I take a deliberate bite of my apple as Juniper says, “Do tell.”
“Well, where do I begin?” Olivia says. “It’ll be an incredibly romantic rendezvous, where we will make a poster about Dante’s Inferno.” As she gives her eyelashes an exaggerated flutter, I let out a sigh, feeling like an asshole. It’s a class project, not a date. Of course. The day Olivia goes on a real date instead of just hooking up with guys at parties, the sun will probably explode.
“How about evening, then?” Juniper suggests. “We can just chill. Watch a movie.”
Here we go. I’m busy tomorrow night, and I already know what’s going to happen. My absence makes less of a difference than Olivia’s, so they’ll meet up Saturday night and have an amazing time without me and send me a bunch of Snapchats that’ll make me feel left out, and I won’t say anything, because if I do, I’ll come off needy.
“I can’t at night,” I say.
“Why not?”
“Grace’s birthday. We’re going out to eat.”
“How about after?” Olivia says. “We could do, like, nine thirty or ten.”
“My tournament’s this Sunday, remember? I have to get up early.”
“Excuses, excuses, Lombardi,” Olivia says. “I’m picking you up, and you can’t stop me.”
“I’m serious. I gotta get up at six.” I gulp some Gatorade. “I mean, you could pick me up if you roll my sleeping body into the back of Juni’s car.”
They laugh. It fades into expectant silence, and I realize they’re waiting for me to give them some sort of weird blessing to hang out without me. I don’t want to say the words, but they come out anyway. “Well, whatever. Don’t have too much fun without me.”
I swear, their eyes brighten. I look down at my lunch, nibbling on my nails. Juni and Olivia drop the topic soon, but my mind sticks on the little things from this week. Juniper’s silences. Dan’s secret advances. The thought of the pair of them without me. As for Saturday, I already get the sense I’m missing out.
“KAT?” DR. NORMAN SAYS.
My head jerks up, my eyes snapping open.
“Do you know the answer?” Norman asks, the first words in seventh period I’ve listened to. There’s no question on the whiteboard. Not that I’d be able to answer it—chemistry is my worst subject—but knowing the type of question would make a guess sound less stupid, at least.
I glance at the boy sitting next to me. He shoots back a Don’t look at me sort of glare.
“Uh,” I say.
Dr. Norman sighs. “You know, as much as your attendance is appreciated today, Ms. Scott, I have to say, it would mean more if you were conscious.”
Snickers spark up around me. I imagine the sounds glancing off my skin, blow by tiny blow. “Kat,” Norman says, “I’m going to ask you to stay after class and clean up the lab equipment for the AP students.”
“I have rehearsal,” I say.
Dr. Norman gives me a feral smile. Not a good sign. He loves making examples out of students for laughs. It makes me think his ego is fragile beyond belief, because, seriously, what forty-five-year-old with any self-esteem gets his kicks by making fun of teenagers?
“Rehearsal?” he says. “That’s funny, because I was talking with Dave García the other day, and he was telling me that he gave the cast Friday off. So, if you could get him to explain, that’d be wonderful.” His smile stretches wider, scrunching lines up into his white, rubbery cheeks. “Otherwise, you’ll be staying afterward to clean up, thank you.”
Everyone goes, “Ooohhh,” in unison, the universally accepted sound of Somebody just got their ass handed to them. I shoot dirty glances around, the humiliation lingering against my skin like a too-close flame. Norman didn’t have to say it that way. I didn’t even mean to lie—I forgot García gave us today off.
Ten minutes later, the bell rings. I leave my backpack at my desk and head to the front of the room. Dr. Norman waits behind his desk with justice in his eyes. He probably thinks he’s fighting the good fight against juvenile delinquency, saying shit in front of the class like that, but all he’s doing is making me resent him.
After showing me what he wants cleaned, Norman bustles out of the room, leaving me alone. I trudge toward the black buckets by the sink, old and scratched, filled with graduated cylinders. I test the tap water and pick up the soap.
The door opens behind me. I glance over my shoulder.
A kid stands in the threshold, blonder than I am and barely taller. He has the physique of a stick insect, and his clothes don’t help the illusion: his skinny khakis make his legs look like pipe cleaners, and his black peacoat is so huge, it looks like it’s eating him alive.
“Need something?” I say.
“Yes, hello,” he says. “There must be a mistake. I’m supposed to clean the equipment.”
“Are you in AP?” I ask.
He nods.
“Well,” I say, “guess you’re off the hook, AP. Norman told me to do these buckets.”
“Oh.” The boy’s eyes fix on my hands, still stuck beneath the warm water. A patronizing look flits across his face, his eyes narrowing to slits.