Martin Sandeke, my year-long chemistry lab partner and all around most unobtainable person in the universe; who I never spoke to except to ask for beakers, relay findings, and request modifications to the heat level of my Bunsen burner.
And by Bunsen burner I meant, literally, my Bunsen burner. Not the figurative Bunsen burner in my pants. Because I hoped Martin Sandeke had no idea that he effected the heat levels of my figurative Bunsen burner.
He did affect them. But, obviously—since he was cosmically unobtainable and kind of a bully—I didn’t want him to know that.
“He’s about two twenty, so… yeah. I guess.” The male responded, his tennis shoes made scuffing sounds on the linoleum as he neared my hiding spot.
I rolled my lips between my teeth and stared at the crack in the cabinet doors. I couldn’t see his face, but I could discern that he was now standing directly in front of the cabinet, next to the unknown girl. Maybe facing her.
“But what’s in it for me?” The cuss monster asked, his voice lower than it had been, more intimate.
I heard some rustling then the sloppy sounds of kissing; instinctively I stuck my tongue out and mocked gagging. Listening to public displays of affection was unpleasant, especially when lip smacking and groaning was involved, and most especially while trapped in a chemistry lab cabinet that smelled heavily of sulfur.
The next words spoken came from the girl and were a bit whiny. “Money, dummy. Martin’s loaded—well, his family is loaded, and they’ll buy me off. All you have to do is give him the stuff tonight in his drink. I’ll take him upstairs, record the whole thing. Bonus if I get pregnant.”
My mouth dropped open, my eyes wide, unable to believe what I’d just heard. The awfulness, rustling, and lip smacking continued.
“You dope him and I’ll rope him.” The girl’s pleasure gasps were audible and rather ridiculous sounding.
“Oh, yeah baby—touch me there.” These breathy words were accompanied by the sound of a beaker crashing to the ground and a zipper being undone.
I winced, scowled. Really, people had no manners or sense of decorum.
“No-no- we can’t. He’ll be here any minute. I need to leave.” The girl’s voice pleaded. I noted that she sounded the perfect mixture of regretful and hurried. “You need to make sure he stays at the house for the party. I’ll be there at eleven, so give him the stuff around ten thirty, okay?”
The zipper came back up, the man backed into the cabinet. I jerked at the resultant bang of the doors. “How do you know where he’ll be all the time?”
“We dated, remember?”
“No. He fucked you. You never dated. Martin Sandeke doesn’t date.”
“Yeah, well, I know his schedule. He comes here on Fridays and does… hell if I know with his ugly little lab partner.”
Ugly?
I twisted my lips to the side, my heart seized in my chest.
I hated the word ugly. It was an ugly word.
Ugly, unsightly, gross, misshapen, repelling… I mentally recited. For some reason, the synonym game didn’t help me this time.
“His lab partner? Wait, I’ve heard about her. Isn’t her dad an astronaut or something?”
“Who cares? She’s nobody. Kathy or Kelly or something, whatever.” The girl huffed, the heels of her shoes carrying her farther away. “Forget about her, she’s nothing. The point is you need to stay here and make sure he comes tonight, okay? I gotto go before he gets here.”
“Bitch, you better not be playing me.”
The girl responded but I didn’t catch the words. My back itched and, while tucked in the cabinet, I couldn’t reach the spot. In fact, it would be a difficult spot to reach even if I were standing in an open field. Also, my mind was still reciting synonyms for ugly.
I didn’t think I was ugly.
I knew my hair was unremarkable. It was long, straight, and dark brown. I always wore it in a ponytail, bun, or clip. This was because hair, other than warming my head, served no purpose. Mostly, I ignored it.
I rather liked my eyes. They were grey. It was an unusual color I’d been told on more than one occasion. Granted, no one ever said they were pretty, but no one ever said they were ugly either. That had to count for something.
I was no supermodel in height or weight, at five foot seven and a size ten. But I wasn’t Jabba the Hut either.
My teeth were reasonably straight, though I had a noticeable gap between the front top two. I was also pale—the color of paper my best friend, Sam, had once said. My eyebrows were too thick, I knew this. Sam—short for Samantha—often remarked that I should get them plucked, thinned out.
I ignored this advice, didn’t care about thick eyebrows so long as they never became a unibrow like my aunt Viki.
I glanced down at my comfortable clothes—men’s wide leg, navy cargo pants with the cuff torn off, worn converse, and an oversized Weezer t-shirt. I might be plain, unremarkable, or even mousy. But it’s not like I was horrible beast who turned people into stone with a single gaze. I was just… low maintenance.
That was okay with me. I didn’t need attention, didn’t want it. People, especially people my age and especially other girls, made very little sense to me. I didn’t see the value in spending hours in front of a mirror when I could be playing video games or playing the guitar or reading a book instead.
But sometimes, when I was with Martin and we were calculating particulate levels, I wanted to be beautiful. Really, it was the only time I wished I looked different. Then I remembered he was a jerkface and everything went back to normal.
I gave myself a mental shake and gritted my teeth. Straining to listen, I pressed my ear against the cabinet door and waited for signs that the unknown male was still present.
The itch in the center of my back was spreading and I didn’t know how much longer I could stand it. On the itch scale, it was quickly moving from aggravating to brain exploding torturous.
But then the sound of shuffling footsteps approaching from the hall snagged my attention. They slowed, then stopped.
“Hey man. Whatsup?” Said the mystery cussing fiend.
“What are you doing here?” I heard Martin ask—I guessed he was standing at the entrance to the lab because his voice was somewhat muffled. Regardless, it made my stomach erupt in rabid butterflies. I often had a physical response to the sound of Martin speaking.
“Wanted to make sure you’re coming to the house party tonight.”
I heard more shuffling footsteps. They were Martin’s. I’d know that nonchalant gait anywhere—because I was pathetic and maybe a little obsessed with all things Martin Sandeke. But the difference between my obsession with Martin and the other girls’ obsession with Martin was that I had absolutely no problem admiring his finer features from afar.
Because Martin really was kind of a jerk.
He’d never been a jerk to me, likely because I was an excellent lab partner, we spoke only about chemistry, and he liked acing assignments; but I’d seen him in action. He’d lose his temper and then BOOM! he’d go off on whatever poor soul he happened to believe was responsible.
If it was a girl, they’d leave crying after coming in contact with his razor wit (and, by razor, I mean cutting and wound inducing). He never called them names, he didn’t have to. He’d just tell them the truth.
If it was a guy, he might use only words. But sometimes he used fists too. I’d been a witness to this once—Martin beating the crap out of a slightly shorter but also slightly broader jilted boyfriend of one of his one-night-stands. At least, that was the rumor that went around after both of them were escorted out of the dining hall by campus police.
Martin was an equal opportunity jerkface and therefore best avoided outside of the chemistry lab.
No one spoke for a moment; then, I stiffened when I heard Martin ask, “Where’s Parker?”
That was me. I’m Parker.
To be more precise, I’m Kaitlyn Parker, Katy for short; but I doubt Martin knows my first name.
“Parker? Who’s Parker?”
“My lab partner.”
“I thought your lab partner was that girl—the one-”
“She is a girl.”