by Holly Ryan
To pass the time, I pretend I’m paying attention, even going so far as to hold my pen in place over a blank piece of paper in preparation for note-taking the second that bell rings. I’ve never been one to give class any more of my time than necessary, being what you’d call a C student, but when it starts, I’ll need a distraction. Because my heart is racing at her presence out of the corner of my eye.
“I didn’t hear from you.”
I fall back to reality at the sound of a female’s voice. It’s the girl who gave me her number. She’s just arrived.
“I assume that means you got it done?” She sets her things down next to me. Now she’s the one invading my space; I move over a little to give her huge bag more room. “I’m not a nagger, but I need this.”
“I got it done,” I say. I hand over the paper.
She pulls it out of my hand. “Thank you, God.”
Dramatic, much? I smirk to myself, and Avery catches my eyes again. I can’t tell what she might be thinking. She’s obviously interested in me, but I think I pick up a hint of disgust, too. I smile at her, and I think I see a brief flash of humor run across her face, too.
I’m satisfied. I’ll take that smile. Our first shared, mutually-positive moment, however brief and potentially meaningless. It’s better than the hostility I’ve gotten up to now.
The bell rings.
“Good morning,” Mr. Miller shouts, his deep voice climbing over the sound of the now-full classroom. He sets his chalk down with a clink and claps his hands together. Then he leans both his hands on his desk as surveys the crowd. “How is everyone today?”
No one responds, and he doesn’t say anything, either. His head keeps moving, slowly, from one side of the room to the other. I get it – he’s counting us. Or at least he’s counting our groups.
He stops scanning and lifts himself. “You can stay in your groups, but everyone needs to move their tables so we can do some lab work. We’ll be using the data you’ve collaborated on and apply it to some real-world experimenting today.” He returns to the chalkboard, leaving us to our nerves. “Fun, right?” he says to the wall.
We move our tables around the equipment we’ll be using. I do most of the legwork, not bothering to wait for help. The other boy in our group is a tall, gangly guy named Cameron, who seems nice enough but talks even less than I do. Which is to say, he says nothing at all. He tries to help by lifting the corners farthest from where I’m standing; I appreciate the gesture, but he’s weak, and has trouble with it, and in the end he only makes it harder to do this quickly. The table settled at last, Mr. Miller hands each of our groups a page.
“These instructions are very important,” he says. “You need to follow them correctly, and incorporate the data you’ve collected. If you’ve done everything correctly, this should turn out okay.”
Well, great.
We take turns reading through the paper, then get to work.
We have to move closer together. By some stroke of luck, or fate – or maybe it was some hidden intention on my part – Avery and I end up with our chairs side by side on the same side of the lab table. The two other members of our group are across from us, the most anxious of which is the girl. She’s actually standing up as she focuses on pouring her liquids perfectly, on after the other, pausing every once in a while to glance again at the instructions.
“Can I borrow that?” I say to the girl, pointing across the table.
She reluctantly pulls her attention away from what she’s doing to hand me a test tube. I get to work, also in silence, hating the awkward nothingness that is passing between Avery and me.
I’m working, but I’m also watching her. She’s leaning close to me, trying to read the instructions, which are facing me, and she’s also glancing at the array of papers laid out in front of her. She’s clutching her own test tube in one hand.
I pass her the instructions.
It’s immediately obvious the action was unexpected. She takes the paper gingerly, as though trying to move as invisibly as possible, all the while refusing me the pleasure of her eyes again; instead, as an avoidance, she looks at my passing hand.
To get this done we need to share the pouring of chemicals. Our group members across from us get theirs done first, and each item is gradually passed around.
Avery needs the vial I’ve just finished using. I set it down to my left, close to her but not close enough for her to be comfortable. She’s going to have to reach into my personal space this time.
She does, quickly grabbing the vial and yanking it back to her side. She pours the ingredient into the tube she’s been working on, and then BOOM.
Her test tube explodes.
The sound is so sudden and so loud that the whole room seems to shake around us.
She jumps.
I jump. My hands still instinctively shot up to my ears in response to the loudness that’s so close.
The bossy girl across the table jumps.
Cameron barely flinches.
The explosion was short lived. When the sound passes, Avery finally gasps. She cups her hand over her mouth and her eyes shift around the room. Everyone’s looking at us. At her, more specifically. And I feel each and every one of those piercing eyes for her.
I can examine the situation at last. The liquids that were once in her test tubes have since overflowed and splattered with the explosion; not onto any of us, but all over the table. My papers are sprinkled with wet marks of God only knows what kind of chemicals, and in some areas the words are smudged, but for the most part they’re fine. I pick a few up and try to wipe them against a dry area of the table.
I can only hope Mr. Miller wouldn’t have been stupid enough to trust us with toxic chemicals. Either that, or that he’d be quick enough to lunge over here, flailing his arms and shooing us away from danger. That’s what I’m counting on right now. And shifting my eyes to where he’s standing, he’s not making a move. I take that to be a good sign.
Snickering and gasps soon fills the room as everyone assesses the situation and laughs off their nerves. Mr. Miller is standing still at the front of the classroom, clipboard and pencil in hands. He’s glaring at Avery. It’s only a matter of time before he heads over here to play the blame game.
I don’t laugh until I see her start to laugh. I wouldn’t dare. She snickers with the group, her shoulders shrugging up and down.
“Sorry,” she says to no one in particular.
As predicted, Mr. Miller approaches. His clipboard now hangs by his side, and for once he’s forgotten all things curriculum-related.
So what’s it going to be, Avery?
Yelling?
Detention?
Detention with a teacher like Mr. Miller would have to be the dullest moment of her life. I shudder at the thought. I hope he lets her off easy.
I shift away to avoid the brunt of the coming onslaught.
“Avery Dylan,” Mr. Miller says.
Oh, God. She got the full name. Everyone knows a full name from a teacher is the equivalent of a parent pulling out the middle name. Okay, maybe a little worse. I’ve only heard it happen twice in my entire high school career, and never before from a teacher with a reputation like Mr. Miller.
“Avery Dylan,” he says again.
The rest of the class pretends to resume their work. I do the same.
Mr. Miller holds out his free hand. “Let me see your work.”
She hands him the wet paper.
He looks it over, then says, “I see.” He motions with his finger. “Come over to my desk, please.”
She slinks off the stool, following Mr. Miller, leaving all her items where they are. Her arms are crossed at the elbows, covering her abdomen in protection, and before she turned from me I could have sworn I thought I saw her still trying to stifle a laugh.
I’m glad she’s taking this better. Up until now I’d always thought of her as so delicate. I guess there’s a side of her I haven’t seen yet.
She talks to th
e teacher for a while, standing next to his desk. She never uncrosses her arms. She briefly leans over his desk when he points to something on her paper and nods in recognition.
I assume we should keep working, so I go to pour my own liquid and almost jump again in anticipation. Then I exhale. This time, no explosion.
She’s beside me again, released from the grip of the punishment-dealer.
I lean over. “Was it bad?”
She spins her head at me, a look of shock on her face that I’m even daring to speak to her again, or that we’ve never spoken before. The way she’s looking at me now, you’d think she just witnessed a miracle.
She closes her jaw. “It wasn’t bad.”
The girl across from us lifts her eyes at our burgeoning conversation.
“So what did you do?” I continue. We’re both looking ahead now, partly out of a newfound fear of Mr. Miller and partly out of a newfound respect for what we’re doing. Mr. Miller is still at his desk, though, and apart from passing us a thick roll of brown paper towels he hasn’t said anything else about what happened. Still, I know the man fairly well by this point in the school year – and with the way the room is finally peaceful and quiet now, if we raise our voices I’m likely to face his wrath.
“Something wrong, obviously,” she whispers.
I laugh again. “Obviously.”
She stops what she’s doing and looks at me again. “Why are you talking to me?” she says.
My smile disappears.
“It’s just that…” she goes on. “We don’t exactly move in the same circles.”
“So I can’t talk to you?”
She shrugs. “Most people wouldn’t.”
I look at her and hold her eyes. I’m not going to allow her to look away again, Mr. Miller be damned. “Why?”
She’s still whispering, but now she’s acting like she doesn’t want to answer at all. Maybe I should just leave her alone. Remember your gut, Ethan. What did it tell you at the hospital? You have no business with her, that’s what.
“Don’t you know?” she says.
“Know what?”
“Well,” she says as works with her hands, “it’s not like it’s a secret.”
It’s time to go. Avery dumps her vials into the sink in a hurry.
“Ask around,” she says.
Then she’s gone.
And my heart can finally calm at her absence and begin to yearn for her return.
Ethan
“So did you find out what you did wrong?”
Avery’s walking through the hallway to her next class, and I’ve caught up to her. She’s fast for what she’s been through.
And in true Avery fashion, she doesn’t answer me. Can she make it any more obvious that she doesn’t like me?
“Mr. Miller almost got you,” I continue. “I could have sworn I was about to see you cry. I’m not sure I’m prepared for that.” Jokes. All jokes.
This time, her answer is immediate. “No.”
I look at her. “No?”
“As in, no, you weren’t about to see me cry,” she says. “It’s one of those things.”
“One of what things?”
“One of those things about having been through hell. Everything else feels minor in comparison.”
“Ah. I see.”
“And I didn’t figure out what I did wrong. I don’t think Mr. Miller cared much. All he did was double-check everything for me so I could try again, and then gave me a lecture.” She eyes me. “What would you have done?”
I look at her. “What do you mean?”
“If I’d cried.”
I turn so I’m facing her and walking backwards. “Well, if you cried, I’d have to make you feel better.”
“And how exactly would you do that? You don’t even know me. You don’t what I like. So how could you make me feel better?”
“This is true. But I could try.” I tip my head and pierce me eyes. “Do you doubt me?”
I think I see a smile play at the corner of her lips. And then it’s gone. She sure does a good job of hiding it.
“Look,” she says. “The only reason I’m even talking to you is because of how you helped me the other day.” She eyes me back. “And for your information, I absolutely doubt you.”
“Fair enough.”
She slides her eyes toward me and clutches her textbook tighter to her chest. “Well, why shouldn’t I? Why should I have even the smallest bit of faith in you?”
I shrug. “I guess you shouldn’t. Not yet.”
The bell sounds. She stops, as though not sure what to do.
I smile. “Can I see you around?”
“That’s a weird question. You’re going to see me around.”
“I know. But I want to know if it’s okay that I see you around.”
She hesitates.
There’s that smile again. “You can,” she says. Then her face turns serious. “It’s my turns to ask you something.”
“Okay. Shoot.”
She looks down. “What is all this?”
“All this?”
“Yeah. I mean … are you playing games with me?”
I’m not playing games. I’m taking my time because a girl like her deserves it. Because I’ve opened up to Avery for the first time – shown her a real, genuine piece of who I am – and it feels like the most well-aligned thing in the world. It’s like being near her was meant to be, like I was put in her path for a reason, and me in hers; like I can finally make the positive difference in someone’s life that was denied me all of mine.
“I don’t do games,” I answer.
Part Two
The Rise
Avery
What the heck is he doing standing in front of my locker? I really have to get in there, or else I’d turn back right this minute.
I mean, look at him. Standing there all sly, slumped like he doesn’t have a care in the world. Why isn’t he hitting up another girl?
What he pulled yesterday was cute. And charming. But today’s a new day, and I haven’t got time for that stuff. And no matter what he thinks, all his seductive looks and flirty antics, intentional or not, are not going to bring me down to his level. Not again. I’ve gotten a good night’s rest, and I’m stronger than I was before. Every day I’m getting stronger.
But he’s still there. He’s wearing his usual plain jeans and sexy T-shirt, holding a handful of textbooks in one arm. His skin looks extra tanned today; either that, or I just never noticed that part of him before. One of his legs is lifted against the locker next to mine.
I try to ignore him.
I pretend I didn’t totally just register the Greek god-like status of his body as I pass.
Despite getting the cold shoulder, he doesn’t leave. Instead, he lets his leg down and leans against the locker neighboring mine, resting his weight on one shoulder.
“So I asked around,” he says.
I work the dial on my lock. I’m not going to look at him. I refuse to buy into this act of his, this act that I’m sure many other girls have fallen for. “What?” I say, still twirling my fingers around the dial.
He leans in. “I asked around about you.”
I swing my locker door toward his face. I pull a book down from the top shelf and stuff it against the crook of my arm. “And what did you hear?”
I finally look at him and those eyes catch me, those dark, bright, hazel eyes, and he gives me a crooked smile. Damn, I shouldn’t have done that.
“All good things,” he says. His shoulder is plastered to that locker, and I suddenly have a feeling I’m not going to get rid of him that easily. Not now, and not tomorrow.
I shut my locker. I slam it harder than I mean to and he jumps.
“Sorry,” I say. But that’s good. Maybe he’ll take the violence as a hint. “And I don’t believe it when you say it was all good things.” I shift my things around in my arms and adjust my purse strap further up onto my shoulder. In case he missed the violence thing, I�
�m trying to make myself appear super busy.
“Why’s that so hard to believe?” he asks. There’s no joking in his eyes this time, no trace of cockiness. He’s actually interested in what I have to say. That’s a surprise.
I give him a shrug. That’s about all he’s getting from me. “The way people have treated me around here, like I’m some kind of freak, says otherwise. That doesn’t happen with rumors of all good things.”
He unfolds his arms. “People treat you like that?”
“Some people. It comes with the territory.”
He pauses. “Want me to beat them up for you? I will. I’ll risk Mr. Miller’ detention.”
“Please don’t,” I joke back. Then I get a little serious, because this is true: “They don’t know any better.”
He raises his brows. “You think so?”
“Well, yeah. They mustn’t, or else they wouldn’t do it, now would they?”
He knits his brow. “Did your accident make you this wise, too?”
I’m about to correct him – it wasn’t an accident, and we don’t call it an accident. It was an attack, plain and simple. But I let it slide. He’s bold. I can’t believe that after hearing what happened to me, all the nitty gritty details (which, I’m guessing he did,) he’s brave enough to say the word accident to my face. Most people would be afraid of saying something like that to me, like they think I’ll break in half.
I lift my shoulders. “I guess so.” I’m about ready to walk away, but he catches me. I look down at where his hand has gripped my upper arm, then look back up to his face. He’s wearing a kind and concerned expression, his mouth hanging ever so slightly open in surprise, almost as though that split-second possibility of me actually leaving frightened him.
Just as quickly, he snaps out of it. He releases my arm. My skin is left subtly warm from his touch.
“I have to get to my next class,” I tell him awkwardly.
“I, uh – I heard James Connor is having a party tonight.”
I swallow. What does he think he’s doing?
He rubs the back of his neck. “Is there any way you’d … want to go with me?”
