“You’re already deep in thought.” He chuckled as he clicked a pen.
If only he knew I’d been thinking deeply about his hair—because that wasn’t embarrassing.
“Where do you think we should start?”
I bit my cheek to yank my thoughts away from the image of him steering a boat into the dock like some pirate in a school uniform. John and I had nothing in common, and I’d do well to keep that in mind. His family was all about the kids, throwing party after party and making coming home from school an event with chocolate chip cookies and goat-milk ice cream sodas.
We’d grown up on different planets. My mom didn’t bake—though she had a ferocious sweet tooth, which was why she didn’t allow the chef to make cookies and cakes and things. They were too much of a temptation for her.
If John and I were so different, why did I keep thinking about him, how he spent his time outside of class, and if he thought about me at all?
“Cookies,” I said distractedly.
“You want to start with the cookies?” He scribbled on a sheet of paper.
“No.” I held out a hand. He scratched the idea off the paper. “I wasn’t talking about electronic cookies.” I smiled. “Although we’re totally doing it if this thing spreads out to a website. I was just thinking that I haven’t had a warm chocolate chip cookie—ever.”
He raised his eyebrows. “Never?”
“Never.” I caught myself wondering if they smelled as good coming out of the oven as he did right now. I leaned closer, breathing in the scent of deep woods and manliness. Realizing what I was doing, I jerked away. “But that’s beside the point. We should start by finding out what makes two people compatible.” I did a quick Google search and spun my computer so we could both see the screen.
He leaned his arms on the desk, his biceps getting bigger for some reason.
Focus! I mentally shouted at myself, pointing my eyes at the first article on the screen. It’s bad enough I have to make this idea work; if I get all foggy brained, we’ll fail completely. I scanned, getting the gist of the article.
John spoke first. “I have no idea how we’re going to quantify ‘respecting the feelings of one another, and spending time together, while also giving each other some individual space, are the important factors that go into making a couple compatible,’” he quoted in a monotone voice. “I mean, it’s a great idea and I totally support all those qualities. But we aren’t trying to set these couples up for a lifetime—it’s just one night.”
“What makes for a fun night?” I asked as casually as I could. The answer—his answer—seemed heavily important all of a sudden.
“I don’t know. Someone who is fun, laughs—there’s a chemistry between you.”
“That’s so vague. We can’t predict who is going to have chemistry.” I continued googling.
“But if you have nothing in common, then you don’t have anything to talk about.”
I shook my head. “Having something in common is not the same as having chemistry.” I glanced around the room to make my point. Emery was in the corner, tucked into her books. “Take Emery over there. She and …” I pointed to the other side of the room, where the lead male thespian was working with Aspen—the daughter of a major Hollywood producer. “Gary are in the same English class and working on the same project. But I can guarantee you that if you put them on a date, they wouldn’t say two words to one another despite the fact that they have so much in common.”
I spied an article that I knew would back me up—it had my dad’s name on the tagline. “Listen to what the experts have to say.” I was gearing up to the debate, my blood pumping. “‘Let’s banish “chemistry,” that black box of a term too often invoked to denote the magic ingredient of a good relationship from the idea of compatibility. Chemistry is an alluring concept, but much too frequently, people use it to absolve themselves of the need to consciously examine their approach to one another. As if The Perfect Date had arrived without the hard work of exploring, knowing, and respecting another human being.’”
“That’s your dad.” He pointed to the byline. “Wow. I bet he’s fun at parties.”
I bristled. My dad might not be Mr. Fun like his dad, who did competitive waterskiing for a career in his twenties, but Dad knew what he was talking about. “Don’t knock his ideas. I think chemistry is a false idea for a good time. You don’t have to have a connection to have a good time.”
“That’s where I think you’re wrong.” He reached across the divide and ran his fingers up my forearm, raising goose bumps along the way. “If you’re not at least a little excited by the person, then why go through all the trouble of getting dressed up?”
My breath came in small bursts, like I’d run ten miles in gym. I licked my lips, my mouth suddenly dry. “I think you’re wrong,” I whispered.
He lifted one eyebrow and traced his finger up my arm again. I pulled away, conscious enough to know he was messing with me. After a moment, he leaned back, and I wondered if I’d done the right thing. Was it so bad having him so close?
“I get what you’re saying—it’s not foolproof, but common interests are, at the least, a place to start.” He clicked his pen and began jotting notes. “We’ll ask about hobbies and extracurriculars—sports, music, movies, that sort of thing. Having something to talk about is better than not having anything.”
I conceded. “There may be a variant, though. Like a loud football player who needs a quieter personality to balance him out. I’ll work that variant into the algorithm.”
He looked up from his sheet, interest in his eyes. “You can do that?”
I nodded. “Yeah.”
He shook his head. “You’re super smart. I wouldn’t have the first clue how to—” He clamped his lips together, as if he’d said more than he should have. He dropped his chin and started writing again. “You’re really smart, Adelle.”
I blushed. It was a good thing his head was down and he didn’t see, because I turned red—so red I could see my color change reflected in the laptop screen. “Thanks,” I whispered. It wasn’t like I didn’t know I was smart, but it was hearing it from him, with all the appreciation of the quality of intelligence and the longing to be like that, too—that made me feel … memorable.
He looked up, and our eyes met for the hundredth time that class. Only this time, there was something else there. Appreciation … Admiration …
The bell rang, breaking the spell. “I have English.” He scrambled to grab his things. The English classes were on the other side of the building, and it was a big building. “I’ll work on ideas. See you next class?” He paused in his leaving, as if he was worried I wouldn’t be there next time, that I’d stand him up.
“Of course.” I smiled—probably bigger than I should, considering the question, but I was all sorts of unexplainably giddy.
A grin split his face. “Good.” He rapped his knuckles on the desk and was off.
I leaned back in my seat, taking in the completely blank screen in front of me. No code. Crap. I had a lot of work ahead of me. I started mapping the algorithm in the back of my mind while I shut the computer and slid it into my backpack. At least Hubert hadn’t left his desk. I didn’t want to explain why I hadn’t touched the keyboard for more than a Google search.
John was definitely distracting, in a good way. His ideas about dating were revelatory for me. It made me think about my parents. They were both analytical minded—so how the heck had they fallen in love?
I paused as a completely new and startling thought came to mind. What if they hadn’t? They were in different fields of study. Mom loved to travel, while Dad was a homebody. I hadn’t seen them kiss or even hug in years.
What if they’d weighed their options and gotten married figuring the other person was their best shot at producing … me?
I didn’t like that one bit. As much as I loved numbers and codes and math equations, I didn’t want to be the product of one.
My stomach churned.
It wasn’t like I could ask my parents.
Or could I?
Chapter Eight
My mind spun all through math, though it wasn’t with derivatives or the slope of a line. Reading my dad’s article with John had opened up a whole new way of thinking when it came to the opposite sex—and dating.
John’s description of an enjoyable evening sounded possible. I mean, if two people were going to have a good time, they had to get along. I had a lot in common with Nicole—we went to the same school, had overlapping class schedules, and grew up in the same neighborhood—but that didn’t mean I wanted to hang out with her.
After class, I made my way to the cafeteria, observing happy couples around me and trying to figure out what made them tick.
Matt and Helena huddled close together, with barely an inch between them. Like two magnets stuck together, as soon as one moved—even to eat—they came right back to holding the other one. Was that chemistry? Love?
Then there was Trey and Tristi, the basketball star and the cheerleader—a power couple if ever there was one. They’d been dating since eighth grade. If they ever broke up, the very fabric of our universe at Billionaire Academy would tear in two. They sat several people apart, and yet their body language said they were together. Stolen looks were met, and eye contact held. They shared secretive smiles. It was like they didn’t have to touch to communicate, but they wanted to. Maybe that was love.
It wasn’t easy to get the whole social picture from the corner table, but I found that there was an undercurrent of flirting happening. I’d been oblivious to it and wanted to smack my forehead. Had everyone but me found a crush on the first day of school?
I made several notes on a spiral notebook on the table as I watched. Not everyone fit into John’s parameters of compatibility, stating that people had to have a lot in common to get along, but most did. Perhaps John was right on that point.
My eyes sought him out a few round tables away. He talked with Caleb, his best friend, while a few other guys chowed down.
Our lunchroom was open with skylights two floors above, allowing what little Seattle sunshine we got to brighten the room. Today, clouds hung heavy and a light mist filled the air outside, making the cafeteria gloomy. Or maybe that was just me, because I realized my dad was right about one thing—developmentally, I was behind.
Sydney plunked her tray on the table. “Oriental salad. Again. I wrote three letters over the summer petitioning for a good balsamic. Did it make a difference? No!” She landed in her chair and glared at her tray.
“How’s Anthony?” I asked to cheer her up. Last year I would have asked how physics class went, but this year her focus had shifted. As far as I knew, her grades were still on par, but her brain was in a whole other world.
A smile broke through her lunchroom disappointments. “He’s good. He has a meeting with Mrs. Meyer to go over his essay. Apparently, she didn’t like his argument that the SATs were ineffective in measuring a person’s IQ.”
I leaned on my elbow. “Oh no, he did not!” I teased.
She nodded, her grin getting wider. “He totally went there. And now he has to spend lunch listening to the benefits of standardized testing.”
“Especially when that testing justifies all this.” I waved my hand at the columns covered in stone, the cobalt-blue accent walls, and the chefs in their toques.
Nicole Preus and her group of followers crossed the cafeteria. I noticed because the three of them moved like a herd of cats, their long limbs gracefully chewing up the distance.
I was not that graceful. Nor did I look that appealing in the school uniform. The parent board said the uniforms were supposed to level the playing field—I wasn’t buying it.
The thing was, I wasn’t the only one who noticed their movement. Half the guys in the cafeteria paused to watch.
A deliberate movement, like crossing the cafeteria, meant something was up. In my head, James Earl Jones narrated their movements as if I was watching NatGeo.
The pack normally resides by the lunchroom stairs, where they can see and be seen by everyone who enters the cafeteria. This territorial behavior stems from the pack mentality that there is safety in numbers, but all positions within the pack must be fought for and won in a popularity contest.
If a lowly freshman comes too close, they can be scared away by a low growl or well-aimed insult.
The male of the species receives privileged treatment, while the female is barely tolerated—or worse.
Let’s watch now as the lead female makes her move …
Nicole’s group wasn’t the only popular girl clique in the school, but they were the ones I seemed to plow into the most often.
I held my breath. Nicole’s trajectory meant she was headed for John’s table.
My heart started to pound—a fight-or-flight reaction that was not expected. I wasn’t sure what I wanted to do: run away and hide in the ladies’ room or jump in front of her to protect John from whatever poison she wanted to spew.
My fear for him wasn’t completely unfounded. In the sixth grade, I’d beaten Nicole at a game in class. Stomped her, really. Public humiliation galore. It wasn’t like I rubbed it in or anything, but she seethed. The next day, my art project was in tatters and she told the teacher she’d seen me do it because I was afraid of getting a bad grade.
It was a mess. My word versus hers. Our parents got involved. I think Mom scared her dad. He’s a higher-up at Expedia and kept gaping at her with an open mouth—like he couldn’t believe he was in the same room with her. I got to redo the assignment, and Nicole was transferred to a different class. I’m not sure Miss Michaels knows who to believe to this day.
I scooted to the end of my seat as Nicole placed her arm across John’s shoulders and leaned down to whisper something in his ear. He pulled his face away from her and leaned as far as he could into Caleb.
I smirked and speared a piece of chicken. Compared to my earlier observations of couples flirting and in love, this was a bomb.
But, like the predator she was, Nicole wasn’t put off by his initial rejection.
I chewed slowly and stared. It was like watching a train wreck; I just couldn’t look away.
“What are you staring at?” asked Sydney.
I pointed with my fork. “A disaster happening.”
She turned in her seat in time to see John scramble to his feet and out of Nicole’s clutches. He put his chair between them. She placed a knee on the chair and leaned forward. He shook his head. She pouted and batted her lashes and then flounced her way back to the table by the stairs.
Unsuccessful in her quest, the lead female retreats, her head high. There will be another day to hunt—another opportunity.
I exchanged a look with Sydney. “What do you think happened?”
Sydney grabbed Jovi’s hand as she walked by. Jovi was the new girl who had been at the table next to John’s group with several of the scholarship kids. She had a pink streak in her hair and a gold ring in her nose. I’d seen her with Emery a lot and hoped she would be the friend Emery had been looking for.
“What was that?” Syd tipped her head toward John’s table.
Jovi rolled her eyes. “Little Miss Something wanted him to ask her to homecoming.”
My eyes grew big. This was a whole new development. “What did he say?”
Jovi lifted a shoulder. “Judging by his reaction, I’d say he said no.” She shouldered her cute black leather backpack and headed off.
“You know, for the daughter of a rock star, she’s pretty down to earth,” said Sydney.
“Yeah,” I answered absently. My mind was still on Nicole and John. “Do people do that? Do they tell someone to ask them out?” It seemed like rigging the system to me.
“They can.”
My world expanded exponentially today. For all of Nicole’s passive-aggressive behavioral tendencies toward girls, she had the direct approach when it came to guys and dating—although it didn’t look like it had paid off f
or her.
I was so deep in my thoughts that when John put his hand on my back, I jumped.
“Whoa! Easy there.” He jerked his hand away.
“Sorry … thinking …” I blinked, trying to reconcile his appearance at our table with the rest of my cafeteria life experiences. His touch had lit a fire on my skin that took up more of my brainpower than I had to give at the moment. I glanced at his hand.
He stuffed his hands in his pockets. “I just wanted to see if you got the email I sent, with the other articles and stuff.”
My phone was deep in my backpack. “I’ll look for it.” I sounded like a moron, dragging the words out longer than necessary and nodding my head over and over again.
Sydney kicked my shin. Stop nodding.
“Great. I’ll see you later.” He touched my back once more before leaving.
“What was that?” Sydney grabbed my arm. Her tone was a mixture of panic and excitement.
The urgency in her eyes was kind of scary. “Nothing. I told you, we’re doing a project together.”
“Yeah, but that was … more.” She watched him walk away.
I scoffed. “No. It was completely lab-partner-ish.” The heat from his touch spread up my neck and across my face. I ducked, hoping my hair hid the high color. I needed to get the focus off of me, and fast. “So, what are you and Anthony doing this weekend? Any plans?” It was Monday and I was reaching, but she allowed the change of subject.
She launched into the debate they had over hiking or bowling. The weather was a factor, and they were both getting updates on their phone. Then they’d text the other person and discuss the low pressure system moving in from the west.
Don't Kiss Your Lab Partner Page 4
