Shutting the laptop lid, I cast an uncertain look at the clunky desktop computers at the other end of the library. Those dinosaurs take forever to load anything, and it looks like they’re all in use right now anyways. Then, I remember that I have Jasper’s laptop with me, and pause. It’ll be annoying to have to share with him when he gets here, but we’ll survive. It’s fine, even if it’s awkward. Yay, I’m saved!
Putting my laptop back in my bag, I reach for Jasper’s fancy MacBook and open it. The main screen prompts me to enter a PIN. I chew on my bottom lip, racking my brain. I could text him and ask, but he’s definitely still at practice and unlikely to respond.
I enter his birthday, January 8th. No luck. I enter mine, July 19th. Nope. Then, I enter our anniversary, February 3rd. His main screen loads. Success. My heart swells a little at the fact that our anniversary is so memorable to him. Sometimes, my boyfriend is surprisingly romantic.
I’m about to click on the web browser when I see an unfamiliar icon, a little chat bubble outlined in bright blue. The text under it reads “ChatNow.” Something lurches in my chest, like a car with the gas pedal pushed too suddenly. Jasper and I have never used this program to chat before. We usually just stick to WhatsApp or text messages. So who is he talking to?
Slow down, Lucy, I tell myself, taking a deep breath. I know he games online sometimes; maybe this is just a program to talk to his friends while they play. There’s no reason to panic. I force myself to stay calm. What kind of girlfriend am I to immediately be suspicious?
But insecurity is whispering in my ear, telling me to investigate further, and it’s hard not to listen to its siren song. Sometimes Jasper seems so handsome and popular that I feel inadequate, like I’m just playing dress-up. I feel like I’m an ugly Barbie trying to be pretty next to the chiseled Ken with his square jaw and six pack abs. Heck, I’m not even Barbie, I feel like I’m a misshapen troll, standing next to the tall and handsome Jasper. It’s doubly bad because whenever I start to feel inadequate, my insecurities kick in, and right now, those insecurities are screaming at me to click on ChatNow and take a look.
What’s the harm? the devil on my shoulder whispers in my ear. It’s just a chat program. It’s not like you’re reading his diary.
So, ignoring the sick feeling of guilt in my stomach, I do.
As soon as I click, Jasper’s contacts come up in a sidebar on the left. I let out a breath. They’re perfectly innocent. One of them is his dad, Brandon, and I smile to myself. Jasper definitely gets his good looks from his father because they’ve got the same raven-black hair and bright blue eyes, as well as identical tall, athletic builds. I’ve even caught myself eyeing Brandon on more than one occasion, to my utter shame. It’s nothing though because someone older and successful like Brandon wouldn’t even notice me. I’m just the chubby girl who happens to be dating his son.
I’m about to close ChatNow, feeling more than a little silly, when suddenly, a message pops onto the screen. “Ready to play?” it reads.
I blink in surprise, then shake my head. Maybe Jasper’s friends are online and hoping to on-line game together? This could be one of those multi-player shoot-em-up videos where you form teams with lots of other people all around the world.
But before I can close the program, another message appears, and along with it, there’s an image of a woman’s busty torso, clad only in a lacy white bra. Her nipples are practically visible through the sheer lace, and she’s got to be at least a full D. Plus, one hand is toying with a strap, as if about to pull it off her shoulder.
I nearly fall out of my chair. These are definitely not Jasper’s friends. I notice that I’m suddenly trembling, and my wide eyes look at the username attached to the photo: “La Petite Jeune Fille.” My rudimentary French supplies the translation: “a young girl.” What the hell? My heart begins to beat insistently in my ears. Who is this, and why is she messaging my boyfriend?
While I seethe, yet another message pops up. This time, I recoil in shock because the image is definitely the same woman, but she’s followed through this time. Her bra is dangling from a fingertip and she’s showing off her two enormous breasts. But even more than that, her gorgeous, immaculately made-up face is visible, along with a perfect, red-lipsticked smile.
My mouth drops open and my eyes practically bug out of my head. This is Celine LaFleur, my nemesis at school. She’s a French exchange student but speaks English fluently, and often gets grades just as good as mine, if not better. Plus, “La Petite Jeune Fille” is everything that I’m not: she’s tall, slender, and achingly lovely, with wavy blonde hair, blue eyes, and elegant bone structure. To top it off, she’s perfectly sweet and nice. As a result, I’m horrifically jealous of her, even if I don’t show it. After all, we don’t know each other that well, so there’s no opportunity for us to interact.