On Monday I try not to read too much into my anticipation for chemistry. Surely it’s not Mrs. P. making me crave class. It’s Brittany.
She walks into class late.
“Hey,” I say to her.
“Hey,” she mumbles back. No smile, no bright eyes. Something is definitely bothering her.
“Okay, class,” Mrs. P. says. “Get out your pencils. Let’s see how well you’ve been studying.”
While I silently curse Mrs. P. for not having a lab day with experiments so we can talk, I glance over at my partner. She looks totally unprepared. Feeling protective even though I have no right, I raise my hand.
“I’m afraid to call on you, Alex,” Mrs. P. says, staring down at me.
“It’s a small question.”
“Go ahead. Make it quick.”
“This is an open book test, right?”
The teacher glares at me over her glasses. “No, Alex, this is not an open book test. And if you didn’t study, you’re going to get yourself a big fat F. Understand?”
I drop my books with a loud thud onto the floor in response.
After Mrs. P. passes out the test, I read the first question. The density of Al (aluminum) is 2.7 grams per millimeter. What volume will 10.5 grams of Al (aluminum) occupy?
After I work out my answer, I look over at Brittany. She’s staring blankly at the test.
Catching me watching her, she sneers. “What?”
“Nothin’. Nada.”
“Then stop staring at me.”
Mrs. P. is looking right at us. Taking a deep breath to calm myself, I go back to working on the test. Does Brittany have to do that, get all hot-and-cold without warning? What sets her off?
Out of the corner of my eye, I see my chem partner grab the bathroom pass off the hook by the classroom door. Problem is, the bathroom pass can’t help you escape life. It’s still there when you come out. Believe me, I’ve tried it. Problems and crap don’t go away by hiding in the can.
Back in class, Brittany lays her head on the lab table as she scribbles answers. One glance and I know she’s not into it, the girl is doing a half-ass job. And when Mrs. P. orders everyone to hand in their papers, my chem partner has a blank stare on her face.
“If it makes you feel any better,” I say quietly so only Brittany can hear, “I flunked health class in eighth grade for puttin’ a lit cigarette in the dummy’s mouth.”
Without looking up she says, “Good for you.”
Music pipes through the speaker, signaling the end of class. I watch Brittany’s golden hair bouncing less than usual as she shuffles out of class, surprisingly not accompanied by her boyfriend. I wonder if she thinks everything is supposed to land in her lap, even good grades.
I have to work for everything I have. Nothing lands in my lap.
“Hiya, Alex.” Carmen is standing in front of my locker. Okay, so some things do land in my lap.
“¿Que pasa?”
My ex-girlfriend leans toward me, the deep V of her shirt extra low-cut. “A bunch of us are going to hang out at the beach after school. Wanna come?”
“I’ve got to work,” I tell her. “Maybe I’ll catch up with ya later.”
I think about two weekends ago. After going to Brittany’s house only to be talked down to by her mother, something inside me snapped.
Getting drunk to drown my busted ego was a dumb idea. I wanted to be with Brittany, to hang out with her not only to study but to find out what’s underneath those blond streaks. My chem partner blew me off. Carmen didn’t. The memory is a hazy one, but I remember Carmen in the lake, wrapping her body around me. And sitting on top of me by the fire as we smoked something much stronger than a Marlboro. In my inebriated and stoned ego-busted state, any girl would have felt good to me.
Carmen was there, willing, and I owe her an apology because even if she was offering, I shouldn’t have nibbled at the bait. I’ll have to catch up with her and explain my dumbass behavior.
After school, there’s a crowd around my motorcycle. Shit, if anything happened to Julio I swear I’m going to kick someone’s ass. I don’t have to push through the crowd because a path opens up when I get close.
All eyes are on me as I witness the vandalism to my motorcycle. They’re expecting me to be in a rage. After all, who would dare attach a pink tricycle horn to the handlebars and tape sparkling streamers from the ends of the handles? Nobody can get away with this shit.
Except Brittany.
I scan the area, but she’s not around.
“I didn’t do it,” Lucky is quick to say.
Everyone else murmurs they didn’t do it, either.
Then murmurs of who it could be race through the crowd. “Colin Adams, Greg Hanson . . .” I’m not listening, because I know full well who the culprit is. It’s my chem partner, the one who ignored me today.
I yank off the streamers with a jerk of my hand, then unscrew the pink rubber horn. Pink. I wonder if it was hers once upon a time.
“Get out of my way,” I tell the crowd. They disperse pretty quick, thinking my rage level is high and they don’t want to be caught in the crossfire. Sometimes playing the part of a badass does have its advantages. The truth? I’ll use the pink horn and streamers as an excuse to talk to Brittany again.
After everyone is out of sight, I walk to the side of the football field. The pom squad is there, practicing as usual.
“Looking for someone?”
I turn around to Darlene Boehm, one of Brittany’s friends. “Is Brittany around?” I ask.
“Nope.”
“Know where she is?”
Alex Fuentes asking the whereabouts of Brittany Ellis? I expect her to say it’s none of my business. Or that I should leave her alone.
Instead her friend says, “She went home.”
Murmuring a “thanks,” I turn and walk back to Julio while I dial my cousin’s number.
“Enrique’s Auto Body.”
“It’s Alex. I’m gonna be late for work today.”
“You get another detention?”
“No, nothin’ like that.”
“Well, make sure you work on the Lexus for Chuy. I told him he could pick it up at seven and you know how Chuy is when you don’t come through for him.”
“No problem,” I tell him as I think of Chuy’s role in the Blood. He’s the guy you never want to mess with, the guy who was born without an empathy chip in his brain. If someone is disloyal, Chuy is responsible for either making them loyal or making sure they never narc. By any means possible, even if they’re screaming for their life. “I’ll be there.”
Knocking on the Ellises’ door ten minutes later with the pink horn and streamers in hand, I try to put on the I-am-a-cool-motherfucker pose.
When Brittany opens the door wearing a baggy T-shirt and shorts, I’m floored.
Her pale blue eyes open wide. “Alex, what are you doing here?”
I hold out the horn and streamers.
She snatches them from my hand. “I can’t believe you came here because of some prank.”
“We’ve got some things to discuss. Besides pranks.”
She swallows nervous ly. “I’m not feeling great, okay? Let’s just talk at school.” She tries to close the door.
Shit, I can’t believe I’m going to do this like a stalker guy in the movies. I push open the door. ¡Qué mierda!
“Alex, don’t.”
“Let me in. For a minute. Please.”
She shakes her head, those angelic curls swaying back and forth across her face. “My parents don’t like when I have people over.”
“Are they home?”
“No.” She sighs, then opens the door hesitantly.
I step inside. The house is even bigger than it looks from the outside. The walls are painted bright white, reminding me of a hospital. I swear dust wouldn’t have the nerve to land on their floors or counters. The two-story foyer boasts a staircase that rivals the one I saw in The Sound of Music, which we were forced to watch in junior high, and the floor is as shiny as water.
Brittany was right. I don’t belong here. It doesn’t matter, because even if I don’t belong in this place, she’s here and I want to be where she is.
“Well, what did you want to talk about?” she asks.
I wish her long, lean legs weren’t sticking out from her shorts. They’re a distraction. I look away from them, desperate to keep my wits. So what if she has sexy legs? So what if she has eyes as clear as glass marbles? So what if she can take a prank like a man and give it right back?
Who am I kidding? I have no reason for being here other than the fact that I want to be near her. Screw the bet.
I want to know how to make this girl laugh. I want to know what makes her cry. I want to know what it feels like to have her look at me as if I’m her knight in shining armor.
“Bwiee!” a distant voice echoes through the house, breaking the silence.
“Wait here,” Brittany orders, then hurries down a hallway to the right. “I’ll be right back.”
I’m not about to stand here like a jackass in the foyer. I follow her, knowing I’m about to get a glimpse into her private world.
