“Megan?” Mr. Carter asks, and I snap my head forward. Mr. Carter’s eyes are hidden behind the reflective glare of his thick-rimmed glasses, but his chin is pointing directly at me, expertly. No, expectantly. I have no idea what the question was.
If I was still in junior high, I would say, “Sorry, ADHD got the better of me,” because everyone at Britannia Junior knew that about me and because when you’re officially diagnosed, teachers have to make concessions. It’s the law or something.
But high school is going to be different. I’m not going to be known for that.
“I’m sorry, sir, but I seem to have missed the precise nature of your question.”
Mr. Carter raises his eyebrows, and I wait for the usual sigh, but instead the corner of his mouth twitches upward in an almost smile. “I asked if my instructions were clear.”
His instructions? What instructions? Gee, thanks, Mr. Carter. That was helpful. “Perfectly clear.” I smile at him, flashing my pearly whites, which really should be quite white since I’ve been plastering them with whitening strips for the past month, at least whenever I remember.
“So no questions?”
“Not from me.” Perfect grin. I should be in a toothpaste commercial.
“Great. Thank you, Ms. Winters. Anyone else . . . No? Then I’m going to give you the last ten minutes of class to sort yourselves into pairs. Choose partners wisely, as there’ll be no switching. Ready, set—pick!”
Partners? Great! I love partners. Maybe I will take a risk with that Legends of the Stone guy.
But no, he’s already talking to the scrawny white guy sitting next to him. Ang and Jenni, the two Filipino girls in the front row, will of course be pairing off, since they’ve been attached at the hip for as long as I’ve known them. And the two girls next to me are apparently BFFs already, because they’ve got their heads together, giggling in a way that makes me think they’re not talking about science. Though, wait, I think I saw them holding hands yesterday, so they’re probably dating.
I could ask the goth girl two rows ahead, Alexis, but when I hung out with her at Folk Fest this summer, she spent the entire time smoking pot, and she’s one of those people who gets super boring when she smokes. Like all mellow and crap. I am not ending up with her.
And I am not sitting here like a friendless outcast while others pair off all around me.
I whirl around. The pink-shirted, blond-ponytailed white girl sitting right behind me glances down at her desk, then to the side, then back at me. She bites her bottom lip.
I flash her my pearly-white grin. “Hi, I’m Meg. Want to be partners?”
KAT
THE GIRL—MEG, I GUESS—COCKS HER HEAD AT ME, WAITING FOR MY RESPONSE. One of her black corkscrew curls falls in front of her dark-skinned face, and she shakes it out of the way while somehow maintaining eye contact. Her grin is a little too broad. I shift back in my chair just an inch.
Here’s the thing: this science project isn’t like some grade five thing where you make a volcano and everyone cheers when the red-dyed vinegar and baking soda explode and you get a gold star just for participating. We’re supposed to work on it for most of the year and then present it at a schoolwide competition at the beginning of March. It’s worth 30 percent of our entire science mark.
And grade ten marks matter for getting into university. And getting into university matters for the rest of life. And the rest of life is a really long time to be a jobless, homeless bum.
So I can’t partner with just anyone.
But here’s the other thing: I don’t know anyone in this class. I don’t know anyone in this whole school. What am I supposed to do—interview her?
One introvert . . . two unemployed . . .
“Um, sure,” I say.
“Great. Give me your phone.” She sticks out her hand, palm up.
“What?”
“So I can put my contact info in. Oh, I guess I need yours, too.” She draws back her hand and fishes her own phone out of her pocket. Its case is green and sparkly. She taps at the screen a few times, then looks up at me. “What’s your number? Oh, and your name, duh.”
“Oh, um, Kat. Kat Daley.”
“Okay, Kat Daley. You want mine?”
My phone is in my backpack, on silent. I’m not sure what the rules are about having them out during class time. Tonight, I’m reading the student manual.
“Um, just write it here.” I push my planner across the desk. She holds her phone in her left hand as she scribbles down her name, phone number, email address, and even her street address with her right. “Can I have your email password, too?” I think about joking, but don’t.
She hands back my planner and returns to her phone. “Okay, now you.”
I feel weird giving my info to this stranger, but I can’t really say that when she just gave me all of hers.
Once she’s entered it, she plunks her phone down on her desk—in full view of Mr. Carter, which means either I’m worrying needlessly or she’s not worrying enough—and grins at me. Less manically this time. “So,” she says, “what are we partnering for?”
“What do you mean?”
“I zoned out for a bit. What are we partners for? Labs or something?”
I regret everything.
CHAPTER 2
KAT
“HOW WAS YOUR DAY?” MOM ASKS SECONDS AFTER I WALK IN THE DOOR, in her usual fifties-sitcom way.
Peachy. I had to explain to my new science fair partner what a science fair is. Thank goodness we have a few weeks to turn in our topic choice, and until March for the final project. Hopefully that’s enough time to just do it all myself like I did last year, if need be. I should probably get started this weekend. Or tonight. I should get started tonight. One boring volcano . . . two chemical reactions . . . three sound barrier . . .
Mom waits cheerfully for my answer. I don’t bother to complain about being forced to move to this alien province or about the fact that I’m going to fail science. I know how that conversation would go.
“Why did we have to move here? Why couldn’t Granddad come to stay with us?” I would whine, like a three-year-old.
“Granddad has lived here his entire life. We couldn’t ask him to move across the country.”
“Well, I’ve lived in Ottawa my entire life.”
And then she would stare at me until I caved and admitted that Granddad’s “entire life” is more significant than my “entire life” and that of course we should have moved here.
Mom doesn’t need words to win arguments. And I don’t need words to lose them. “It was fine,” I tell her.
“That good, huh?” She glides across the kitchen and wraps her arms around me, practically smothering me. I lean into her for just a moment, letting her warmth surround me like a living, breathing afghan. She smells of apples and cinnamon, and the scent lingers in my nose when I finally pull away.
“Pies?” It’s a safe guess. When Mom’s not writing math textbooks, she’s usually lost in a cloud of flour and brown sugar.