Around me, the chattering fades, and guys look up from their screens to gawk at her, their mouths hanging open. The girl sips the iced Venti Starbucks in her hand and doesn’t look at any of them as she walks over and settles into the seat behind me.

I want to talk to her, but she is just so cool. I glance over my shoulder, reaching up to scratch my head so that I can half hide behind my arm. She’s leaning back in her chair, her legs propped up on the back of the empty seat next to me. She is wearing light-washed ripped jeans and Gucci sneakers and looks like she could be on the cover of a magazine, or at the top of my Instagram Discover, an influencer with thousands of likes, more than she fits in the fashion wasteland that is the Computer Science building. She unfolds her computer on her lap, the back of which features a sticker for Instafriend and another that says Code-Blooded Bitch in swirling pink writing. I want so badly to be her friend. I want so badly to be her.

My stomach tightens and I turn back to my own screen. I have no idea what I could possibly say to this girl that might impress her. I don’t know why she’d want be friends with me.

Our professor shuffles in, clicks on the PowerPoint and starts class at the hour on the dot. And just like that, my anxiety fades and is replaced with dull sadness. I lost my chance.

I type along in OneNote as the professor makes his way through an introduction to machine learning. I raise my hand for every question—I did all the reading assigned over the weekend and this lesson is straight from those pages—but am called on only once. He does pick me to make sure the attendance sheet makes it all around the room, though.

He ends a few minutes early, and I am still saving my notes when someone taps my shoulder.

I turn around, and the smell of vanilla tickles my nose. Cool Girl smiles at me. “Hey,” she says.

“Hi!” My voice is too high.

“You a freshman?”

“Uh, yeah.” I tuck a piece of hair behind my ear.

“Thought so. At this point I know most of the girls in the program. All twelve of them.” She rolls her eyes. “I’m Yaz. Sophomore.”

“Sara. No h.” Right after I say it, I regret it. Like she cares.

But she seems amused. “Yeah, this is not how you spell my name either.” She holds up the Starbucks cup that says Jazz in Sharpie.

I laugh. Not sure what else to say but not wanting this conversation to end, I point to the sticker on her laptop. “Did you work there?” It might be awkward to ask, but I can’t help but wonder. I am addicted to that damn app.