I accept a stick of gum and start chattering like a chimp. ‘Oooh, there’s this touring exhibit in town that I’m dying to go to. It’s basically a bunch of artifacts from Pompeii, and there’s a CGI simulation of the volcanic eruption at the end.’
‘Spoilers,’ says Keiko, affronted.
I gape at her. ‘You didn’t know Pompeii was wiped out by a volcano?’
‘I thought it was just a catchy Bastille song.’
Honestly. How are we friends.
Shaking off my astonishment, I say, ‘So are you in?’
Keiko looks like I might have suggested waterboarding each other in the creek. ‘Museums are for the very old and the very tragic, and we are neither of those things. Gabs? Any ideas?’
Gabriela shrugs. She looks a little distant and jaded, and her winged eyeliner is smudged, which is pretty unusual for her. ‘I think me and Ryan were just going to hang out at home. Watch some YouTube, eat some snacks. I dunno. I’m super tired lately.’
‘Okay, grandma.’ Keiko rolls her eyes. ‘You are one hundred years old, and I’m overruling you both. Let’s go see that new movie about the rock star who falls in love with her manager. It’s basically the exact fantasy I get myself off to, so I can’t promise not to start dry-humping the popcorn bucket.’
I snort-laugh in a very elegant manner. ‘You are horrific.’
Keiko tuts and wags her finger in my face. ‘That’s slut-shaming and you’re better than that. And also homophobic. Is lesbian sex so abhorrent to you?’ I blush, and Keiko cackles at my panicked expression. ‘Anyway, I gotta scoot,’ she says. ‘Detention again. Ah, the life of a misunderstood rebel.’
‘Try not to dry-hump any desks,’ I call after her as she sashays down the hallway in her skull-print dress. Gabriela, who hates sex-based banter, squirms beside me.
As she’s about to turn the corner, Keiko presses herself against a wall of lockers and makes an elaborate groan of ecstasy. ‘No promises. Toodles!’
Once she’s shaken off the unspeakable horror of the last few seconds, Gabriela mumbles, ‘I’ll go with you to the Vesuvius exhibit, if you want.’
We start walking to the school gates. I grin gratefully. ‘Thanks.’
Gabriela smiles, but it doesn’t reach her eyes. ‘Let’s just . . . not tell Keiko, okay? That we’re hanging out without her.’
This makes me feel a little weird – Keiko has been my ride-or-die since kindergarten – but I get Gabriela’s point. Keiko only does what Keiko wants to do, but still gets upset when people do things without her. ‘Agreed. Everything okay with you? You mentioned being tired a lot.’
Gabriela stares at her black Birkenstocks as we walk. Her nails are painted paprika red, and she wears a turquoise toe-ring. ‘Yeah, I guess. I don’t know what’s up with me. Maybe I’m just lazy.’
‘Dude, you’re anything but lazy. You speak a catrillion languages, tutor six hundred kids a week, and you have your makeup Insta on the side. What are you at now, twenty k followers?’
A small quirk at the corner of her lips. ‘Twenty-two.’
‘Exactly. You’re killing the game.’
Gabriela brightens up at this and hoists her backpack further up her shoulder. ‘Speaking of, when are you going to let me give you that makeover? I’ve had the palettes picked out for months. Your cheekbones are going to look insaaane.’
Gabriela’s been asking to give me a makeover for ages, ever since she first got into the beauty scene, and it makes me feel kind of weird. I’ve never been into that stuff, and it feels kind of like she’s trying to . . . fix me? Make me less offensive to look at? In any case, no matter how uncomfortable it makes me, I’d never say anything to Gabriela, because I know how much she loves it. She probably doesn’t think of it that way at all; she’s the least malicious person I’ve ever met. Still, it’s starting to get under my skin.
Is that just friendship, though? Taking an interest in each other’s hobbies? Gabriela offered to come to the science museum with me, and we’re always listening to Keiko’s latest demos, even though neither of us knows much about music. I’m probably just overreacting.
Hell, maybe I should let Gabriela work her magic on my face. It’s possibly a less drastic measure than taking miracle drugs in order to attract guys. In the cold light of day, I’m giving myself major side-eye for buying those shady motherfuckers.
A few days later, I have AP Physics first thing. I walk in early, because punctuality is the finest quality a human being can possess in the eyes of . . . well, both dads. I distinctly remember playing model trains as a kid, and they made me write out an actual departure schedule – and stick to it. The worst part is that I don’t recall ever feeling stifled by this. I enjoyed the rules and the sense of purpose. I guess I was always destined to be a science fanatic. Or a serial killer. But there’s time yet.
(FWIW, if I were to become a serial killer, my weapon of choice would be a frozen pork chop carved into a point. I would stab my victims to death, then cook and eat the pork chop to destroy the evidence. Anyway.)
The classroom is swelteringly hot, and I’m surprised to find Haruki is already there, sitting at the back of the class. He wears a plain white T-shirt with rolled sleeves, and faded black jeans despite the fierce sun. His pale ochre-brown skin is smattered with light freckles, and his black hair is messy on top, short around the sides. Serving up your basic Hot Guy Lewk.
On his desk is a crisp printout of the same college-level paper I’m attempting this session. Torres must’ve caved and let him study modern physics too. I kind of don’t blame her, because Haruki’s parents are library donors and school-board members, but part of me is disappointed. This was . . . my thing. It made me feel special, and I earned that feeling. And now I have to share, even if it is with the most beautiful guy in school/the world.
As I unpack my stuff on the table next to him, Haruki looks over at me. My stomach flip-flops. On second thought, maybe this new common ground will be the thing that finally makes him pay attention to me – in the right way, this time. Maybe we’ll bond over particularly tricky problems, and share theories over milkshakes at Martha’s Diner. Maybe he’ll come to MIT too, and we’ll be the power couple of the Theoretical Physics Society. We’ll name our kids Volta and Galilei, and we’ll have a cat named Schrödinger just for the laughs. It’s written in the stars, right?
Nope. All that happens as we lock eyes is a smug, self-satisfied smirk, then Haruki turns the first page and starts scribbling in the margins in mechanical pencil.
Any normal person would feel annoyed right now. He’s being an immature jerk. But part of me is kind of . . . proud? Haruki is smug to have reached the same level as me. It’s a backhanded compliment, in a way. A very, very tenuous way, but still. Let me have this.
The lesson gets underway, and at first I struggle to tune out the scritching of Haruki’s mechanical pencil next to me. I’m hyper-aware of the scent of warm skin and fresh laundry, the bouncing of his knee against the table, the periodic sniffing that suggests his allergies are playing up. It’s intoxicating being this close to him, working on the same thing, breathing the same air. (Yep. Definite serial-killer vibes. Please keep me away from the frozen-pork aisle.)