With fifteen minutes to go until nine, I noticed she hadn't replied. Maybe she hadn't seen my message.
The dim lighting set a sultry tone in the room as I sat on the large bed, feeling the vibrations beneath me, an unsettling sensation settling in my stomach.
Finally, I sighed and stood up.
I had sent Angela several messages, but she had only replied at seven with, [I'm heading to the library], and then nothing more.
Bored out of my mind, I stumbled across Ms. Johnson's Instagram. She didn't post much, and her captions were straightforward--just simple, cheerful messages about being happy.
I was a bit taken aback; I had assumed she was around Ada's age, but she looked like she was a student at our school.
The photos of military training, the grand hall during the opening ceremony, and the library's study area--all of it felt all too familiar.
I wasn't sure if that was good or bad. At least I wouldn't have to juggle an inappropriate relationship with an older woman. But if she was a classmate, those rumors that had fizzled out about "the high-achieving male student selling himself" could easily resurface like weeds.