Chemistry Lessons
Page 22
I went back into the room and closed the door behind me. There were piles everywhere, all my clothes and belongings out of order. I didn’t know where to begin, so I pulled my laptop from my backpack and set it up on the clean wooden desk in the corner of the room. It was a start.
Next I went into the front pocket of my backpack, looking for the check. It was in a folded envelope, but not the kind Tish usually used on payday. This one was larger and was addressed to me in another person’s recognizable handwriting.
The note inside was attached to the check with a bright pink paper clip.
Maya, I read, hearing Ann’s voice, I told Tish I’d send your check, so here it is. Also, that was a really good report—probably the most interesting thing to come out of the Araghi lab in the last year.
I know you said I could have the binder, but are you sure? There are other things in it—other projects—maybe things you’ll want to take a look at, eventually. Maybe there are some things in it we could look at together. Just a thought. Let me know.—A.
I wasn’t sure how to respond—but I knew I would.
The phone buzzed then; the sound of it vibrating against the wooden desk made me jump.
You forgot your toothbrush, the message said. It was my dad.
I’ll buy a new one, I wrote back. Anyway, I should keep one toothbrush at home.
The phone buzzed again.
I’ll put some extra money in your account for toiletries.
Okay, Dad, I wrote back. It’s just a toothbrush.
The phone buzzed a third time and I yelled, “Come on, Dad!” and picked up the phone, prepared to tell him that I couldn’t miss him if he never left me alone.
But it wasn’t him.
Under Kyle’s name was a message: Your report doesn’t explain the serum. There’s just a blank space.
I exhaled all the air I could get out of my body and wrote back as fast as I could with one hand.
I never made the formula. The person who helped me with the project is the only person who knows how to make it, so the blank space is for her. But somehow I doubt she’ll ever write it down. It’s probably best that she keeps it to herself.
There were no little dots on my phone, no response in progress after that. I wondered where he could be.
Kyle had told Tish and Yael that he’d be living off-campus this semester, which meant he could be anywhere. Maybe he was down the street.
“Come on,” I said to the phone, like it was keeping a secret from me.
I needed to distract myself, so I walked out into the hallway and began wandering the dorm. Eventually I came to one room that was open, and I could see inside. Two girls sat on beds, facing each other, talking and laughing
One looked up at me.
“Hey,” she said, her voice booming. “Come in. I’m Roxy.”
“I’m Angela,” the other said.
I pretended I had Bryan by my side.
“I’m Maya, from down the hall.”
“Oh, cool,” Roxy said. “Where are you from, Maya?”
“Down the street. I’m from Cambridge.”
“That’s so cool,” Angela said. “You can tell us where everything is.”
I nodded, pleased that I could.
Roxy said she was from Pittsburgh; Angela’s family had moved from South Korea to Virginia when she was ten.
We talked for an hour, and it was easy. Roxy was an incoming music major, and Angela wanted to do research like me. We made plans for the next day, and I was a little shocked that the whole thing had been so easy.
Then I went back into my room and saw that there was another text.
I have more than a few questions, Kyle’s message said. The first: Did this actually happen?
Yes, I responded.
He wrote back within seconds.
Did it work? You say in your report that it was inconclusive, but . . .
I paused before I wrote back. It was a loaded question.
I don’t know, I answered, because I didn’t. Not really. I mean . . . do you think it worked?
Not on me, he wrote back.
Oh.
That was it for a while. Five minutes turned to fifteen and then twenty.
I folded T-shirts and placed them in drawers, and then put up a poster of the moon that I’d taken from the wall of my bedroom.
I kept checking my phone just to make sure I hadn’t missed anything, but all the new buzzes were from Bryan, who’d sent a video tour of his dorm room and demanded I make one of my own. He’d also taken some video of his roommate sleeping.
“This is Paul,” Bryan narrated in a whisper as poor Paul slept. “Paul is from Ohio.”
By seven thirty, the sun was setting and I was on my last garbage bag of belongings, which was filled with towels. I don’t know why my dad thought I’d need so many towels, but he had packed six, as well as two kitchen dishrags, even though I didn’t have a kitchen.
I couldn’t help myself; I texted my dad.
Why would I need kitchen towels??
Because at some point, you will be studying late at night, and you will knock your soda all over the floor, just like you do in your bedroom at home, he wrote back.
Fair enough, I wrote back.
The second-to-last buzz of the night came in at seven fifty.
Would you like to eat some skewers? it asked.
Right now? I texted back.
It would have been cooler to wait a few minutes, or at least until he responded, but I wasn’t worried about my pride, and I was too afraid he’d change his mind.
Yes, please, I wrote, then sat on the edge of the bed, just waiting.
Dots appeared and then disappeared.
“Come on,” I said to the phone.
Buzz.
Finally.
Whiff walk. Meet me in a half hour, Kyle wrote back.
By the time I made it to Central Square, I probably looked as flushed as I had that night when I was with him—close to him—and on the serum. It wasn’t the exercise; it was the anticipation. It was the fact that maybe he was giving me another chance at something, even if I didn’t know what that something should be.
I’d changed clothes so that I looked as nice as I could. I used a little of the eyeliner Bryan had given me from his theater makeup kit before he left.
I turned the corner on Main Street and saw that Kyle was already there, in front of Cambridge Foods, looking up at the window, his hands in his pockets.
He must have seen me in his peripheral vision, because he said, without turning his head, “Right here. Where I’m standing. It’s the smell pocket tonight.”
I wanted to run, but with my ankle still healing, I had to take my time. When I finally got there, I faced him and lined my feet up with his so that our toes touched.
He smiled and looked down at me, and then I closed my eyes, unable to stop myself from inhaling, the air around us warm and thick and overwhelmingly sweet.
Acknowledgments
I must start by thanking my agent, Katherine Flynn, who encouraged me to write a young adult novel even though I had impostor syndrome. She told me to write what I loved, so I did, and I am grateful. Thank-yous also go to: Elizabeth Bewley, who treated this book like a prize, and to everyone at Houghton Mifflin Harcourt who said they loved Maya and Bryan; Cat Onder, who was sent to me from magical literary lands and made this experience wonderful; Linda Reisman (and Jack), who saw beyond the page; Benielle Sims, who was so dedicated to this love story that she made it seem real; Bryan Barbieri for inspiring Bryan, and to Eileen Barbieri, who raised an incredible son; Gina Favata, a great friend-librarian; Sophie Charles and Fran Forman for love and friendship and meals; Rachel Raczka for creativity, encouragement, and wisdom; Janice Page for making every day better; the entire Boston Globe family, past and present; Trenni Kusnierek and Michele Steele for keeping me on text chains even when I was writing and didn’t respond; Paul Bernon for bear emojis in the morning and so much more; Pete
Thamel and Lauren Iacono for our trio of excellence; Allie Chisholm and her sense of humor; Mark Shanahan, Michelle McGonagle, and Beckett Shanahan for family; Kyle Hubbard for being the best high school boyfriend in the universe; Dave Goldstein, who got excited about this book; the inspiring Maya Leschinsky for letting me borrow her name; Kirk Woundy, who grew up to be a very cool dad; Julian Benbow, knower of good playlist songs; VPC officers Desaray Smith, Elizabeth McQueen, and Laura Heffernan; Sarah Rodman, who is home, wherever she lives; Susanna Fogel, who teaches me to think big; James DiSabatino for expertise; Sarah Grafman, in general; my friend in the labyrinth of life, Sara Faith Alterman; the best teacher, Ale Checka; Danielle Kost and her family; Joanne Douglas Venable and her parents; Jenn Abelson, Paul Faircloth, and their good chemistry; all other Faircloths; Ed Ryan for a decade of Ed-ness; the wonderful Joani Geltman; Liz Arcury for reading stuff; Mark Feeney for editor/friend feedback; Jenny Johnson, who had the courage to pursue her own love story; Jordyn Young and Nola Farrell, who were excellent editors; my Syracuse family; Sera Thornton, who took me to the lab and helped me make science; Deirdre Costello (by way of Fionn Leahy) for more science; Rachel Simon for loving books with me; Julia Shanahan, an incredible writer, who’s been making this story better since she was fourteen; Lamar Giles for insight; Nicole Lamy and her family; Steven Maler of the Commonwealth Shakespeare Company; Jaime Green Roberts, Andrea Detar, Kim Berger Powell, Jennifer Moran Krepp, and all high school friends who stick around; Francie Latour and her excellent kids; Liora Klepper, who read early drafts; Rachel Zarrell, who is number one; the family created by Lorraine and Marty Goldstein (Nancy, Tim, Ariela, Elana, and Sarah Knight; Brad, Julie, Sam, Nate, Shula, Jacob, and Yael Goldstein); Tina Valinsky, Shirley Craig, and the memory of my cousins Rufus and Ollie; all Love Letters readers, who tell me about their breakups and beyond; Jessica Douglas-Perez for the kind of friendship I could write a whole book about; my mom, Leslie Goldstein, for loving good stories—and good music; and my sister, Brette Goldstein, who encourages, listens, makes me laugh, and reminds me to have a good time. I am very lucky.
About the Author
Photo © Boston Globe Media
MEREDITH GOLDSTEIN is an advice columnist and entertainment reporter for the Boston Globe. When she’s not assisting the lovelorn or interviewing celebrities, she writes books, including the memoir Am I Doing It Wrong? and the novel The Singles.
Visit her online at meredithgoldstein.com
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