Chapter 3 - THE PROJECT NONE OF US REMEMBERED JOINING
I remembered Bellamy Pulse only after Adrian showed me the old login screen.
Blue background.
White bell icon.
WELCOME TO CAMPUS. MAKE BELLAMY YOURS.
It had been built into orientation week four years earlier.
Students used it for dining reminders.
Club fairs.
Maps.
Dorm notices.
Surveys.
I had downloaded it because everybody did.
Then forgot it existed.
“You were enrolled in the pilot.”
Adrian said.
We were sitting in a conference room inside Kingsley Hall.
Security had allowed us to leave after statements.
Vanessa and I received temporary mutual no-contact instructions pending a conduct review, which made sitting six feet apart in the same investigative interview awkward but apparently allowable while staff were present.
Brooke sat between us.
Physically and emotionally.
“No.”
I said.
“I never signed up for research.”
Adrian turned his laptop around.
There was my name.
CARTER, RACHEL — Participant ID 4C-118
Consent status:
ACCEPTED
I stared.
“I don't remember this.”
“You accepted a digital consent page during orientation.”
“That doesn't mean I read it.”
“No.”
He did not rescue me from that.
Good.
Vanessa leaned forward.
“Was I in it?”
Adrian scrolled.
COLE, VANESSA — 4C-121
Brooke:
MILLER, BROOKE — 4C-126
Brooke whispered:
“Jesus.”
The original study was called:
Bellamy Pulse Student Belonging Pilot.
Official purpose:
Measure whether personalized reminders improved student participation, retention and sense of belonging.
Students agreed to receive randomized campus prompts.
Event invitations.
Study reminders.
Suggestions to join activities.
Some messages were intentionally vague to measure response.
Nothing in the consent form said:
We may tell you another student hates you and watch what happens.
Vanessa crossed her arms.
“So what does that have to do with us fighting four years later?”
Adrian hesitated.
That made me trust him less.
“What aren't you saying?”
He looked at me.
“The reason I asked to interview you today is that the board received an anonymous data package last week.”
“What data?”
“Archived Pulse logs.”
Brooke leaned forward.
“From the old pilot?”
“Yes.”
“Why is the board investigating a dead app?”
“Because some of the logs do not match the approved research protocol.”
Vanessa gave a short laugh.
“That's university language for somebody did something stupid.”
Adrian did not disagree.
He opened a spreadsheet.
Hundreds of message IDs.
Most meaningless.
Event prompts.
Library reminders.
Food hall surveys.
Then a separate tab.
PAIRING TESTS
My stomach tightened.
“What is that?”
“I don't know yet.”
That answer surprised me.
“You're the investigator.”
“I've had the material six days.”
“Then why call me first?”
Adrian looked at me.
“Because your student ID appears in one of the highest escalation sequences.”
Vanessa moved.
“Her?”
“Yours too.”
Brooke's face lost color.
“And mine?”
“Yes.”
There.
Adrian highlighted three lines.
4C-118.
4C-121.
4C-126.
Same date.
Freshman year.
October 14.
I remembered that week.
Everybody remembered that week.
Vanessa and I had nearly gotten written up after screaming at each other outside Jefferson Residence Hall.
Brooke had published a story two days later implying Vanessa used her family connections to avoid discipline.
Vanessa's father threatened the paper with a lawyer.
The article was corrected.
Our hatred had lasted ever since.
Adrian clicked another field.
Sequence designation: C-3 / HIGH-FRICTION TRIAD
Nobody spoke.
Brooke finally said:
“High-friction what?”
Adrian looked at the screen.
“I don't know who created the label.”
Vanessa turned toward me.
“Did you tell them we hated each other?”
“We didn't know each other yet.”
She stopped.
That was true.
Freshman October had been the beginning.
Before that, I knew Vanessa only as the girl who chaired orientation council and seemed to have a last name on two buildings.
Brooke knew both of us only through student media.
So how had an app classified us as a high-friction triad before our first major fight?
Adrian scrolled to the first logged prompt.
Recipient:
Vanessa.
Message text hidden behind a restricted field.
But underneath was a case-reference number.
Vanessa stared.
“No.”
“What?”
I asked.
She stood.
Adrian said:
“Ms. Cole?”
Vanessa pointed at the number.
“That's my freshman conduct complaint.”
I looked at her.
“What complaint?”
She turned toward me.
May you like
Her expression had changed completely.
“The one I filed against you.”
