by Tifani Clark
CHAPTER 2
“Jamie Peters?” Mr. Hanover called.
“Here,” I yelled.
It was dissection day in our freshman biology class—the last period of the day. I have a strong stomach and seeing the insides of something that used to be alive doesn’t bother me. Camille, on the other hand, refuses to watch horror movies and turns pale at the sight of gore and blood. One time when we were in second grade she fell off a swing and skinned her knee. When she saw that she was bleeding, she totally passed out. I thought she’d died. It was kind of traumatic for a seven-year-old.
Camille skipped lunch that day in anticipation of the upcoming science experiment. For some reason she didn’t want a full stomach hindering her best efforts at a frog autopsy. We had all but one class together, and since we were pretty much inseparable, it was only natural that we were lab partners in our science class. It’s not a secret that I’m a better student than she. I try to help her out when I can, but that day I wasn’t in the mood to do all the work on a project.
We both donned the unflattering smocks—stained with the remains of countless science experiments gone awry—and goggles that would undoubtedly leave circular impressions around our eyes for the rest of the day. Needless to say, we didn’t need to worry we’d be solicited by any modeling agencies in those outfits. Camille hung back as I opened the canister containing the frog. The smell of formaldehyde engulfed us instantaneously and I could feel the little hairs in my nose burn.
“Jamie, I think maybe this would be easier if I take notes while you do the cutting. It’ll still be a team effort,” Camille pleaded.
“No way, Cam. You’ll never get over your squeamishness if I always jump in to rescue you. I did all the cutting when we dissected grasshoppers and owl pellets. Owl pellets aren’t even alive. It’s your turn to cut today,” I responded, growing more annoyed by the minute. Call it PMS or lack of sleep, but for some reason I wanted to lash out at her and everyone else that day.
“Maybe owl pellets aren’t alive, but the stuff mushed up inside them used to be alive. Who wants to touch stuff that some bird puked up?” Camille whined as she pulled latex gloves over her purple-nailed fingers.
She gingerly inched the tray closer and asked for a scalpel. I obliged, feeling like a nurse in an operating room.
“Just cut it. I’m sure that once you dive in it will be easier than you think,” I reassured.
She took a deep breath, gave me one last imploring look, and plunged the knife into the belly of her victim. Frog juice spurted onto the tray and into the air. Camille screamed, threw her hands over her mouth, and ran from the classroom. Everyone in the room laughed. I tried to ignore all of them in defense of Cam, but inside I struggled to hold back my own giggles. What a drama queen.
I sighed and finished mutilating the frog, taking notes as I went. Five minutes after Camille made her spectacular exit from the room, Mr. Hanover approached my lab table.
“Ms. Peters, will you go check on Ms. Spencer? I’m sure she’s gone into the ladies room or I’d do it myself. Let me know if she’s okay, will you?” he asked as he pushed his thick-rimmed glasses back over the bridge of his nose.
I felt guilty. I knew how much Camille had been dreading the day, but in my bad attitude I made her do it anyway. I went in search of her, heading straight for the nearest girls’ bathroom. I stopped in surprise when I stepped through the door. The blond Aphrodite that I’d literally run into at the bus stop earlier that day was perched on top of the counter by the sink, swinging her long slender legs. I’d never seen the girl before in my life and now I’d seen her twice in one day. Aphrodite looked at me sympathetically and pointed toward a graffiti-covered stall. I stepped to the door and tapped on it softly.
“Cam? Are you okay? Do you need anything?” I whispered.
I’m not sure what I planned to do to help. Maybe hold her hair out of the toilet? I hadn’t yet added mothering skills to my repertoire. The stall door opened slowly and Camille stepped out, wiping her mouth with a wad of toilet paper and looking as pale as a ghost. I felt bad. Aphrodite must have left while I was trying to talk to Camille through the door because she was nowhere to be found when I turned around. I hadn’t even heard the door shut. Weird. Camille shuffled over to a sink and splashed cold water on her face. I offered her a drink from a water bottle I’d grabbed out of my backpack before I left the classroom. She took a sip and attempted to hand it back.
“That’s okay.” I shuddered and waved it away. “You keep it.”
We hurried back to the classroom and finished cleaning up our lab table just as the final bell of the day rang. Noisy students ready to begin their weekend jammed the halls as we hurried to our lockers to retrieve our homework and jackets—blissfully unaware that our lives were about to be turned upside down.
