Feed by Nicole Grotepas Page A

shy.”
    “I am out of here. I have some business with a butcher and a candlestick maker to attend to,” she said sarcastically to her classmate as the room erupted with exclamations of other modern professions.
    “Whatever that’s supposed to mean,” he said, tilting a figurative top-hat at her.
    Marci laughed and hurried down the row and up to the exit before the class quieted down. Once outside, she threw her jacket down on the grass of the quad and lay in the sun, using the bulk of her backpack to shade her slate.
    The two feeds merged into one during the meeting, giving the program more variety of camera angles. Marci guessed each person had about three cameras with them at all times—more for the really popular subjects.
    On the screen, Ramone closed his eyes and apologized for being weird. Marci smiled. She’d seen this kind of thing in the labs of the engineering departments. The boys were confident and arrogant around each other, throwing out sweeping arguments, battling verbally about operating systems, etymology, and robotics. Or whatever. But as soon as a girl was present, they stuttered, hemmed and hawed, and shut their eyes for long periods of time in a move reminiscent of an ostrich burying its head in the sand. It was hilarious, if not endearing.
    Blythe laughed, “So that’s what that was.” Ramone’s eyes were still closed; he didn’t see Blythe’s expression soften. Marci’s heart jumped on his behalf. Blythe said, “I liked it.”
    Ramone’s eyes opened. “What?”
    She said something really promising then. “Horsing around. I mean, maybe we need to focus on that, get you to loosen up just a bit. But I can work with that.” Finally, Marci thought for the hundredth time.
    She wanted this for them. She did. Still, a part of her felt empty about it. It felt like losing something precious.
    Ramone seemed uncomfortable, like he didn’t know how to proceed. Blythe apparently sensed it and proceeded to work on the patent thing.
    Get on with it, Marci thought, bored with the business talk. After an hour of paperwork somehow made less boring by the Editors’ insertion of a muted soundtrack and camera work that highlighted the little telling gestures between them, plus the sparkling, almost overdone effects, Blythe stood as though to dismiss Ramone. She glanced at the elegant silver watch on her wrist and walked around her desk. As she handed Ramone a sheaf of papers—papers! She always laughed when people used real paper; they were explanations about how to produce the actual drawings for the patent, Blythe said—his fingers fumbled and trembled. Blythe let go before he had a firm grip and the stack scattered. He lurched from his chair to a kneeling position. His glasses slipped down his nose as he gathered the papers. Blythe crouched beside him, though she wore a business skirt and it hindered her movement.
    This is it, Marci exulted feeling her pulse flutter in her neck. This is their chance. Romantic comedies—the rules—predicted it in just this sort of scenario. It was inevitable.
    Holding her breath, fists clenched tightly in anticipation, Marci squinted her eyes against the glare of the sun at its zenith, its heat on her scalp. She ignored it even as it started to itch.
    Ramone stood as Blythe drew closer and collected the papers. They both laughed uncomfortably. “Pardon me,” he said, tapping his thigh with the fist of papers and straightening his glasses with the other hand.
    Blythe pushed a strand of hair behind her ear and muttered something about her clumsiness.
    “I can take care of this,” he said in a chivalrous tone.
    “I wouldn’t hear of it. It’s my mess.”
    Ramone knelt again.
    It happened. They both reached for the same paper. Their hands collided. Ramone jerked his back, but Blythe’s fingers closed around it. His eyes flickered to hers. Marci noted how he looked like a frightened animal.
    “Sorry,” Ramone said.
    “Don’t be,” Blythe said.
    Marci