We may not be the closest, but I know Lindsay. And while I’m willing to believe she’d risk embarrassing herself again if it meant making up for the loss of Best Hair, I’m not sold on her giving in to Agatha this easily. Unfortunately, I don’t have time to dwell on that before the unforeseen consequence of this victory quickly arrives.
“Does this mean you’re running for king now?” Zaq asks Wesley, poking him until Wesley cracks a smile.
Sammie turns to Zaq and bats my hand away when I try to pull his face back toward me. “Good idea, Zaq—that way Wesley will lose at least one thing that night,” Sammie says, winking. Wesley looks down at his notebook, blushing furiously. Zaq sits up, looking ready to give Sammie several choice words he very much deserves, but Wesley nudges him until he sits back down. They start sketching, and it’s only then that Sammie turns back to me with a pleased smirk.
I smack his arm with my chemistry homework.
“What was that for?” he seethes, rubbing his arm.
“I could ask you the same thing, pendejo.”
“I’m pretty sure when your dad said he’d like you to practice your Spanish more, calling me an asshole isn’t what he had in mind.”
“I asked you to be nice to him. Not comment on his virginity.” I’m tempted to hit him again. “You promised me.”
“And you promised me I’d be in on your and Ags’s next bet,” he says. “Doesn’t feel good, does it?”
“Very mature, Samuel.”
“Just go back to Spanish insults if you’re going to full-name me.”
“Mr. Nasar, Miss Rojas,” Mr. Greggory says from his desk, brows raised. He stumbles over both our last names. “I’ll gladly give you papers to file for me if you don’t have anything else to do.”
“No thank you, sir. Sorry,” I reply, looking down at my worksheet until he goes back to his computer. I elbow Sammie. “Leave Wesley and his potentially existing virginity alone,” I whisper sharply. “Don’t be that guy.”
He exhales loudly but doesn’t reply, so I lose myself in balancing chemical reaction equations until I stop fuming. It only half works.
One hour and one sloppily finished chemistry worksheet later, homeroom ends and our group splits ways.
Except for Wesley and me, who have chem together. We partner up on occasion for experiments, but only speak as much as our lab necessitates. The best part about it is that Lucas is in our class and seems jealous whenever Wesley and I finish early. We normally walk in tangibly awkward silence or make small talk, the kind that feels like when you run into someone you’re acquaintances with in public and have to do the whole song and dance of pretending like the obligatory chatting isn’t painful for everyone involved. But today, he goes for a different approach.
“I wanted to thank you for texting me yesterday. For inviting me to your house for prom pictures.”
“Of course, Wesley,” I reply, a little caught off guard.
He rubs his hands together, watching them as we walk. “I just wasn’t sure I would be. Because of all the Sammie stuff,” he says, eyes downcast on his polished leather shoes.
“Sammie is my best friend, but you’re a part of this friend group too.”
Wesley chuckles, nervously running a hand through his straight black hair. Sammie does the same thing, but it’s usually when he’s flirting or furious. I don’t think I’ve ever seen Wesley flirt or be angry even once in our acquaintanceship. “Lindsay told me I should be more assertive and talkative with you guys. Especially since we’re graduating soon and everyone will just forget about me if I never speak up.”
“Lindsay said that?” I’m both shocked and not.
“Maybe not the second part,” he laughs. “But I could fill in the blanks.”
We shuffle up the steps leading from the lower courtyard to the sciences classrooms. “It would be nice if you talked to us more,” I admit, leaving out that we could probably make a better effort to talk to him too. “But we could never forget you.”
We step into chemistry, still smiling, and my hand brushes someone else’s as we reach for our lab instructions off the front table at the same time. My heartbeat spikes when I look up to see it’s Lucas. I feel flushed as I watch him walk back to his desk, and thankfully Wesley speaks again before I can lose myself in the memory of Lindsay saying Lucas still needs a date to prom.
“Is it okay if Talia and Zaq come too? I’m sorry to ask because I don’t want to impose, but—”
“Of course they can come,” I interrupt. “Talia and I actually hung out this weekend, but inviting her slipped my mind.” A lie, but fortunately he doesn’t know me well enough to catch the lilt in my voice that would tell him that.
“Thank you, Ophelia. Seriously.” We sit at our lab station in the back. His small smile stays firmly on his face even as he turns away to get our supplies ready.
We work in our typical silence for a few minutes, pouring chemicals into various test tubes and counting our powder tablets for the experiment. Usually our silence is stark and professional, but today it feels comfortable. Had I known it only took one text to turn Wesley around, I would have formally invited him to prom pictures months ago.
“Can I ask you something … kind of serious?” he says out of nowhere as he hands me a slender test tube of murky brown liquid.
“Sure,” I reply, my attention focused on carefully placing the test tube in the rack. I drop a tablet inside. He passes me an eyedropper, which I cautiously squeeze until it’s full.
“Is Lindsay expecting prom night to be … special?”
“Special how?” I raise the eyedropper above the test tube.
“You know, uh, like—like the clichés?”
“Uh, I guess? I mean she’s running for prom queen now, so there’s that.” I laugh, but his face isn’t amused. I turn back to the experiment. “I’m not sure what you’re asking me.”
“I mean, like, what Sammie said…”
“‘What Sammie said’?”
“Is Lindsay expecting to have sex after prom?” he asks in one breath, loudly. Loud enough that I’m startled and accidentally squeeze the eyedropper too hard, overflowing the beaker with the second chemical. I move my hands away from the spill as a thin, wispy cloud of smoke twirls around us. I wave my arms, coughing.
“Ophelia! I said one drop,” Mrs. Waitley scolds as she approaches our station and pushes us aside to contain the reaction. I’m tempted to correct her. Technically, she didn’t say anything; she just left instructions on a table and hoped for the best. But I’m too busy coughing the mysterious smoke out of my lungs to be sassy. I should be relieved Mrs. Waitley isn’t concerned enough about the smoke to make us evacuate the room, but maybe that’s more indifference toward me than anything else. I did break five beakers this semester.
“I’ll go get breathing masks,” Wesley says, scurrying off as I finally register his question. I turn to follow him, unsure of what exactly I’m planning on saying, but Mrs. Waitley steps into my path before I make it very far.
“Clean up the spilled mixture and finish your post-lab report,” she says sternly. “You two are lucky none of these chemicals are dangerous.” She walks away before I can apologize for the mess.