Campus Missed Connections Novels & Stories

Even my old man wouldn’t help. “Take the punishment and learn from your mistakes,” he’d said and hung up. I’d used Roland’s to call him because Caine’s had already been taken away. I ended up using Roland’s phone for everything that year and it sucked. Yet another reason Brambilla was in a better position to run the school. He had a fucking phone. After not finding Chaney at her dorm, I’d wandered campus looking for her for three hours. Megan was nowhere to be found either. I’d been pissed.

CHAPTER FORTY-SIX: My ankle ached and I sat down on the ground giving it a rest. After some minutes of watching staff and firefighters crawl over the school in search of the source, I remembered my phone. I looked to see four back-to-back missed calls, from Jake? Why would he call me in the middle of the day? There were some texts too from Jake, and Evan, and even Nick. << From Jake to Rachel >>: Hey Rach, call me << From Jake to Rachel >>: Please. When you can. Or text

“Good, I’ll call Xavier for you.” Five minutes later, Jessica was in the back of Charles’s stretch limo. She pulled her cell out of her purse. She had it on vibrate. She had missed three phone calls. The caller ID said one was from the school, the second was from a number she didn’t recognize, and the third was from the hospital. “What the hell?” she mumbled as she pressed the button for her voicemail. “Today, eleven fifty-nine a.m.,” the automated voice said.

Using my administration as a special student, I accessed the nearby security cameras to look for Lefiya Rios Challia. It's Saturday today, so supposedly, there should be no one at any of the First, Second, or Third Year Faculty. And indeed, there's no one. …Before that, I should call her first. Well, Principal would've already called or texted her before… I just need to be sure whether she's not accepting the call or her device broke down. 'The person you are trying to reach is currently unavailable; please try again later.' It seems it's the latter one…

"I am doing it anyway." We turned onto the campus path. The path lights made their orange circles on the ground ahead of us and the trees along the east corridor moved in the evening wind and the campus held its end-of-day quiet, students inside now, lights in dorm windows, the ordinary settled feeling of a place that had survived something and did not yet fully know it. My phone buzzed. I took it out. The unknown number. Clara's second line. One message. I heard from the oversight board today. They found two students before me. From five years ago and six years ago. They are reaching out to them tomorrow. A pause. I did not think there were people before me.

"Yes." "I have access to the incoming communications log for the student union systems and some of the wider campus networks," she said. "Not private messages. But external contacts that have gone through official channels, delivery orders, things logged through the campus address system." She was already turning back to her screen. "Give me an hour." I said I would wait. She said I did not have to wait in the room.

She interjected impatiently. My stomach started to get knotted. “No.” “Check it.” Her tone already set my mind and body working. I pulled my phone out, unlocking it with a thumb that didn’t particularly feel steady. Notifications flooded the screen. Mentions, tags, messages. Too many of them. My breath hitched as I tapped on one. It was a link that led me to the campus page. I opened it. At first it didn’t register. A clean and polished headline. One would could easily have assumed it was regular editorial.

Ann: "You both were the only ones with distinction in your department. Don't tell me you don't know they've been recommending you on the school platform?" Me: "Oh, that. Thanks." Ann: "Wait, you're not even on the school forum?" Me: "Yeah, I'm not. Why?" Ann: "Then how do you get messages concerning the school?" Me: "Well, the school is responsible enough to send all vital information like semester start dates, tuition, and all that to our individual emails." Ann: "Oh, I see." Ann: "Actually, Mike and I are not da—" I cut her off.

I put my counter chair under my doorknob, since my landlord still hasn’t fixed the deadbolt. Then I plug in my ancient phone to see if I got any messages. There are two voicemails. “This message is for Billie Black, this is Tricia from the Wesley Dance Scholarship fund. We’re pleased to inform you of your acceptance. Terms will be sent to your email, there will be a housing and equipment stipend. Since your acceptance is so last-minute, there was only one housing spot available, on campus. Welcome to Crescent University. We’ll see you Monday.” My jaw is dropped, and the second voicemail plays.