I hated high school. It hated me back. All the cliques and clubs and sports and spirit squads going on around me, without me. People joking and laughing with their friends in the hall. High school flaunted it, threw it in my face, all the fun I wasn’t having. All because of —
No. Not fair. It wasn’t Liam’s fault. This was my choice, my way of dealing.
Fifth period was already in progress, so I slithered in the door, head down, praying Mr. Bruchac was his usual talking head. Lecturing, oblivious to bodies dropping like flies from boredom.
No such luck. He was sitting at his desk, and I had to pass by. He peered over his horn-rims, making sure he caught my eye, then ticked a check by my name on his seating chart.
Bastard.
The one class I would’ve loved to ditch, I couldn’t. Not today. Today we were starting labs.
Bruchac had been warning us for a month, since the winter term began, that we should carefully consider who to pair up with for labs. The rest of the semester we’d be living and breathing chemistry with this person, he said, so we should choose someone we could work with closely.
Closely. Close. The word set off an alarm in my head.
Our final grade was contingent on how well we worked together, our total contribution. The contribution part didn’t scare me, since my share was going to be one hundred percent. Every day I’d taken a head count. There were twenty-three of us. Divided by two. That left a remainder. Me. I’d volunteer to work alone. No problem. It’d make my life so much easier.
Up front Bruchac droned on about how laboratory reports had to be signed by both partners; problem sets and worksheets were to be individual efforts; anyone caught cheating would receive an automatic zero. “Goose egg.” He got up and drew it on the board. “And that, folks, is not the symbol for oxygen.”
He was such a dork. He wore a suit and tie every day, which wouldn’t be too bad if his outfits matched. His jackets were checkered and his shirts striped, like he’d built his wardrobe from the Barnum & Bailey liquidation sale. Not that I was glam girl of the year or anything, but get a clue. All the other male teachers wore jeans, mostly.
“Quizzes can be retaken once,” Bruchac said. “But if you miss a test, it’ll take the promise of your firstborn child to persuade me to let you retake it.”
Oh ha ha. I was carving an infinity sign into my notebook cover when the moment of doom arrived. Bruchac announced, “With a minimum of ruckus, choose your partners and stake your claim to a lab station.”
My stomach lurched. Surreptitiously I glanced around the room. A lot of the people in here I knew. Not well, of course, but I’d grown up in this neighborhood. My only real friends were Alyson and Liam, which was fine. Really. I mean, who had time for a hundred friends? Sometimes I felt as if my brother and I shared one life. His. We were both disembodied hollows.
My eyes landed on a solitary figure in the back who was thundering up the aisle toward me. I swiveled around fast. Please, God, no, I prayed, invoking my invisibility shield. Not Hoyt Doucet. He was evil. Satan incarnate. I despised him so much. He’d been Liam’s worst nightmare ever since the Doucets had moved in down the street a few years ago. Moved into Alyson’s house, as a matter of fact, when the Walshes upscaled. Liam had had to leave for school half an hour early his whole eighth grade year to avoid being ambushed by Hoyt Doucet.
If Hoyt asked me to be his lab partner, I’d regurgitate my scone all over him. It’d be an honor.
There was a tap on my shoulder. “You want to work together?”
I whirled, prepared to blow chunks. But Hoyt charged past me, the stench of sewer gas in his wake. My eyes refocused. The voice had emanated from lips, which smiled down on me, and a head, which tilted, on a neck, which extended from a body. Nothing hollow about it. Rock solid, top to bottom.
“How ’bout it? We could be the dynamic duo. Make that the dynamite duo — blow up the lab. Kaboom!” He grinned.
This was a dream. Who was this guy, and how had he penetrated the shield?
“You want ... me?” I croaked, palming my chest.
Bruchac bellowed, “Could we get this done today, people? You have thirty seconds to find a lab rat and a station.”
I scooted back my chair and stood. Stunned. This guy, this real-living-person-like guy, motioned me to follow him. Which I would have, into a noxious cloud of carbon monoxide probably. He was like, hot.
“Is this one all right?” he asked, indicating an unclaimed sink area by the periodic table chart.
I was paralyzed. It was all I could do to nod.
“I’m Chris,” he said.
“Um, Regan.” My voice sounded strained, weak. Same way I felt.
“I’m sorta new here.” He looped a leg over the lab stool. “Are you, too? You looked the way I felt when Bruchac said we had to pair up.”
I laughed a little. “No, I’m just your basic loser.”
He made a face. “Yeah, right.” His eyes plumbed my depth, causing my internal temperature to soar. Was he checking me out?
God. What if he was? I’d dribbled mocha down my shirt.
A spike of fear lodged in my spine. For some reason, my vocal cords engaged. “You still have,” I looked at my watch, “twelve seconds to change your mind. Find someone else and save your reputation.”
One side of his lip cricked up. “I found you. I’ll take my chances.”
Meltdown. Massive nuclear meltdown. I’d been rehearsing this so often — hiding behind my shield until everyone else had a partner; assuring Bruchac I didn’t mind working alone; making the lie sound convincing — that I was having a hard time believing the scenario was playing out differently. Should I pinch myself? Pinch him?
The silence between us grew, like we didn’t know what to say next, or do. Incompatible species, crossed my mind. We were. He was human. Chris? Chris, did he say? He was turning on and off the water faucet, running his index finger back and forth under the spigot. Flicking me with water. Grinning. Baiting me.
Maybe I could handle this. I mean, it wasn’t like we were dating or anything. Should I act mad? Splash him back?
I didn’t even know how to be with a guy. What did you say?
Was it permissible to remark, “Your hair is gorgeous?” Because it was. Black as ink and silky soft. A shock of it fell across his right eye. The left one seemed to gleam, twinkle, tease me.
Get a grip, Regan. I leaned away from him and opened my spiral. Should I comment on his clothes? I mean, he looked cool. He might take it wrong, though. Think I was being facetious. His clothing wasn’t new, or nice. His jeans had a rip under the pocket and his long-sleeved tee was frayed at the cuffs. His hands were huge, I noticed. And there was grease under his cuticles. Real grease.
I remembered this time Liam was in tenth grade, I think, and he’d gotten a job at Jiffy Lube. It didn’t last long. He’d only done it to appease Dad, that whole macho thing. But Liam said if Dad ever asked about the gunk around his cuticles, he could always claim it was grease.
Pink grease? Right, Liam. Good thing Dad never asked.
As Bruchac began to explain our first assignment, scribbling equations on the board that might as well have been scientific notation in Swahili, Chris seemed enthralled with the way water trickles through a loose fist. This might’ve hypnotized me all day, too, if Bruchac’s voice hadn’t sliced through the stupor. “Before we begin,” he said, “in the top drawer you’ll find a laminated sheet titled, ‘Laboratory Safety Guidelines.’ Remove this now, if you will, and read along with me.”
I pulled on the drawer handle. It stuck. I gave it a good yank. It wouldn’t budge. Chris jimmied it. No use. He bent down to check underneath, while I braced against the cabinet leg with my foot and wrenched on the handle. The drawer flew open, smacking Chris in the forehead. He grunted and reeled backward, losing his balance and thudding to the floor on his butt. His stool teetered and fell on top on him. Everyone around us snarkled with laughter.
I died. As I slid off my
stool to help him up, he scrabbled to his feet. “Are you okay?” I asked.
“I’m cool,” Chris said.
I reached over to brush him off. God, I almost touched him.
“Sorry,” I mumbled, as he righted his stool. “I’m sorry. Are you hurt?”
“I’m fine.” Chris slammed the drawer back into the slot. He seemed mad.
“I’m sorry.”
He resettled on his stool.
“I’m really sorry. Are you okay? I mean it, I’m sorry. I didn’t think —”
“I’m fine, Regan.” He looked at me, hard. “Regan,” he said again and smiled. “I like your name.”
My name. It sounded strange coming from his lips. Sounded . . . nice. I never liked my name. It was a last name, not a girl’s name. He wasn’t mad. Good.
Bruchac was eyeing Chris and me over his glasses. He was mad. Oops. Not missing a beat, Bruchac continued his recitation. He was on safety tip number four by the time my brain caught up. “‘Report all accidents. No accident is too small to report. Five. Know the location of fire exits.’ Mister,” Bruchac scanned his class list, “Garazzo. Can you point out the fire exits?”
Chris flinched beside me. He long-armed the two doors. “Front. Rear,” he crossed his arms, “and over the wings. Emergency exits must remain clear at all times.”
I snorted.
Bruchac sighed wearily. “‘Safety glasses,’” he went on, “‘i.e., splash-proof goggles, must be worn while working with any chemical that could be harmful to the eyes.’” Bruchac paused and glanced up. “This means at all times. Sorry, girls. It’s a state law. Chemistry is not a beauty contest.”
Oh, brother, I thought. Talk about sexist.
Chris muttered, “Pig.”
I was beginning to like this guy. Not Bruchac.
“‘In addition, you must confine long hair while working in the laboratory. Keep it away from flames and machinery.’ Girls.” He widened his eyes at us again. “Got that?”
Hey, come on. There were guys with long hair, too.
My head tingled suddenly. Chris dangled my hair over the Bunsen burner and went, “Pssst.” Made me laugh. Too loud.
Bruchac nailed us with a death look. Chris and I ducked our heads, but couldn’t suppress the snickering.
As Bruchac wandered around, noting lab partners on his chart and passing out the first lab assignment, Chris surveyed the contents of our cabinets. He located the goggles and handed me a pair. “You must wear these at all times,” he mimicked. “It’s a state law, girls. Chemistry is not a beauty contest.” He snapped the elastic band over his head. I copied him and put mine on.
We looked at each other through the clear plastic, and burst out laughing again. Me, because I was hysterical. Him, because I looked like a geek.
Bruchac stalled in front of our station to glare and tick off our names. Apparently, fun was not an element of chemistry. He handed us the lab paper and moved on.
Chris plastered the single sheet against his goggles. “What are we supposed to do first?” he asked. “I can’t read this.”
It was a terrible Xerox, like Bruchac couldn’t splurge on fresh toner for us. I scanned the sheet and read out loud, “‘Inventory the supplies. Familiarize yourselves with the lab equipment. Count the test tubes and pipets —’”
“Who are the Pipettes?” Chris goosenecked the room. “Are they here?”
I went to smack him, but stopped myself in time.
“Is this a good school?” Chris asked suddenly. “I mean, I transferred here to play ball, since Horizon took state last year. Hewitt’s, like, a legend. I’d kill to play for him. What’s the social life like? I hear it’s a big party scene.”
He was asking me? My social life consisted of one word: utter void. Okay, that’s two words, but you get the gist. “Yeah, it’s wild,” I said. According to Aly and Liam, who actually got invited to parties. Aly got invited more often, and dragged Liam along when he’d go. Although, Liam was pretty popular himself. With girls, anyway.
I felt Chris staring at me. What? He was just staring, his dark eyes boring holes into the side of my face. I swiveled my head slowly to face him.
His eyes dropped.
Did he blush? I thought only girls blushed. Liam blushed, but he was a girl.
Chris mumbled, “Sorry. You’re just . . .”
Melting? Freakish?
“Are you two planning your wedding or what?” Bruchac boomed behind us.
We both jumped.
“You might want to get hopping on this assignment before the honeymoon is over.”
I twisted around. Bruchac’s tie drew my attention, since it was dangling in my face. Down the entire length, a hundred little Tweety Birds were embroidered in full color. Please. Why not advertise you’re Looney Tunes?
“You’re Liam O’Neill’s sister, aren’t you?” Bruchac said.
I turned back.
He added, “I just now made the connection.”
Break it, I thought. Every semester I deliberately avoided taking classes taught by the teachers Liam had had, since he was like their wunderkind. Scientists should publish the definitive study that proves genius does not run in families. Ever since I started school, I felt like I had this older sister to live up to. She was smarter, nicer, prettier — or would’ve been if she could dress the part. Liam’s footsteps were way too big for me to follow in. I kept tripping on his high heels.
Bruchac circled our lab station and pointed a finger me; actually waggled it in my face, as if to say, “I’ve got your number now, missy.”
Crap. Why was he the only one teaching Chem I?
Bruchac addressed the room, “I have high expectations of everyone in this class.” In a lowered voice, he added, “Especially you, Ms. O’Neill, now that I know.” He trundled off toward the front.
Chris arched eyebrows at me.
“Don’t ask.”
He said under his breath, “On the A.B.S, I put Bruchac at ten.”
I frowned. “The A.B. what?”
“A.B.S. Asshole Behavior Scale.”
I grinned. He got that right.
We busied ourselves with the assignment. We were deep into counting pipets and test tubes when Chris reached over and wrote at the bottom of our inventory sheet:
Sofa
King
Wee
Todd
Did
I blinked up at him. “Huh?”
“Say the words,” he told me. “Keep repeating them. Let me know what you come up with.” He clinked both sides of a beaker with glass pipets.
I read aloud, “Sofa king wee Todd did.” Again. “Sofa king —”
I got it. I burst into laughter. I couldn’t stop laughing. My eyes began to tear. I was giggling so hard it got Chris going and we sank to the floor to fly under Bruchac’s radar.
The bell saved us. “Turn in your inventory forms and you’re dismissed,” Bruchac said over the rising din.
Chris stood up and began to scratch out his Sofa King message on the inventory form. I snatched the sheet out from under his pencil. Rushing it to the front, I smacked it atop the stack of assignments on Bruchac’s desk and exaggerated a smile. Bruchac smiled back and winked.
Gag.
At the door I turned and sailed a real smile across the room to Chris. He seemed kind of freaked, but I didn’t think he had anything to worry about. Bruchac’d never figure out the joke. And if he did, maybe he’d figure out something else — I wasn’t Liam.
Chapter 5
My head was still in a helium balloon when I floated into the house after school. Wow, I had a lab partner. I flung open the basement door and the lights flickered. Down the stairwell, I called, “Yo.”
Liam had rigged up a silent alarm system years ago — his safeguard against detection, should anyone wander downstairs while he was dressed as Lia Marie. Excuse me — Luna. He’d wired it so the basement lights blinked on and off whenever the door opened. It used to drive Dad crazy. For months h
e searched the electrical system for a short, and never could find the problem. For times when the lights weren’t on, Liam had programmed sound effects to mimic footfalls on the stairs. Creak, creak, creak. It felt like you were tripping off to Transylvania.
Liam was careful. Paranoid, actually. He’d never been caught. At least, not by Mom or Dad.
It seemed like a lot of worry for nothing. The parental units pretty much designated the basement as our private space. We had our bedrooms and shared bathroom down there, plus the big room where we could hang out and watch TV. Mom and Dad rarely ventured downstairs, and when they did they always announced themselves. The way I do automatically. Which, if you think about it, is weird behavior for parents. Aren’t they usually nosing around, invading your space? Aly’s parents were, which is why she hung out here.
As usual, Alyson was in the basement playing video games with Liam. His job — one of them — was a game tester. This company, Games People Play or something stupid like that, downloaded beta versions of all the new games their cyber-heads created, then sicced Liam on them. It was his job to play all the levels, to evaluate them, rate their fun factor, graphics, ease or difficulty of user interaction. Most of what he spent time on was seeing if he could crash the system. And he usually did. It got to where the geeks were asking him to look at the code and fix bugs. The company paid him megabucks to do this. Their kid wizard, they called him.
From the computer speakers mounted overhead, a scream split the air — Aaah! It was Alyson’s voice. My feet hit the bottom steps running. “Are you okay?” I dropped my pack at her side. “What happened?”
She glanced over, briefly. “He vaporized me.” She returned to the monitor, thumb-punching her joystick. “Dammit, Liam. How did you find me?” Aly said.
Liam’s voice echoed out of the speakers: “Ha. Ha. Ha.” A sinister laugh. Spooky.
Luna Page 3
