Oliver had saved her a seat next to his in Chem lab. He handed Schuyler her goggles, and she put on her lead apron. “What are we doing today?” she asked, fitting the goggles over her nose. Oliver was already wearing his. The whole class looked like a team of welders. Across the room, Mimi loudly complained that the goggles gave her an ugly red mark on her nose, but no one paid much attention. “Making candy again?” Schuyler asked. Oliver checked the Bunsen burner and turned it on slowly, so it emitted a small, red flame. “Yup.” In the past, Duchesne had had one of the most inventive and charismatic science teachers on the subject. In fact, Chem lab was so popular among the students that both juniors and sophomores were allowed to take it as an elective. But Mr. Anthony, the boyish, enthusiastic, and recent Yale grad, had been discharged from the school over winter break due to an unfortunate affair with one of his students, who had gotten pregnant. Mr. Anthony was fired, and the student expelled. This was not Degrassi Junior High, after all. This was Duchesne.
Which was all well and good, except that with Mr. Anthony and his advanced, yet exciting, lab experiments gone (last semester they had turned copper into gold, or at least gold plate), the students were stuck with boring old Mr. Korgan, whose syllabus included a series of experiments each duller than the next. Calculating density. Determining the composition of water. Identifying a solution as acid, base, or neutral. Yaawwwn. Mr. Korgan was so slow that for two weeks the class was involved in creating a chemical reaction in hydrogen and fructose—otherwise known as turning sugar and water into candy.
Schuyler was ready to place a beaker filled with water above the burner, when Mr. Korgan announced they were going to do something different that day.
“I would like you to—cough—switch lab partners every week. The class has grown very disruptive of late and so I must—cough—separate you from your friends. Will the partner on the left please step down to the next table, and so on, and we will keep this rotation every week.”
Oliver and Schuyler looked pained. “See you after class,” Oliver called as Schuyler collected her things and moved over to the next table, where Kingsley Martin was standing.
If anything, the large plastic goggles on his face only served to enhance his beauty by highlighting how nothing could put a damper on his good looks—not even bug-eyed plastic shades. Kingsley could wear polyester pants and a Groucho mustache and still look hot. Schuyler hadn’t seen much of Kingsley since he arrived, although she had heard all the raves about him, and had witnessed his arrogant performance at the cortile that morning.
“Shame about your grandfather,” he said as a greeting.
Schuyler tried not to show her shock. But then, Kingsley was a Blue Blood. His parents were probably high-ranking members of the coven.
“He’ll be all right,” she said tersely, waiting for the water in the beaker to boil.
“Oh, I’m sure. I just wish I were there to see Lawrence and Charles battle it out. Just like the old days.”
“Uh-huh.” Schuyler nodded, not wanting to get into the conversation. She hadn’t even told Oliver about Lawrence’s return. She felt superstitious about it. What if The Committee just sent him back to Italy posthaste? Then there wouldn’t even be anything to tell.
“Tell me, are you still hung up on that boy?”
“Excuse me?” Schuyler asked, holding a test tube.
“Nothing.” Kingsley shrugged innocently. “If that’s how you want to play it,” he said teasingly.
When Kingsley wasn’t looking, Schuyler studied his profile. He had been at the Four Hundred Ball, she’d heard.
Could he—could he have been the boy behind the mask she had kissed at the after-party? Schuyler subconsciously put a hand over her lips. If he was the boy she had kissed, did that mean that even though she found him repulsive, there was actually something about him that she found attractive? Oliver was always quoting from Foucault, saying that desire stemmed from revulsion.
A random thought flew into her head: what if the boy behind the mask had been Oliver? There had been Red Bloods at the party . . . and Oliver hated being left out of anything fun. He would have been able to find out about it, she was sure. Had she felt drawn to the boy in the mask because he was her best friend? Had they kissed? Was that why he was so nice to her lately? Treating her with so much tenderness?
She peeked across the room at him, watching him grimace as Mimi Force, his lab partner, burned the fructose so that it melted into a sickeningly sweet–smelling disaster.