Chemistry Lessons

by Meredith Goldstein

  I don’t know why I was so desperate to see her in person. I knew it would make me feel worse, and that it was reckless, but that hadn’t stopped me. All I wanted was a glimpse. I tried to talk myself out of going at least three times during the half-hour T ride to the BU campus, but my feet kept moving. Step after step, toward a horrible decision.

  For all the signs about campus security, it was easy to enter the building without a student ID, and even easier to make my way into the black-box space without being noticed. The night’s rehearsal appeared to be a lights-off affair, so it was easy to shuffle into the space beneath the bleachers without anyone knowing I was there.

  The view wasn’t great because of the black sheets draped on all sides of me, but there were pockets of light that gave me a sense of what was happening onstage. Two girls read dialogue from pages they held in their hands.

  It wasn’t until they started speaking that I came to terms with where I was and just how low I had sunk in the past two hours. Kyle had blown me off, and now I was hiding under bleachers at a college I didn’t attend so that I could see my competition. Still, I wasn’t going anywhere.

  I kept as motionless as I could to remain undetected. My breath was shallow, and I crossed my arms so that I wouldn’t hit anything and make noise.

  The words sounded familiar, I thought. The women onstage took turns reading their lines, but otherwise it was quiet. This wasn’t Andrea Berger’s script; it was Whit’s. I had read these lines before, with Whit, at my house, after he’d written them.

  “Okay,” a female voice said from offstage.

  Then I saw her, Andrea Berger, walking toward the actresses, her feet in flip-flops that made a popping noise as they smacked the ground beneath her.

  “Sorry to interrupt again,” she said. “I was just thinking, can we try it faster? Almost like you’re finishing each other’s sentences.”

  Her voice was thin in a way that made her sound young. Not nasally, but higher than mine. She looked different in person, with new, perfect bangs that were straight and stopped just short of her eyebrows. She was more beautiful than Genevieve Moran, and a lot more stylish. She wore tight jeans and a pale blue tank top. Her arms were half-marathon, I-go-to-the-campus-gym arms.

  “I agree,” bellowed a voice from above. “Let’s pick up the delivery.”

  I slapped my hand over my mouth. It was Whit’s voice coming from the bleachers. He was here—​and sitting on top of me.

  “I think it needs to be very fast. Like—​line, line, line, line,” he said while clapping along with each word, giving the actresses a cadence.

  The bleachers squeaked and rattled as he descended the steps to the small stage. Then he was in front of me, just there, existing, wearing an outfit I knew—​his Cape Cod T-shirt and those dark jeans—​looking the same as he always had, but also like some stranger because I hadn’t seen him in weeks.

  There was a part of me that couldn’t believe he was alive and animated. He should have been frozen like Han Solo in The Empire Strikes Back since the breakup, stuck in a block of ice waiting to be unthawed for our reconciliation.

  As my brain attempted to process all of it—​where I was, what was happening, how he looked, and what he was wearing—​my body buzzed. It was my cell phone on vibrate in my backpack. It buzzed again and made a soft rattling noise against something in my bag.

  I slid my backpack down my arms in a desperate attempt to find and silence the phone before Whit and Andrea Berger noticed the sound. Whit paused and looked behind him, trying to find the source of the noise.

  When it buzzed again, I grabbed the bag, lunged through the black sheet, and bolted out the back door, hoping no one saw me. I kept running, just in case someone had followed me, until I found the closest Green Line stop.

  I didn’t check the phone until I was safely transferred to the Red Line and was crossing the river back to Cambridge. The buzz had come from Bryan.

  Wanna hang out? the message said. I’m done with rehearsal!

  Please, I responded.

  Do you have food? he wrote back seconds later.

  We can order.

  Ok. Will be there in half hour.

  Later, I confessed to Bryan what I did, and he scolded me, although he admitted to being impressed with my “sit-com high jinks.”

  “There’s no way they would have seen you with stage lights on,” he assured me. “And, for the record, if Whit left you for someone who had used an Arcade Fire lyric as her bio, he’s unworthy.”

  “A lot of people like Arcade Fire,” I said, defeated.

  “A lot of people are stupid,” Bryan responded.

  14

  If we’re going to stay on schedule and finish this by the end of the summer, I need your second sample by the end of the week.

  I stared at Ann’s text, racking my brain to think of a subject that met our needs for the second phase of the experiment. It needed to be someone I didn’t know well, who had no real opinion of me. That was our Phase Two—​seeing whether an indifferent acquaintance would be swayed by my pheromones. It needed to be a stranger, but someone I knew I would see for a test of the serum. I also needed their DNA.

  I scrolled through the address book in my phone, hoping to spot a name that might be a good fit, as my dad, Yael, and I arrived on Boston Common for Bryan’s first performance of All’s Well That Ends Well. My dad was holding a large bouquet of yellow roses; he always bought flowers for Bryan’s opening nights, which only fed Bryan’s love for him.

  I had invited both Kyle and Yael to the play. They still hadn’t met him, and Yael, in particular, was desperate to be introduced to the character at the center of all of my best stories. Kyle had been excited about it too, but that was before the experiment and the aftermath. After we’d all arrived at the lab that morning, he said he’d be skipping the show because he was exhausted.

  “But this is our big outing to Boston,” Yael whined. “All you have to do is lie down on a blanket and watch.”

  “Not even a blanket,” I chimed in. “We rented fancy reclining chairs right up front. And my dad is bringing thermoses of his special Prosecco drink. It’s like two percent Prosecco and ninety-eight percent grape juice, but still, it’s tasty.”

  I felt a hollowness in my chest as I watched Kyle react, his eyes darting away, his head making a slow, horizontal shake as he turned himself around, back to face his computer.

  “You guys go,” he said, his back to us. “We’ll just do something else next week. You know I have no attention span anyway.”

  “So disappointing,” Yael responded with more volume than necessary. It was the kind of too-loud Yael reaction that ordinarily would have had Kyle and me sharing a stifled laugh, but he’d already plugged his ears with his headphones.

  After an almost silent day, Yael and I took the T to the Common and found my dad guarding the reclining lawn chairs in the second row. He looked excited, which made me forget my own misery for the moment. I liked my dad like this, looking genuinely happy, even though he wasn’t in motion, on a rock or on a bike. Seeing him at the play reminded me of how he used to be when he was someone who could sit still for more than fifteen minutes.

  “Where’s Kyle?” my dad asked after noticing that we had arrived one person short.

  “Not feeling well,” I said.

  “I don’t believe that,” Yael said, dropping her bag next to one of the reclining chairs.

  “You don’t?” I asked, clearing my throat

  “He’s been weird and depressed all week,” she answered casually. “I assume he’s freaking out about his adviser meeting. He told me they’ll make a decision soon about whether he can go back to school.”

  “Oh,” I said.

  Maybe none of this was about me.

  “Kirk? Maya?”

  We whipped around when we heard our names. I was about to pepper Yael with questions about Kyle’s behavior and his upcoming meeting, but the familiar voice silenced me. I scanned the face
s in front of me until I found Whit two rows behind us. I took a step back, tripped on my own backpack, and fell into my dad, who steadied me and left his hands on my shoulders for support.

  I should have anticipated that Whit might be there. He’d been a theater person for most of his life, and he was in the audience for Junior Barders events long before I knew him.

  Whit was standing with a bottle of iced tea in his hand. Next to him, Andrea Berger smiled too sweetly at me, like I was a kid who’d fallen off her bike.

  She looked even prettier than she had in the black-box theater. Her face was dewy, like she was in a makeup commercial. She wore a loose, short sundress and somehow managed to have no mosquito bites on her legs, even though it was July.

  “Kirk,” Whit said again, cutting through a row of seated spectators to approach my dad, who let go of me to give him a hug. They went big with their embrace, like they were long-lost relatives. It made my chest tight.

  “Hey, Maya,” Whit said next, his voice soft.

  It was Yael’s tap on my arm that made me realize I hadn’t responded.

  “Yeah,” I said back.

  It wasn’t an appropriate answer, but it was all I could manage. I was still focused on Andrea Berger, who now stared at the ground. I wondered if she had to blow-dry her bangs to get them to look like that, or whether she just woke up that way. They were so straight.

  We probably stood there in silence for only another few seconds, but it felt longer. The three of us just passed awkward facial expressions back and forth until Yael said, in a command, “We should sit. It’s going to start, right?”

  “Yes,” Whit said, relieved. “Well, it was great to see you guys.”

  Before I could respond, he was back with Andrea Berger on a blanket.

  My dad turned to me, panic in his eyes, as Yael took my hand and pulled me down into my seat. “Just sit and relax,” she said.

  My dad sat to my left and handed me two silver water bottles filled with his special juice drink. I passed one to Yael.

  “You’re corrupting a minor,” she whispered to him over my lap.

  “I’m teaching her that alcohol isn’t something you consume in excess for the purposes of getting drunk. This is good wine. Plus, after what just happened, she deserves it.”

  “Fair enough,” she said. “I hope mine is strong.”

  “I want to disappear,” I said in an exhale before taking a sip of the beverage.

  “Don’t be dramatic,” Yael responded.

  “Okay, fine, I want to leave.”

  “Honey, we’re here for Bryan,” my dad said, leaning over and placing his hand on my head. “I know it’s hard, but let’s just focus on him. He’s going to be looking for us in the audience. This is his night.”

  I nodded. “You’re right.”

  I heard a few shhh noises as a group of Junior Barders took the stage wearing frilly, lace-collared costumes. Asher Forman’s dark blue suit was clean and well-tailored, while the other actors, the high-schoolers, looked as though they were in attire they had borrowed from people who were not quite their size.

  Asher had one of the first few lines, but as he opened his mouth, his voice was overtaken by someone in the center of the crowd, a girl who screamed, “Marry me, Asher!” Her outburst was followed by more shhh-ing and laughter.

  He nodded briefly in the direction of the outburst, looking like a real lord with the scarf around his neck, and continued his dialogue with the other actor.

  Then it was time for Kimberly Katz. She looked devastated and had lots of lines.

  I am undone: there is no living, none,

  If Bertram be away. ’Twere all one

  That I should love a bright particular star

  And think to wed it, he is so above me:

  In his bright radiance and collateral light

  Must I be comforted, not in his sphere.

  I didn’t really understand it, but the words not in his sphere rang in my ears. Whit was in Andrea Berger’s sphere, two rows back.

  My dad must have seen my face fall because he handed me a paper towel from his snack bag. I blew my nose louder than I meant to and then whipped around to see whether Whit had noticed. He was obscured by a woman passing through the row to find her seat.

  “Save you, fair queen!”

  I turned to the stage again when I heard Bryan’s voice. His feet were close to the edge, and he was wearing the lightweight tunic he’d tried on for me a week ago. He peered down at me, shifted his eyes to my dad, and then blinked. It was a quick glance, one that would go unnoticed by the audience, but I grinned, knowing that he was now performing for us.

  “What is this play about?” Yael whispered, her voice almost soundless for once. “Is this supposed to be funny?”

  “I don’t know,” I whispered back, remembering Asher’s description. “That’s the problem with this one. It’s not a comedy or a tragedy.”

  The rest of the show had all the staples of an opening-night high school performance, even though the Barders were almost professionals. One actor forgot his lines. There were a few big crashing noises that came from backstage.

  Bryan was incredible. He had grown so much as a performer over four years, and when he shared scenes with Asher Forman, who was more skilled than I thought he’d be, I got chills thinking of all that my friend could accomplish when he did this for real.

  At some point I looked over to see my dad with tears in his eyes. It was like he was watching his own kid.

  I wondered whether Whit wished he was sitting with us. Bryan was our shared person, the friend who brought us together. At the end of the play, when my dad and Yael and I stood up to whistle and applaud, I heard Whit shout “Go, Bryan!” behind us. Maybe he wanted me to hear.

  The last I saw of Whit that night was his back. He ran out before the end of the bows, with the entire cast still onstage, his hand in Andrea Berger’s. It looked as though they were trying to escape Boston Common before the rest of the crowd. It hurt, because I thought he might try to talk to me one more time. It was also odd because Whit once told me never to leave a show until the curtain call was over. He said it was an insult to the cast.

  During the last bow, Bryan blew a kiss toward my dad from the stage, and my dad clapped louder and whistled, always oblivious that Bryan was messing with him.

  Then Asher Forman stepped forward and took two deep bows in front of the group. On his way down for a third, he spotted me, held my gaze for a second, and then clownishly crossed his eyes. I screamed like I was at a rock concert.

  That’s when I realized my second subject was right in front of me.

  15

  I gasped when I saw the inside of Ann’s apartment.

  I expected her to live in a dingy grad-student cave, the kind with crumbling walls and uneven floors, but when I arrived at the address, it was the opposite—​an airy loft in a modern apartment building near Central Square with a nice elevator and fancy restaurants on the bottom floor.

  Her clothes were also a shock. I had never seen Ann in anything but dark denim, black cotton, and leather—​what Kyle and Yael called her Dragon Tattoo attire. But tonight she wore gray leggings and a big baby-blue sweatshirt. She looked younger, like someone I’d be friends with.

  It would be difficult not to tell Kyle and Yael about this, the fact that I’d seen Ann after-hours, and that she owned an item of clothing that was almost pastel.

  “Come in,” Ann said, ushering me into the small area by the door where her leather jacket hung on a hook.

  “Great building,” I said, adding an “Oh, wow!” once I realized that what I thought was a studio was actually the first of three rooms. The place looked like it belonged in a fancy design magazine. “This is gorgeous.”

  “Thank you,” she said softly as she removed a teapot from a burner on her shiny silver stove. “Tea?”

  I nodded, still in awe of the place.

  “My parents are very wealthy,” Ann said without looking up as
she went into the kitchen and poured hot water into mugs. “They’re not great parents, but they make up for it with money.” She paused, her grip tight on the teapot. “You were lucky to have your mother.”

  I could have followed up with some questions, but I was distracted by the beautiful photography prints on the walls, which reminded me of my mom’s taste in art. Our house was filled with abstract photos she found during local studio tours.

  I walked past several framed pieces on my way to the big gray couch.

  “We’ll eat,” Ann said, bringing in two plates with grilled-cheese sandwiches on them. “I’ve been living on grilled cheese these days,” she said. “I hope you’re not lactose intolerant.”

  “I eat everything,” I said. “Also, good news: I have a perfect subject for Phase Two.”

  “Maya,” Ann said, leaning back into the couch with the small plate in her lap, “are you sure you want to continue?”

  She said this in the most maternal voice I’d ever heard her use. In the lab, she was as she’d always been, cold and robotic, like we barely knew each other. But when she opened the door to her apartment, it was as if she’d transformed into someone else.

  “I have some concerns about how this is working out for you,” she said. “I want you to talk about what happened with Kyle before we move on. It seems worth discussing.”

  I didn’t want to talk about that. Fearing that she was about to tell me she wanted to stop the experiment, I tried to distract her.

  “I got my dorm assignment—​my first choice. Simmons Hall.”

  The letter had come that week; not only had I been given my first choice, but I’d snagged a single. Simmons Hall was one of MIT’s stranger buildings. Some people said it resembled a sea sponge, but to me, it looked like it was made of children’s building blocks. I’d wanted to live there ever since I’d seen it when I was a kid.

  My dad and I had celebrated the dorm news by going to Target and buying a bunch of dorm things—​crates for storage, a mostly purple quilt that reminded me of my duvet cover at home, and a beanbag that my dad claimed would be “very cool” for company.