Mr. Hubert stopped at our blob. “Welcome to class, John.”
“Thanks, Mr. Hubert. I’m really glad to be here.”
“Mr. Hubert,” I jumped in, “is there any way I can, you know, do this project on my own? I plan to enter the TACS award, and I don’t think they allow collaborations.” I smiled up at him, hoping he would see that I wasn’t trying to ditch John—even though I was totally trying to shake off the newb.
Mr. Hubert picked up his tie and laid it down over his buttons, smoothing it flat with his palm. “Actually, they do. As of this year. It’s one of the reasons the board decided to make this change.”
“But …” I swallowed my impatience. “Just because they allow a partnership doesn’t mean we should have to work in partners. I mean …” I scooted forward on my seat. “I’ve been working ideas for this contest since eighth grade. It wouldn’t be fair for someone to get credit for that.” I could feel John watching me, and my face warmed. I glanced at him. “Not that you’re trying to steal my ideas or anything. I know you just got here and had no idea about this either.”
I had a stark feeling that I was embarrassing him, like I had when I kicked him out of my seat like a bully. Geez. If I’d known that class was going to take a turn down the crazy track of life, I’d have sat in the back with Emery.
“You’re right. It’s not fair.” Mr. Hubert tapped the papers on the edge of my desk to line up the edges.
John slouched in his chair. I sent him an I’m sorry look. I was. I really was. And because of my request, he’d have to do twice the work without a partner.
Mr. Hubert set a paper down on each of our desks and walked away. “So you’ll just have to come up with an original idea between the two of you.”
I dropped my chin to my chest as swear words ran through my head, complete with ampersands and exclamation points. Mom said that even if I didn’t say the actual words out loud, she could read them on my face, so I ducked.
When I looked up again, John was already working on his assignment.
“So …” My lead-in was so lame.
He didn’t glance up from the screen, but his hands stilled.
“I guess we’re partners.” I tried to sound perky—like I hadn’t just stabbed him in the back and left his body to the vultures.
“Sorry about that,” he muttered.
I watched him for a moment. I tended to put people into categories or programs in my head. Like Chloe Davenport. She thrived on humiliating people around her. It made her tick. Emery was shy and needed a good friend. Sydney, my best friend, ran on chocolate ice cream and Diet Dr. Pepper, and she was a good listener. Loved that girl.
So the box I’d put John in several years ago was “kid who didn’t take school seriously.” The lines on his forehead contradicted that program and left me feeling like I’d put the wrong at the end of the line.
“It’s fine,” I answered. Not really the rousing bit of comfort he was looking for, but I couldn't exactly say that life was perfect at the moment, nor that I was happy to be stuck with him as a partner. The reason it was fine was that I had planned on doing all the work anyway. Therefore, he could flake out on me and I would be fine with it. “We should probably come up with an idea sooner rather than later.”
He shook his head. “I’m going to be lucky to get this done before the bell. Can we meet up later?”
I glanced over the assignment. I’d be done with time to spare. “Okay. Later, then.”
“I’ll PM you.” He nodded once and went back to his screen.
I got down to business. Thirty seconds into coding, I heard a tap-tap-tap-pause-tap-tap. Blinking out of my zone, I looked around for the source of the noise. There were lots of small annoyances. Alexander was zipping up his backpack. Alicia popped her gum.
The noise that had gotten to me was John bouncing his foot. He must have had a rock stuck in the treads, because it hit the wood floor and echoed through my brain. Every. Time.
Ugh! My favorite class, my ticket into the world of programming, my place of Zen had been infiltrated. I refocused, unable to get into the zone again, and barely finished before the bell.
John Herrington III was ruining everything.
Chapter Three
“He will be the literal death of me.” I bit off the head of a gummy worm. I kept a supply of gummy things in my top drawer for just such occasions. Like having a cute guy show up in my class, try to steal my seat, and my award-winning project ideas.
Sydney, my best friend ever since I learned to type, selected a red-and-white worm from the bag. “Working with him will not kill you. He’s too cute for that.”
I ignored her comment. Was John cute? Yes. Yes, he was. That was not the problem. “To top it off, if I want to enter the TACS award, I have to share the credit with him.” I flung my folder of ideas onto my new raspberry-colored bedspread.
Mom had this thing about me coming back to school with old sheets. Actually, it was probably more of an issue of me bringing home blankets that had been in the dorm. She had them donated to the homeless shelter in Seattle. They didn’t even get packed in the limo. Lupita, our head maid, arrived on the last day of school and packaged everything that Mom specified was not allowed in the house.
Her germ fear was weird, because our school dorms were immaculate. One of the perks was daily maid service. Another was the excellent chef in the mess hall. While the school had a cafeteria, breakfast and dinner were served in a bistro-style dining room for those of us who lived in the dorms. We could eat anytime between 5 a.m. and 8 p.m.
I glared at the gummy worms, debating finishing off the bag or saving room for the braised beef and hot rolls on the menu tonight.
Sydney flopped onto her stomach on my bed. “So don’t use your brilliant ideas for class. Do your own project on the side.”
I moaned and dropped my forehead to the desk with a thunk. “It doesn’t work like that. The project has to be sponsored by a teacher from your school. Mr. Hubert only endorses projects he’s overseen in class. It’s so not fair. Everything he’s ever said to me, every comment on a project, has pushed me in this direction. I had it in the bag.” I rooted blindly for the gummy worms. I needed some serious sugar therapy. My dad would be mortified to know I was “feeding my feelings.”
Just one more reason I was happy to be in the dorms instead of living at home. It was better this way. Mom and Dad didn’t have to plan their lives around my schedule, and I was out from under the microscope Dr. Dad kept on me when I was home.
“Okay, I’m out of ideas.” She rolled over on her back and stared up at the ceiling.
I sat up and stared at my laptop. “I’m not even in the mood to code.”
“Wow—you are depressed.” She grabbed my fluffy pillow and hugged it to her chest. “Do you remember when you had a crush on John?”
I felt a flash of annoyance that she would even bring that up, and it spurred me to grab the pillow and yank it away from her. “I was in the second grade.”
She grinned. “Yeah, but you liked him for the whole year. You used to stalk his mom’s blog.”
I groaned. “I can’t believe I did that.” Still did it. The woman was a master with craft paper and rubber cement—a set of skills I would never possess.
“And you made me look at all those pictures too.” She wrinkled her forehead. “Do you think his mom still has that blog?”
I rolled my eyes—more at myself for knowing the answer to that question than at her for asking it. “She still has it, and she makes so much money. It’s plastered with ads.” I typed the name PartyMom into my search bar and soon had pictures of John’s back-to-school party on the screen.
Sydney rolled off the bed and onto her feet so she could get a better look. “Wow.”
I scrolled slowly down, seeing John’s friends and kids who had mega-Insta accounts dancing in his backyard under a white tent.
“It’s like a whole other world,” she whispered.
I glanced at
her. Sydney was a chemist. Her mom used to joke that she could recite the formula for baby formula in her sleep before she was one. She was here on scholarship. Apparently, rich people value their children going to school with geniuses and are willing to pay their tuition. Mom was big on the theory that you raise up to the level of the people around you. It was easy for her to feel that way, considering the fact that she was usually the one people wanted to raise up to be like.
“Syd, you’re going to make the world a better place. So what if you don’t party like it’s 1999?” That was still a thing, wasn’t it?
She shoved my shoulder. “It’s not just the parties. Don’t you want to, you know, have a boyfriend?”
I widened my eyes. “Do you?”
She twirled her hair around her finger. “Maybe.”
I sat in shock for a beat longer than I should have. Her head came up, and she implored me with a look not to make fun of her. I wasn’t going to. I was just surprised. As far as I knew, test tubes and math equations were the only things that turned her head. “Who?”
“Anthony James,” she whispered.
“Really?” Anthony wasn’t anything special. He was on the swim team like John and had average grades and kind of a big nose. “You like him?”
She nodded quickly. “He’s just … We have gym together and he jogged the track with me today. We kept pace and talked about school and stuff. I don’t know. He seems nice.” She lifted a shoulder.
I jumped up to hug her. “That’s lit!” My best friend was going to get a boyfriend. A part of me ached. I knew what a boy could do to besties. But I wouldn’t let him come between us. I could share Sydney, especially if he treated her right. If not, he’d better watch out. “Tell me what he said.” I dragged her over to sit next to me, feeling like I’d stepped into an alternate universe—one I wasn’t ready to enter. I mean, Sydney and I usually discussed homework and formulas and algorithms, not boys.
First John landed on my radar—as a lab partner and nothing else. But now, Sydney flapped her hands and gushed about Anthony’s blue eyes.
What was this world coming to? I wasn’t sure I was ready for this. I had a plan, and guys weren’t part of it. I had this sinking feeling that I’d missed a variable and my formula for the perfect sophomore year was wrong.
John didn’t PM me before bed, and my heart sank. It looked like even with a partner, I was on my own.
Chapter Four
I passed John in the hall the next day, and he stopped me to set up a meeting in the library after classes were over. He didn’t have much time because his mom was blogging a fall dinner picnic or something, but we needed to have an idea solidified before next class.
The library is the one room of the school that looked like it matched the outside. The building was made of red brick with white pillars and black shutters. It was supposed to look like an Ivy League college campus. I guess with all the old trees, the huge lawn out front, and the circular drive, it did.
But once you stepped inside, everything was modern. The classrooms were electronic wonders. The colors were bright, the furniture innovative, and light was a major design theme. Every inch was meant to remind us of our bright futures.
Except the library. The heavy wooden doors sported a plaque that read: The Beast’s Library. Donated by Belle Moreau.
Every time I entered, I couldn’t help but hear the strained notes of a harpsichord.
Lined with dark wooden bookshelves, the room felt like walking into a warm blanket. There were low light lamps on each desk that ran up the center aisle.
A few other study spots were tucked into alcoves, and bench seats with fluffy cushions resided in each arched window. Red brocade curtains could be drawn if you wanted to read in private—or meet up with your boyfriend for a make-out session like Tracy and Hunter were doing right now. Even with the curtains closed, I knew it was them because they’d left their backpacks on the floor next to the alcove. You couldn’t miss Hunter’s. It had a basketball keychain on it and was autographed by some NBA player who had horrible handwriting.
I picked a table on the other end of the room. Yesterday, I would have been totally down on the two of them for meeting up like that. But after talking with Sydney and opening a door to the idea of boyfriends, I was kind of wondering how it all happened. Like, did they plan to meet up and just jump into kissing, or had they talked first …? Were there rules to making out?
John dropped his backpack on the table, and his laptop inside made a big thump. I cringed. In our house, you treated your laptop like it was one boot-up away from crashing at all times.
I jerked my eyes off the backpacks coupled together outside the curtain and looked up at him. My breath hitched. His striped tie was loose, and his hair looked like he’d been running his fingers through it. I cocked my head. I wonder what it would feel like to run my fingers through it.
“You okay?” he asked.
I sat up tall. I didn’t need to think about running fingers through hair, his or anyone else's. “Great,” I chirped. My heart beat fast and made concentrating difficult.
He settled into the seat across from me and grinned. “I’ve got a great idea.”
“Oh?” I took a deep breath to calm myself so I could hear him over my blood pumping loudly in my ears.
“Prom-dot-Com.” He flipped open a folder to where he’d doodled a graphic of a heart around the words Prom.com.
I stared at it for a minute. “I don’t get it.”
“We create an app that matches up couples for school dances.”
Oh, shoot me now. “You’re kidding.”
He shook his head. “It’s perfect. One of the parameters for the assignment was that it has to help teens in some way. What’s harder than finding a date for homecoming?”
“Calculus?” I offered.
He chuckled. “That’s funny.”
I wasn’t trying to be funny. “Did you know that the winner for the TACS award last year designed an app that helped ADHD kids with mindfulness? It’s been used in schools and homes for six months and is making a major difference in their behavior in school as well as their ability to focus on homework. It’s changing lives.”
He pinched his chin as he thought.
“That’s what I’m up against for the award, and you want me to walk in there with a dating app?”
He slumped over. “What did you have in mind?”
“Well …” I rubbed my lips together. “Depression in teens is on the rise. I want to create an app that provides games and activities that increase serotonin levels and boost moods.” I wasn’t going to use one of the ideas I’d come up with over the summer, but we needed a win. I needed a win. And this app was the perfect combination of both my parents’ lives’ work. It was groundbreaking.
“Explain how that would look.”
I retrieved my summer notebook out of my backpack and flipped open to the page. “Teens wear a watch that monitors things like blood pressure and heart rate—”
“Like a Fitbit?”
“Yes, but better, because it also tracks what they ate and how often for those struggling with eating disorders. They can take pics of their plates to send to their parents or a mental health professional who is monitoring their progress.” I glanced up from the page to gauge his reaction and found his brow lowered and his jaw set. “You don’t like it,” I stated.
“It’s one more way for parents to control their kids.”
“No!” I rubbed my palms together. “It’s a tool to help kids who struggle.”
“Trust me, any kid struggling with depression isn’t going to want a tattletale strapped to his wrist.”
“I—” I hadn’t thought of that, and I didn’t like that it was the first thing he thought of either. “It’s important. It could change lives.”
He shook his head. “It’s invasive.”
“I think the word you’re looking for is innovative.” This was my best idea. I’d researched not only teen mental health but
the past five winners of the TACS award, and they all focused on big issues—hard issues. Things that made a difference.
“We’re supposed to help people our age.” He leaned forward, his green eyes blazing. “Not tether them like a dog on a leash.”
“Oh my gosh. You have no vision at all.” My heart picked up speed—only this time, instead of being a pleasant sprint, it hammered in anger. “I can’t believe Hubert is making us work together.”
“I’m not thrilled about it either,” he ground out.
“Thanks.” I leaned back and folded my arms.
He calmed down a little and drummed his fingers on the table. “Why don’t we get an outsider’s opinion?” he offered.
“Who do you want to ask—the couple making out behind curtain number one?” I was all sorts of snarky at the moment. How did he not see the brilliance in my app?
He snorted. “Hardly. They already have a date to homecoming.” He snapped his fingers and then tore the page with the logo out of his notebook and crushed it into a ball. “Wrong name. Prom is the big dance, but there are several dances throughout the year. If we want lasting followers and users, we need to work for every dance.” He found a pencil and began sketching.
Curious, I leaned over the desk. Our hair touched, and I scooted back. He smelled like expensive cologne. I had no idea what kind. Sydney could tell. She had a gift like that. She could also tell me what was in it and break it down to the chemical level. But I wasn’t interested in that, because something strange was going on in my stomach. It felt light and … fluttery. I leaned back to breathe non-John-laced oxygen.
“DanceDate” appeared in bubble letters with musical notes and a pair of high-heeled shoes.
“You’re good.” I could admit that he had some artistic talent.
“Thanks.”
“Your mom draws like that.” I’d seen her handiwork on her blog.
He frowned. “Yeah.” Flipping the notebook around, he showed me the design. His green eyes were full of hope.
Don't Kiss Your Lab Partner Page 2
