Perfect Chemistry 1 (12 page)

late?"

To have her yell at me over the phone, and then again when I got

home? No way. But I can't tell her that. "I didn't think about it," is all

I say.

"Do you ever think about this family? It's not all about you,

Brittany."

"I know that, Mom. I promise next time I'll call. I'm tired. Can I

just go to bed now?"

She dismisses me with a wave of her hand.

On Saturday morning I wake up to my mom's screaming. Throwing

the covers back, I rush out of bed and run down the stairs to see what

the commotion is all about.

Shelley is in her wheelchair, which is pushed up to the kitchen

table. Food is all over her mouth and splattered on her shirt and pants.

She looks like a little kid instead of a twenty-year-old.

"Shelley, if you do it again you're going to your room!" my mom

yells, then places a bowl of her blended food on the table in front of

her.

Shelley swipes it on the ground. My mom gasps, then narrows her

eyes at Shelley.

"I'll deal with it," I say, rushing to my sister.

My mom has never hit my sister. But my mom's frustration is in

overdrive, which stings just the same.

"Don't baby her, Brittany," Mom says. "If she doesn't eat, she'll be

tube fed. Would you like that?"

I hate when she does this. She'll talk about the worst possible

scenario and not work on fixing what's wrong.

When my sister looks at me, I see the same frustration in her eyes.

My mom points her finger at Shelley, then at the food on the floor.

"That's why I haven't taken you to a restaurant in months," she says.

"Mom, stop," I say. "You don't need to escalate the situation. She's

already upset. Why make it worse?"

"And what about me?"

Tension starts building, beginning inside my veins and spreading to

my fingertips and toes. It bubbles up and bursts with such force I

can't keep it inside any longer. "This isn't about you! Why does it

always go back to how everything affects you?" I scream. "Mom, can't

you see she's hurting? Instead of yelling at her, why don't you spend

the time figuring out what's wrong?"

Without thinking, I take a washcloth and kneel beside Shelley. I

start wiping her pants clean.

"Brittany, don't!" my mom yells out.

I don't listen. I should have, though, because before I can move

away Shelley's hands go in my hair and she starts pulling. Hard. With

all the commotion, I forgot my sister's new thing is pulling hair.

"Ow!" I say. "Shelley, please stop!" I'm trying to reach around and

push down on her knuckles like her doctor told us to do to make her

release her grasp, but it's no use. I'm in the wrong position, crouched

at Shelley's feet with my body twisted.

My mom is swearing, droplets of food are flying, and my scalp feels

raw already.

Shelley isn't loosening her hold, even though my mom is trying to

pull her hands away from my hair.

"Knuckles, Mom!" I yell, reminding her what Dr. Meir suggested.

Holy crap, how much hair has she pulled out? It feels like an entire

section of my head is bald.

After my reminder, my mom must have pressed hard enough on her

knuckles because my hair is released.

Either that, or Shelley pulled out whatever chunks she'd grabbed.

Falling onto the floor, I immediately put a hand to the back of my

head.

Shelley is smiling.

My mom is frowning.

And tears come to my eyes.

"I'm taking her to Dr. Meir, right now," my mom says, shaking her

head at me so I'm aware she's blaming me for the situation spiraling

out of control. "This has gone on long enough. Brittany, take your

father's car and go to O'Hare to pick him up. His flight comes in at

eleven. It's the least you can do to help."

SIXTEEN : Alex

I've been waiting at the library for an hour. Okay, so it's been an

hour and a half. Before ten, I sat outside on the cement benches. At

ten I came inside and stood looking at the display case, pretending to

be interested in upcoming library events. I didn't want to look overly

eager to see Brittany. At ten forty-five I sat on the couches in the

teen section, reading my chem book. Okay, so my eyes skimmed the

pages even if no words registered.

Now it's eleven. Where is she?

I could just go hang with my friends. Hell, I should go hang with my

friends. But I have a stupid urge to know why Brittany blew me off. I

tell myself it's an ego thing, but in the back of my mind I'm worried

about her.

She'd hinted, during her freakout in front of the nurse's office,

that her mom isn't a candidate for a Mother of the Year award.

Doesn't Brittany realize that she's eighteen now and can leave home if

she wanted? If it's that bad, why stay?

Because her parents are rich.

If I left home, my new life wouldn't be so different from my old

one. With a girl who lives on the north side, a life lacking designer

towels and a maid to pick up after you is probably worse than death.

I've had enough of standing here waiting for Brittany. I'm going to

her house, to confront her on why she ditched me. Without thinking it

through, I get on my motorcycle and head to the north side. I know

where she lives . . in the big honkin' white house with pillars flanking

the front.

I park my bike in her driveway and ring her doorbell. I clear my

throat so I don't choke on my words. Mierda, what am I gonna say to

her? And why am I feeling all insecure, like I need to impress her

because she'll judge me?

Nobody answers. I ring again.

Where's a servant or butler to answer the door when you need

one? Just as I'm about to give up and slap myself with a big dose of

what-the-fuck-do-I-think-I'm-doing, the door opens. Standing before

me is an older version of Brittany. Obviously her mom. When she takes

one look at me, her disappointing sneer is obvious.

"Can I help you?" she asks with an attitude. I sense either she

expects me to be part of the gardening crew or someone going door-to-

door harassing people. "We have a 'no soliciting policy' in this

neighborhood."

"I'm, uh, not here to solicit anythin'. My name's Alex. I just

wanted to know if Brittany was, uh, at home?"

Oh, great. Now I'm mumbling uh's every two seconds.

"No." Her steely answer matches her steely glare.

"Do you know where she went?"

Mrs. Ellis closes the door halfway, probably hoping I won't peek

inside and see her valuables and be tempted to steal them. "I don't

give out information on the whereabouts of my daughter. Now if you'll

excuse me," she says, then closes the door in my face.

I'm left standing in front of the door like a complete pendejo. For

all I know, Brittany was behind the door instructing her mom to get rid

of me. I wouldn't put it past her to play games with me.

I hate games I can't win.

I walk back to my bike with my tail between my legs, wondering if I

should feel like a kicked dog or an angry pit bull.

SEVENTEEN : Brittany

"Who's Alex?"

Those are the first words my mom asks me after I arrive back

home from the airport with my dad.

"He's a guy from school I'm partnered with for chemistry," I

answer slowly. Wait one minute. "How do you know about Alex?"

"He was here after you left for the airport. I sent him away."

As if my brain is synapsing, reality hits me.

Oh, no!

I forgot to meet Alex this morning.

Guilt sets in as I think about him waiting for me at the library. I

was the one who didn't trust him to show, but I'm the one who flaked.

He must be furious. Ugh, I'm feeling sick.

"I don't want him near the house," she says. "The neighbors will

start talking about you." Just like they talk about your sister, I know

she's thinking.

One day I hope to live in a place where I don't have to worry about

neighbors gossiping. "Fine," I tell her.

"Can't you change partners?"

"No."

"Did you try?"

"Yes, Mom. I did. Mrs. Peterson refuses to reassign partners."

"Maybe you didn't try hard enough. I'll call the school on Monday

and make them--"

I whip my attention to her, ignoring the stinging, throbbing pain in

the back of my head from where my sister ripped out the chunk of

hair. "Mom, I'll handle it. I don't need you calling the school and making

me feel like a two-year-old."

"Did that boy Alex teach you how to talk to your mother without

respect? All of a sudden you can open a mouth to me because you're

partnered with that boy?"

"Mom--"

I wish my dad was here to intervene. But he went directly to his

study to check his e-mails right after coming home. I wish he'd act as

a referee instead of sitting on the sidelines.

"Because if you start hanging out with trash like that, people will

consider you trash. That's not how your father and I have brought you

up."

Oh, no. Here comes the lecture. I'd rather eat live fish, scales and

all, than hear this right now. I know the meaning behind her words.

Shelley's not perfect, so I have to be.

I take a deep breath, trying to calm myself. "Mom, I get it. I'm

sorry."

"I'm only trying to protect you," she says. "And you throw it back in

my face."

"I know. I'm sorry. What did Dr. Meir say about Shelley?"

"He wants her to come twice a week for some evaluations. I'm

going to need your help taking her."

I don't talk to her about Ms. Small's policy about missing pom

practice, because there's no use in having both of us stressed. Besides,

I want to know why Shelley is lashing out just as much as she does . . if

not more.

Thankfully, the phone rings and my mom turns to answer it. I hurry

into my sister's room before my mom can call me back for more

discussions. Shelley is sitting by her personalized computer in her

room, tapping at the keyboard.

"Hi," I say.

Shelley looks up. She's not smiling.

I want her to know I'm not upset with her, because I know she

didn't mean to hurt me. Shelley might not even understand her own

motivations for doing things. "Want to play checkers?"

She shakes her head.

"Watch television?"

Another shake.

"I want you to know I'm not mad at you." I go closer, careful not to

get my hair within reach, and rub her back. "I love you, you know."

No answer, no head nodding, no verbal approximation. Nothing.

I sit on the edge of her bed and watch as she plays with her

computer. Every once in a while I make comments, so she knows I'm

here. She might not need me now, but I wish she did. Because I know a

time will come when she does need me and I won't be there for her.

That scares me.

A little while later I leave my sister and head for my room. I

search my Fairfield High student directory for Alex's phone number.

Flipping open my cell, I dial his number.

"Hello?" a boy's voice answers.

I take a deep breath. "Hi," I say. "Is Alex there?"

"He's out."

"Quienes?" I hear his mom asking in the background.

"Who is this?" the boy asks me.

I realize I'm chipping my nail polish off as I'm talking. "Brittany

Ellis. I'm, uh, a friend of Alex's from school."

"It's Brittany Ellis, a friend of Alex's from school," the boy

relates to his mom.

"Toma el mensaje," I hear her say.

"Are you his new girlfriend?" the boy asks.

I hear a thump and an "Ow!" and then he says, "Can I take a

message?"

"Tell him Brittany called. Here's my number . ."

EIGHTEEN : Alex

Right now I'm standing inside the warehouse where the Latino

Blood hang every night. I just finished my second or third cigarette--

I've stopped counting.

"Drink some beer and stop lookin' depressed," Paco says, throwing

me a Corona. I told him about Brittany blowing me off this morning and

all he's done is shake his head at me as if I should have known better

than to go to the north side.

I catch the can in one hand, but toss it right back. "No, thanks."

"Quetienes, ese? This stuff not good enough for you?" It's Javier,

probably the stupidest Latino Blood. El buey can control his liquor

about as well as he controls his drug use, which isn't much.

I challenge him without saying a word.

"Just kiddin', man," a drunken Javier slurs.

Nobody wants to get into it with me. During my first year as a

member of the Latino Blood, in a clash with a rival gang, I proved my

worth.

As a little kid, I thought I could save the world . . or at least save

my family. I'll never be in a gang, I told myself when I was old enough

to join one. I'll protect mi familia with my two hands. On the south side

of Fairfield, you're either in a gang or against them. I had dreams of a

future then; deluded dreams that I could stay away from gangs and

still protect my family. But those dreams died along with my future the

night my father was shot twenty feet from my six-year-old face.

When I stood over his body, all I could see was this red spot

spreading on the front of his shirt. It reminded me of a bull's-eye,