Perfect Chemistry 1 (10 page)

In chemistry, you're mine."

"Want to find your club and pull me by my hair into the library?"

"I'm not a Neanderthal. Your boyfriend is the ape, not me."

"Then stop acting like one." All of the work tables in the library are

taken, so we're forced to find a corner in the back of the library in the

secluded nonfiction section and sit on the carpet. I set my books down

and realize Alex is staring at me, almost as if he stares long enough he

might be able to see the real me. No chance of that because I hide my

true self from everyone.

I stare back, because two can play this game. On the surface he's

impermeable, except a scar above his left brow tells the truth . . . he's

human. His shirt outlines muscles you can get only from manual labor or

working out regularly.

When my eyes meet his gaze as we're sitting here staring at each

other, time stops. Those eyes are piercing mine, and I can swear at this

moment he senses the real me. The one without the attitude, without

the facade. Just Brittany.

"What would it take for you to go out with me?" he asks.

"You're not serious."

"Do I look like I'm jokin'?"

Mrs. Peterson wanders by us, saving me from answering. "I'm

keeping my eyes on you two. Alex, we missed you last week. What

happened?"

"I kinda fell onto a knife."

She shakes her head in disbelief, then moves away to harass other

partners.

I look at Alex, wide-eyed. "A knife? You're kidding, right?"

"Nope. I was cuttin' a tomato, and wouldn't ya know the thing flung

up and sliced my shoulder open. The doc stapled me back together.

Wanna see?" he asks as he starts pulling up his sleeve.

I slap a hand over my eyes. "Alex, don't gross me out. And I don't

believe for one second a knife flung out of your hand. You were in a

knife fight."

"You never answered my question," he says, not admitting or

denying my theory about his wound. "What would it take for you to go

out with me?"

"Nothing. I wouldn't go out with you."

"I bet if we make out you'll change your mind."

"As if that'll ever happen."

"Your loss." Alex stretches his long legs in front of him, his chem

book resting in his lap. He looks at me with chocolate brown eyes that

are so intense I swear they could hypnotize someone. "You ready?" he

asks.

For a nanosecond, as I'm staring into those dark eyes, I wonder

what it would be like to kiss Alex. My gaze drops to his lips. For less

than a nanosecond, I can almost feel them coming closer. Would his lips

be hard on mine, or soft? Is he a slow kisser, or hungry and fast like

his personality?

"For what?" I whisper as I lean closer.

"The project," he says. "Hand warmers. Peterson's class.

Chemistry."

I shake my head, clearing all ridiculous thoughts from my

overactive teenage mind. I must be sleep-deprived.

"Yeah, hand warmers." I open my chem book.

"Brittany?"

"What?" I say, staring blindly at the words on the page. I have no

clue what I'm reading because I'm too embarrassed to concentrate.

"You were lookin' at me like you wanted to kiss me."

I force a laugh. "Yeah, right," I say sarcastically.

"Nobody's watchin' if you want to, you know, try it. Not to brag,

but I'm somewhat of an expert."

He gives me a lazy smile, one that was probably created to melt

girls' hearts all over the globe.

"Alex, you're not my type." I need to tell him something to stop him

from looking at me like he's planning to do things to me I've only heard

about.

"You only like white guys?"

"Stop that," I say through gritted teeth.

"What?" he says, getting all serious. "It's the truth, ain't it?"

Mrs. Peterson appears in front of us. "How's that outline coming

along?" she asks.

I put on a fake smile. "Peachy." I pull out the research I did at

home and get down to business while Mrs. Peterson watches. "I did

some research on the hand warmers last night. We need to dissolve

sixty grams of sodium acetate and one hundred millimeters of water at

seventy degrees."

"Wrong," Alex says.

I look up and realize Mrs. Peterson is gone. "Excuse me?"

Alex folds his arms across his chest. "You're wrong."

"I don't think so."

"You think you've never been wrong before?"

He says it as if I'm a ditzy blond bimbo, which sets my blood to

way past boiling. "Sure I have," I say. I make my voice sound high and

breathless, like a Southern debutante. "Why, just last week I bought

Bobbi Brown Sandwash Petal lip gloss when the Pink Blossom color

would have looked so much better with my complexion. Needless to say

the purchase was a total disaster," I say. He expected to hear

something like that come out of my mouth. I wonder if he believes it,

or from my tone realizes I'm being sarcastic.

"I'll bet," he says.

"Haven't you ever been wrong before?" I ask him.

"Absolutely," he says. "Last week, when I robbed that bank over by

the Walgreens, I told the teller to hand over all the fifties he had in

the till. What I really should have asked for was the twenties 'cause

there were way more twenties than fifties."

Okay, so he did get that I was putting on an act. And gave it right

back to me with his own ridiculous scenario, which is actually unsettling

because it makes us similar in some twisted way. I put a hand on my

chest and gasp, playing along. "What a disaster."

"So I guess we can both be wrong."

I stick my chin in the air and declare stubbornly, "Well, I'm not

wrong about chemistry. Unlike you, I take this class seriously."

"Let's have a bet, then. If I'm right, you kiss me," he says.

"And if I'm right?"

"Name it."

It's like taking candy from a baby. Mr. Macho Guy's ego is about to

be taken down a notch, and I'm all too happy to be the one to do it. "If

I win you take me and the class project seriously," I tell him. "No

teasing me, no making ridiculous comments."

"Deal. I'd feel terrible if I didn't tell you I have a photographic

memory."

"Alex, I'd feel terrible if I didn't tell you I copied the info

straight from the book." I look at the research I'd done, then flip open

to the corresponding page in my chem book. "Without looking, what

does it need to be cooled at?" I ask.

Alex is a guy who thrives on challenges. But this time the tough guy

is going to lose. He closes his own book and stares at me, his jaw set.

"Twenty degrees. And it needs to be dissolved at one hundred degrees,

not seventy," he answers confidently.

I scan the page, then my notes. Then back at the page again. I

can't be wrong. Which page did I-- "Oh, yeah. One hundred degrees." I

look up at him in complete shock. "You're right."

"You gonna kiss me now, or later?"

"Right now," I say, which I can tell shocks him because his hands go

still. At home, my life is dictated by my mom and dad. At school, it's

different. I need to keep it that way, because if I have no control in

every aspect of my life I might as well be a mannequin.

"Really?" he asks.

"Yeah." I take one of his hands in mine. I'd never be this bold if we

had an audience, and am thankful for the privacy of the nonfiction

titles surrounding us. His breathing slows as I sit up on my knees and

lean into him.

I'm ignoring the fact that his fingers are long and rough and that

I've never actually touched him before. I'm nervous. I shouldn't be,

though. I'm the one in control this time.

I can feel him restraining himself. He's letting me make the move,

which is a good thing. I'm afraid of what this boy would do if he let

loose.

I place his hand against my cheek so it cups my face and I hear him

groan. I want to smile because his reaction proves I have the power.

He's unmoving as our eyes meet.

Time stops again.

Then I turn my head into his hand and kiss the inside of his palm.

"There, I kissed you," I say, giving him back his hand and ending

the game.

Mr. Latino with the big ego got bested by a ditzy, blond bimbo.

FOURTEEN : Alex

"You call that a kiss?"

"Yep."

Okay, so I'm in shock the girl put my hand on her creamy cheek.

Damn, you'd think I was on drugs by the way my body reacted.

She had me totally under her spell a minute ago. Then the pretty

witch turned my game around so she was the one with the upper hand.

She surprised me, that's for sure. I laugh, deliberately calling

attention to us because I know it's exactly what she doesn't want.

"Shh," Brittany says, hitting me on the shoulder to shut me up.

When I laugh louder, she whacks my arm with the heavy chem book.

My bad arm.

I wince. "Ow!" The cut on my biceps feels like a million little bees

are stinging it. Cabron me dolio!

She bites her Bobbi Brown Sandwash Petal'd frosted bottom lip,

which in my opinion looks fine on her.

Though I wouldn't mind seeing her in the Pink Blossom color, too.

"Did I hurt you?" she asks.

"Yes," I say through gritted teeth as I concentrate on her lip gloss

instead of the pain.

"Good."

I lift my sleeve to examine my wound, which now (thanks to my

chem partner) has blood trickling from one of the staples the doc at

the free clinic put in it after the fight at the park with the Satin

Hoods. Brittany's got a pretty good whack for someone who probably

weighs a buck ten soaking wet.

She sucks in her breath and scoots away. "Oh my God! I didn't

mean to hurt you, Alex. Really, I didn't. When you threatened to show

me the scar, you lifted your left sleeve."

"I wasn't really gonna show you," I say. "I was fuckin' with you.

It's okay," I tell her. Geez, you'd think the girl never saw red blood

before. Then again, her blood probably runs blue.

"No, it's not okay," she insists while shaking her head. "Your

stitches are bleeding."

"They're staples," I correct her, trying to lighten the mood. The

girl is even whiter than she usually is. And she's breathing heavy,

almost panting. If she passes out, I swear I'm losing the bet with

Lucky. If she can't handle a little streak of my blood, how's she gonna

handle having sex with me? Unless we're not naked, so she doesn't

have to see my various scars. Or if it's dark, then she can pretend I'm

someone white and rich. Fuck that, I want the lights on . . I want to

feel all of her against me and want her to know it's me she's with and

not some other culero.

"Alex, are you okay?" Brittany asks, looking totally concerned.

Should I tell her I was spacing out while thinking about us having

sex?

Mrs. P. walks up the aisle with a stern look on her face. "This is a

library, you two. Keep it down." But then she notices the small line of

blood snaking down my arm and staining my sleeve. "Brittany, help him

to the nurse. Alex, next time come to school with that thing bandaged."

"Don't I get sympathy, Mrs. P.? I'm bleedin' to death."

"Do something to help mankind or the planet, Alex. Then you'll, get

my sympathy. People who get into knife fights don't earn anything from

me except disgust. Now go get cleaned up."

Brittany lifts my books off my lap and says in a shaky voice, "Come

on."

"I can hold the books," I tell her as I follow her out of the library.

I'm pressing my sleeve against the wound, hoping to stop more blood

from leaking out.

She's walking ahead of me. If I tell her I need help walking

because I feel faint, will she believe me and come to my rescue? Maybe

I should stumble . . . although knowing her she wouldn't care.

Right before we reach the nurse's office, she turns around. Her

hands are shaking. "I'm so sorry, Alex. I di--didn't m--mean--"

She's freaking out. If she cries, I won't know what to do. I'm not

used to crying chicks. I don't think Carmen cried once during our

entire relationship. In fact, I'm not sure Carmen has tear ducts. That

turned me on, because emotional chicks scare me.

"Um . . . you okay?" I ask.

"If this gets around, I'm never going to live it down. Oh, God, if

Mrs. Peterson calls my parents I'm dead. Or at least I'll wish I was

dead." She keeps talking and shaking, as if she's a car with bad shocks

and no brakes.

"Brittany?"

". . . and my mom'll blame it on me. It's my fault, I know. But she'll

freak out on me and then I'll have to explain and hope she--"

Before she can get another word out I yell, "Brittany!" The girl

looks up at me with an expression so confused I don't know whether to

feel sorry for her or stunned she's rambling and can't seem to stop.

"You're the one freakin' out," I comment, stating the obvious.

Her eyes are usually clear and bright, but now they're dull and

blank as if she's not all here.

She looks down and around and everywhere except directly at me.

"No, I'm not. I'm fine."

"The hell you are. Look at me."

She hesitates. "I'm fine," she says, now focused on a locker across

the hall. "Just forget everything I just said."