shoulder. The headline of the post reads “My Niece: Cook County Spelling Bee Finalist.”

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” Adam says under his breath.

I skim the rest of the post by Amy’s aunt, who spends most of the time talking about her brother, Daniel London, being a proud parent and remarking that Amy’s spelling bee trophy, for being among the top ten, is among the family’s high accomplishments.

The tone of the post feels pathetic. She didn’t even win. “This is weird, right?”

Adam squints like it might clarify everything. “Google the dad.”

The search produces over three hundred thousand hits including images. I click on one of the links and begin reading.

“An architect?” I’m surprised. By the way he is dressed and posing for each of his pictures, I’d anticipated something more lucrative and smarmy.

Adam points to a list of awards on Daniel London’s company page. “The kind that wants everyone to know how important he is.”

“Did you turn in your passes to the front desk?”

A library assistant with heavily dyed dark hair and red lipstick peers down at us. I scan the library for the other library assistant, the one I first talked to when we came in. I want her to wave her friend off, but she’s nowhere to be seen. I can’t remember her name to even reference her. Just like this library assistant, they tend to blend in with every other nameless adult wandering the hallways of our schools. It would be so helpful if they wore nametags like waitresses at a diner.

“Mr. Mater gave us permission to be here.” I try to hold her eye contact so she doesn’t look at my screen and find our search has nothing to do with science.

“How long did he anticipate you’d be here?” Her voice is thick with skepticism.