Chemistry Read online

  Chemistry

  by

  Jodi Lamm

  © 2012 Jodi Lamm http://jodilamm.com/ All rights reserved

  Cover by Rodrigo "Den" Martins http://striderden.deviantart.com [email protected] — in homage to "Flower On Aerogel Over A Flame" by NASA/JPL http://stardust.jpl.nasa.gov/photo/aerogel.html

  This book is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to actual events, locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  BOOK ONE

  I’m not who you think I am. That’s the first thing you should know about me.

  For example, I met Valentine on Valentine’s Day, which is why I call him Valentine. It isn’t because I’m some asshole making fun of a guy who could never get a girlfriend. I’d be the last person to make fun of a guy without a girlfriend; I’ve never had one in my life, nor do I want one, to be honest. I called the kid Valentine because, when I first met him, he refused to speak aloud, and I couldn’t understand sign language. It was a simple matter of communicative difficulty. And could I help it if, even after we learned to communicate, he got attached to the name and insisted all his teachers use it? No. Not my fault. It’s a good name, anyway. I don’t know why everyone says I gave it to him out of spite.

  So you see, not everything you’ve heard about me is true. I mean some of it is, in a twisted sort of way. I admit my social skills leave something to be desired, but I’ve always done my best to be friendly. I remember my first caseworker used to say, “You have to be a friend to have a friend.” I get it, and I tried that. But here’s the thing I learned about friends: they will destroy you. You know that tower of peace and solitude you built for yourself? You know the identity you carved out all on your own, with your own blood, sweat, and fierce cosmic questioning? They’ll rip it to shreds in a heartbeat. I’m not kidding. They’ll rip it to shreds and they’ll spit on it and dance on it, and then they’ll ask you to show them mercy when you finally snap. But don’t you dare give in. The moment you do, I promise you, they’ll gather all the leftover pieces of you into a pile and show you just how combustible you are.

  II

  There’s an assembly today, required attendance excepting those of us who run the clubs and after-school activities—you know, the not-so-subtle, keep-kids-off-drugs programs. Of course, they don’t work. My kid brother is signed up for four: Drama, Philosophy, Chemistry (that would be mine), and Sports Medicine. He never attends any of them, and he’s certainly not the clean-living boy his foster parents think he is. They dote on him, they do. And I can see why. He’s a lovable guy, and they’ve only had him a few months. They’ll learn, though, eventually.

  The club presidents are meeting to discuss how to get more people to join, which inevitably ends in a mess of construction paper and cheap acrylic paints. That’s all we ever do: paint banners and gossip.

  “I hear someone nominated the new girl for the Valentine’s Dance Queen,” Peter says to me, splattering white stars onto a long, black banner. “They’re going to vote her in whether she likes it or not.”

  Peter Gringoire is prolific, only seventeen and already head of the Philosophy Club, a poet, and a playwright. He thinks he’s a true master of the arts. A charming, arrogant, spindly blond, he’s tall enough to be on the basketball team, but he wouldn’t think of playing. He doesn’t like to break a sweat. I’ve tutored him since he was a freshman, so I know. Right now, he and Valentine are the closest I’ve got to friends.

  I think Peter looks up to me, though I’m only a year older than him and have far less to show for my efforts. People attend his plays, at least, though they don’t stay long. No one comes to the lab at all. They just sign in and walk away. They want the attendance record for college or to prove they were somewhere they weren’t for an hour, but they have no interest in chemistry, really. I never rat them out because without members, I don’t have a club. And I want to keep the lab. Correction: I need to keep the lab. It’s my second home.

  “Who is this new girl?” I ask, though I’m hardly interested. Small talk is an art I’m still perfecting.

  Peter shrugs, which means he couldn’t be bothered to remember her name.

  “Her name is Similar or Emerald or something weird like that,” Phoebus answers, though I wasn’t asking him. And yes, Phoebus is his real name. His parents have an overly high opinion of him if you ask me. He’s a soccer man. Mister Bright-And-Strong. Mister Sunshine. So I guess his name is appropriate, isn’t it? Mine is most often associated with little balls of dirt, perfect for throwing at people. “Hey, Claude.” Phoebus laughs, and I know he’s laughing at me. “Even you might have a chance with her if you stop dressing like somebody’s grandpa.”

  I resist scowling at him. It’s the hat; I know it is. It’s felt and not “baseball,” so that qualifies it as grandfatherly. Then again, I’m not getting away from that description, hat or no hat. My hair started graying when I turned sixteen, which has put me in fantastic social standing, let me assure you. At nineteen, I’m already too old: too old for foster care, too old for dating, too old for everything but scholastics. And really, I’m fine with that. I’ve never had a social experience that didn’t end in disappointment.

  Phoebus won’t shut up. “So she’s a Gypsy, did you know? A real, honest-to-God Gypsy from France or something.”

  “Romani,” I correct him.

  “I said France, not Romania.”

  I try to explain it slowly. “The word Gypsy is a truncated form of Egyptian, which is where people originally thought the traveling tribes came from. But linguists have traced them to India. So Gypsy is actually a misnomer.”

  Phoebus stares at me, unblinking. Then he shakes his head as though I’m the one who just doesn’t get it. “Uh, thanks for the lesson, Grandpa.” He turns to Peter. “So she’s a French Gypsy, and you know what that means.”

  “What’s that mean?” Peter isn’t paying attention, but he’s good at staying half-aware like a cat, even when he couldn’t possibly care less about what’s being said. I should learn that trick.

  Phoebus grins. “She’s easy.”

  God, he’s such an idiot. I drop my head into my hands and groan.

  “What? You don’t care?” Phoebus turns back to me when he sees he’s getting no response from Peter. “Have you guys even seen her?”

  It’s true, I haven’t seen the girl yet, but I’d wager she’s no different than any of the others I’ve come to know and loathe. I wave my hand dismissively. “Not interested.”

  “Okay, you’re gay,” Phoebus says. “I get it, and that’s cool. No, really. If you’re gonna come out after all this time, I’m totally in your corner.”

  “I’m not gay.”

  Peter glances up from his banner—which is looking pretty good now, actually—and says, “He’s asexual.”

  “Asexual?” Phoebus looks confused. “Is that even possible? You’re a senior, man! Get a life. Get a girlfriend. Hell, I’ll give you mine.”

  Phoebus’ girlfriend is Lily Darling. She thinks they’re in love. God only knows where she got that idea, but it could have something to do with the ring Phoebus gave her last year. Probably it was the only way he could manage to get a hand up her shirt.

  “Asexuality is a perfectly legitimate lifestyle,” Peter says, and I wish he’d stop defending me.

  “Yeah, for trees maybe.” Phoebus shakes his head. “But hey, your life, your loss.” He tears a giant piece of red paper from the roll, then grabs a brush and soaks it in pink paint. He hums contentedly while he paints the word SOCCER on his banner, grabs the tape, and heads off to slap it on a wall in the cafeteria before it’s even dry. His banner doesn’t matter, and he knows it. People will try out for the team no matter what he does. Mine is also pointless, but for the opposite reason.


  “Want to help me pick a spot for this?” Peter holds up his banner: black paper, filled with stars and planets and colorful question marks. GOT TOO MANY QUESTIONS AND NO ANSWERS? it says, and then in smaller letters below that, join the club.

  Yeah, I probably should.

  III

  The cafeteria is a hyperactive swarm of students. They’ve just gotten out of the assembly, and none of them can go to class until they’ve thoroughly discussed all the goings-on I’m so glad I missed. Peter and I pick a spot on the wall for his banner—somewhere far away from Phoebus’ red and pink monstrosity, so Peter doesn’t have to compete, not that there would be any competition. Then we sit down at one end of a long, blue table.

  And here come the usual empty-headed girls who have a fetish for seducing “the priest.” Hint: I’m “the priest.” It’s true I’ve never had an interest in dating, so I guess Peter wasn’t entirely off base about me. I just wish he’d keep quiet about it because a certain class of female sees my indifference as a personal challenge. After all, if they can get my attention, who won’t want them, right? And they do get my attention sometimes. I don’t deny they’re aesthetically pleasing. But the second they open their mouths, I would give anything to make them disappear.

  “What’s up, Claude?” A department-store blonde sits across from me and leans on her elbows until I can see right down her shirt to her lacey, pink bra. I am one hundred percent certain she’s doing this on purpose. “Did you hear the news?”

  Her far more sultry friend squeezes in next to me, although the entire table is free. “Hey, are you still doing the Chem. thing after classes?”

  “Yes,” I say. Another name on the list is fine with me. She won’t show up, and that’s exactly how I want it.

  Peter looks up and then down again. He’s busy rambling on paper and can’t be bothered with my minor annoyances. Sometimes I wonder if he doesn’t have more in common with me than he’s letting on. On the other hand, I think he just doesn’t want to put effort into anything other than his art, and that includes a potential relationship. I have no doubt if these two gossips were to ask him what he was writing, he would burn with passion as he explained it to them, most likely using words far bigger than the poor things are capable of understanding. But he’s not “the priest,” so they don’t care about him.

  The blonde isn’t about to let her friend get all my highly valued derision. “I mean have you seen Valentine yet?” she says.

  Everyone calls him Valentine now. And everyone knows who he is, although few people ever talk to him. I shake my head, and the girl giggles.

  “He got voted in!” she says, like it’s the punch line to a joke she’s been setting up all this time.

  Her friend’s leg brushes against mine. I wish she would back off. She smells like fake strawberries, and I’m trying not to gag. “Chelsea nominated him,” she says, half proud, half accusing. She’s leaving herself open to respond to my reaction, depending on what that is.

  Now I’m curious. “Nominated him?”

  “For the Valentine’s Dance King,” the blonde says. “Appropriate, don’t you think?”

  I’m sure I look dog-sick all of a sudden because the sultry girl backs away a little. The Valentine’s Day Dance has become a kind of prom for non-seniors. Students are allowed to vote on a king and queen of the dance. It’s our school’s version of a Junior Prom, merged with the Valentine’s Day Dance for the budget’s sake. The idea is to discourage non-seniors from crashing the Senior Prom by giving them their own private dance. It doesn’t work.

  Valentine is a sophomore, but I can’t believe they nominated him, and even more than that, I can’t believe they voted for him. It’s not that I don’t want him to have any fun. It’s just… Well, it’s Valentine. And I don’t know how to say this without sounding like a dick, but he’s ugly. Real ugly. And I don’t mean your usual, run-of-the-mill, unattractive guy. His face is so disfigured he can’t see out one eye, his mouth is huge, his teeth stick out, his spine is more than a little messed up, and his legs are shaped like an open pair of scissors. He looks like a Picasso portrait, I’m telling you. And he doesn’t talk. Ever. All last year I worked with him on his speech because he begged me to help him improve his accent. But the first time he tried to talk to someone, they asked him whether he rode the short bus in grade school, and he just gave up. He hasn’t spoken to a soul since. So you see why I don’t believe they actually voted him in.

  Peter looks up from his newest epic. “Who got queen?”

  Before either girl can answer, we’re drowned in the noise of the procession. Yes, procession. And I can’t believe what I see when I turn around because there, perched on the shoulders of two enormous football players, is Valentine. He’s got this confused look in his eye that doesn’t quite go with the half-smile he’s wearing on his face and the ridiculous paper crown he’s wearing on his head.

  Damn them to hell. They’re mocking him. He doesn’t know it yet, but they’re mocking him, and I’m going to have to be the one to tell him. I wonder whether it would be a good idea to buy him a copy of Carrie. Probably not.

  I stand up, stunned that an entire group of people would be this cruel to someone who’d done nothing to provoke them, and I’m about to have words with the whole school, when my attention is taken completely by the appearance of the queen. I hear her name murmured by everyone around me.

  “Esmeralda,” they whisper, like it’s a holy word or a prayer, like it’s a secret so precious no one could say it louder even if they wanted to. When I see her face, I’ve got to admit I get it. And I hear my own voice mutter her name before I can stop myself.

  She is perfect, like the angel on top of a Christmas tree. She has long, black hair; a coy, pouting expression; and a lithe, little body that looks every bit as dangerous as it is fragile. To top it off, she’s livid. Unlike Valentine, she gets the joke and she hates it. She pulls the stupid crown from her head, crumples it into a ball, and throws it over her shoulder while everyone cheers.

  I try to snap out of it, free myself from this spell, notice something other than her. But I can’t. She’s perfect. Absolutely perfect.

  One of the gossips behind me taps my shoulder, but I don’t turn around. I don’t do anything but stare at Esmeralda, who notices how I’m watching her. And still I can’t stop. Even as the corners of her perfect mouth turn down, even as her eyes narrow in suspicion and anger, I can only watch. She hates me. I don’t know why she hates me, but she does, without a doubt. And suddenly, I realize how insane it is that this actually bothers me.

  It isn’t until Esmeralda leaves the vicinity that I notice Valentine has been waving his big, ugly hand back and forth in my field of vision. When I finally acknowledge him, he signs something that basically means, “What the hell?”

  I shrug and sign, “Sorry.”

  But he’s already forgiven me. “I guess I have to go to the dance now,” he signs, and he pats his thigh to call Jackie, his certified hearing ear dog, back to his side. Jackie is a great, slobbering, tangle of fur, and she was worth every penny I spent on her. No one else could have done as much to renew Valentine’s sense of self worth.

  “You don’t have to go anywhere,” I remind him. “Don’t let them push you around.”

  “I can’t dance,” he signs.

  “Neither can I.”

  “But they voted for me, so I have to go.”

  “No.”

  “If I don’t go, Esmeralda will be alone.”

  So here’s the crux of the matter. I want to explain to him that this is not how these things work. She is not his date. She doesn’t care about him. More than likely, she’s disturbed by him and afraid of him, but I can’t bring myself to tell him these things in public. It isn’t that I’m worried others might read my signs. Valentine and I don’t use your everyday ASL. What we use is a kind of sign-slang that we developed between us. No one else can read it. That’s the beauty of Valentine and I: we are an island in the crowd. Bu
t I don’t want him to react in front of his peers. I don’t want them to see the disappointment in his face or the humiliation he’ll no doubt suffer. No, I’ll tell him everything when we get home today. Then he can cry and sleep it off and face the world with a little more dignity tomorrow, when he will undoubtedly refuse the crown of thorns they’ve offered him.

  IV

  We’re shopping, Valentine and I. I can hardly believe it, but we are. I’ll probably spend the last of my savings on a tux—a huge tux that will likely make Valentine look more ridiculous than formal. I’ve tried to talk him out of it, but there’s no talking Valentine out of anything once he gets his mind set. I feel like an idiot sitting here, waiting for him to emerge from the dressing room so I can assure him that no, the jacket doesn’t make him look more crooked than usual, or no, he doesn’t look fat in those pants.

  He wants me to go with him to the dance, but I refuse. I won’t be a part of this. If Valentine is happy to be an object of amusement for the whole school, then so be it. I will communicate my disapproval by my absence. I can be just as stubborn, and I’ll prove it.

  Then someone behind me says, “Are you going to Flourdel’s after the dance?” I know the voice. It belongs to Robin, a popular student who caught Valentine off guard once and received a fist to the stomach for it. He’s never quite forgiven Valentine. I hope he doesn’t see us here.

  A second person replies, “Yeah, are you kidding? I’m not missing it again.”

  Flourdel’s is a hotel. This is where some of the less savory post-dance happenings go down. Every year, after each dance, several senior students buy a number of rooms and a number of bottles and host parties, which are, in reality, just an excuse to loosen their dates with drinks or pills or both. For most guys at our school, dances are about getting laid. Everyone knows that. People who think otherwise are either clueless parents or completely deluded girls like Lily Darling. I’m pretty sure Lily would change her mind about attending dances if she ever found out how many points her virginity was worth, and how much general talk there’s been about Phoebus’ inability to pop that cork after a year of trying.