Perfect Chemistry 1 (15 page)

hair and watch as the silky strands slowly fall through the V's between

my fingers. I stop abruptly. There's a big, irritated bald spot on her

scalp in the back of her head. As if she had to have a drug test for a

job or something and they ripped out a big chunk for a sample.

As Isa backs up the car, Paco stops her and jumps into the front

seat. I quickly cover Brittany's bald spot, not wanting to show anyone

her imperfection. I'm not about to analyze my motives for that move,

since it'll cause me to think too hard. Thinking hard in my condition will

hurt badly.

"Hey, guys. I thought I'd come along for the ride," Paco says.

He turns around and sees my arm on Brittany. He tsk's and shakes

his head.

"Shut up," I tell him.

"I didn't say anythin'."

A cell phone rings. I can feel the vibration through Brittany's

pants.

"It's hers," I say.

"Answer it," Isa instructs.

I already feel like I've kidnapped the girl. Now I'm gonna answer

her cell? Shit. Rolling her a bit, I feel for the bulge in her back pocket.

"Contesta," Isa whispers loudly, this time in Spanish.

"I am," I hiss, my fingers clumsy as I fumble for the phone.

"I'll do it," Paco says, leaning over the seats and reaching toward

Brittany's ass.

I whack his hand away. "Get your hands off her."

"Geez, man, I was just tryin' to help."

My response is a glare.

I slide my fingers into her back pocket, trying not to think about

what it would feel like without her jeans in the way. I slide the phone

out inch by inch while it vibrates. When I have the phone free, I look

at the caller ID.

"It's her friend Sierra."

"Answer it," Paco says.

"Estas loco, guey? I'm not talking to one of them."

"Then why'd you get it out of her pocket?"

That's a good question. One I don't know how to answer.

Isa shakes her head. "That's what you get for mixing with a

square."

"We should take her home," Paco says. "You can't keep her."

I know that. But I'm not ready to give her up just yet. "Isa, take

her to your house."

TWENTY-ONE : Brittany

I'm having a nightmare that a thousand little Oompa Loompas are in

my head, hammering my skull. Opening my eyes to bright light, I wince.

The Oompa Loompas are still in there, and I'm awake.

"You've got a hangover," a girl says to me.

When I squint, I find Isabel standing over me. We're in what looks

like a small bedroom with walls painted a pastel yellow. Matching yellow

curtains are billowing in the wind from the open windows. It can't be

my house because we never open the windows. We always have the air-

conditioning or heat on.

I squint up at her. "Where am I?"

"My house. I wouldn't move if I were you. You might puke again and

my parents will freak if you mess up their carpeting," she says. "Lucky

for us they're out of town, so I get the house to myself until tonight."

"How did I get here?" The last thing I remember was starting to

walk home. . . .

"You passed out at the beach. Alex and I brought you here."

At the mention of Alex, my eyes open fully. I vaguely remember

drinking, then walking on the sand and finding Alex and Carmen

together. And then Alex and I . . .

Did I kiss him? I know I leaned in, but then . . .

I puked. I distinctly remember puking. Not the perfect image I'm

trying to project. I sit up slowly, hoping sometime soon my head will

stop spinning. "Did I do anything stupid?" I ask.

Isa shrugs. "I'm not sure. Alex wouldn't really let anyone get close

enough to you. If you want to call passing out in his arms stupid, then I

think you've managed it."

I drop my head in my hands. "Oh, no. Isabel, please don't tell

anyone on the squad."

She's smiling. "Don't worry. I won't tell anyone that Brittany Ellis

is in fact human."

"Why are you nice to me? I mean, when Carmen wanted to beat my

face in, you defended me. And you let me sleep here last night, even

though you made it very clear we're not friends."

"We're not friends. Carmen and I have a rivalry that goes way

back. I'd do just about anything to piss her off. She can't stand that

Alex isn't her boyfriend anymore."

"Why did they break up?"

"Ask him yourself. He's sleeping on the couch in the living room. He

passed out as soon as he carried you to my bed." Oh, no. Alex is here?

In Isabel's house? "He likes you, you know," Isabel says, looking at her

fingernails instead of at me.

Butterflies start flittering around in my stomach. "He does not," I

say, even though I'm tempted to ask for details.

She rolls her eyes. "Oh, please. You know it, even if you don't want

to admit it."

"For someone who says they'll never be friends with me, you sure

are sharing a lot this morning."

"I have to admit I kinda wish you were the bitch some people say

you are," she says.

"Why?"

"Because it's easy to hate someone who has it all."

A short, cynical laugh escapes from my mouth. I'm not about to tell

her the truth--that my life is crumbling beneath my toes just like that

sand was last night. "I've got to get home. Where's my cell?" I ask,

patting my back pocket.

"Alex has it, I think."

So sneaking out without talking to him isn't an option. I struggle to

keep the Oompa Loompas at bay as I stagger out of the bedroom,

searching for Alex.

It's not hard to find him, the house is smaller than Sierra's pool

house. Alex is lying on an old sofa, wearing jeans. Nothing else. His eyes

are open, but they're bloodshot and glazed with sleep.

"Hey," he says warmly while stretching.

Oh, God. I'm in big trouble. Because I'm staring. I can't keep my

eyes from ogling his chiseled triceps and biceps and every other ‘eps'

he has. The butterflies in my stomach have just multiplied tenfold as

my wandering gaze meets his.

"Hey." I swallow, hard. "I, urn, guess I should thank you for taking

me here instead of leaving me passed out on the beach."

His gaze doesn't falter. "Last night I realized somethin'. You and I,

we're not so different. You play the game just like I do. You use your

looks, your bod, and your brains to make sure you're always in control."

"I'm hungover, Alex. I can't even think straight and you're getting

all philosophical on me."

"See, you're playin' a game right now. Be real with me, mamacita. I

dare you."

Is he kidding? Be real? I can't. Because then I'll start crying, and

maybe freak out enough to blurt the truth--that I create a perfect

image so I can hide behind it. "I better get home."

"Before you do that, you should probably go to the bathroom," he

says.

Before I ask why, I catch a glimpse of my reflection in a mirror

hanging on the wall. "Oh, shit!" I shriek.

Black mascara is caked under my eyes and streaky lines of it are

running down my cheeks.

I resemble a corpse. Hurrying past him, I find the hall bathroom

and stare at myself in the mirror. My hair is a stringy bird's nest. If

the mascara marring my cheeks wasn't bad enough, the rest of me is as

pale as my aunt Dolores without her makeup. I have puffy bags under

my eyes as if I'm storing water for the winter months.

All in all, not a pretty sight. By anyone's standards.

I wet toilet paper and rub under my eyes and on my cheeks until

the streaks are gone. Okay, so I need my eye-makeup remover in order

to get it completely off. And my mom warned me that rubbing under my

eyes will stretch out my skin and I'll be subject to premature wrinkles.

But desperate circumstances call for desperate measures. After the

mascara streaks are unnoticeable, I dab cold water on my eye bags.

I'm fully aware that this is damage control. I can only bandage the

imperfections and hope nobody else sees me in this condition. I use my

fingers as a comb, with little results. Then I poof my hair up, hoping

the poof look will be better than the ratty-nest look.

I rinse my mouth with water and rub my teeth with some

toothpaste, hoping to get the worst of the night of puking and sleeping

and drunkenness from my mouth until I get home.

If only I had lip gloss with me. . . .

But, alas, I don't. Squaring my shoulders and keeping my head held

high, I open the door and walk back to the living room to find Isabel

walking to her room and Alex standing when he sees me.

"Where's my cell phone?" I ask. "And please put a shirt on."

He reaches down and grabs my phone off the floor. "Why?"

"The reason I need my cell," I say as I take it from him, "is to call

a cab and the reason I want you to put a shirt on is, well, because, urn .

. ."

"You've never seen a guy with his shirt off?"

"Ha, ha. Very funny. Believe me, you don't have anything I haven't

seen before."

"Wanna bet?" he says, then moves his hands to the button on his

jeans and pops it open.

Isabel walks in at that exact moment. "Whoa, Alex. Please keep

your pants on."

When she looks over at me I put my hands up. "Don't look at me. I

was just about to call a cab when he--"

Shaking her head while Alex buttons back up, she walks to her

purse and picks up a set of keys. "Forget the cab. I'll drive you home."

"I'll drive her," Alex cuts in.

Isabel seems exhausted dealing with us, similar to how Mrs.

Peterson looks during chemistry class. "Would you rather me drive you,

or Alex?" she asks.

I have a boyfriend. Okay, so I admit every time I catch Alex

looking at me a warmth spreads through my body. But it's normal.

We're two teenagers with obvious sexual tension passing between us.

As long as I never act on it, everything will be just fine.

Because if I ever did act on it, the consequences would be

disastrous. I'd lose Colin. I'd lose my friends. I'd lose the control I

have over my life.

Most of all, I'd lose what's left of my mother's love.

If I'm not seen as perfect, what happened yesterday with my mom

would seem tame. Being perfect to the outside world equates to how

my mom treats me. If any of her country club friends see me out with

Alex, my mom might as well be an outcast too. If she's shunned by her

friends, I'll be shunned by her. I can't take that chance. This is as real

as I can afford to get.

"Isabel, take me home," I say, then look at Alex.

He gives a small shake of his head, grabs his shirt and keys, and

storms out the front door without another word.

I silently follow Isabel to her car.

"You like Alex more than as a friend, don't you?" I ask.

"More like a brother. We've known each other since we were kids."

I give her directions to my house. Is she telling me the truth? "You

don't think he's hot?"

"I've known him since he cried like a baby when his ice cream fell

on the street when we were four years old. I was there when, well . . .

just leave it at the fact that we've been through a lot of stuff

together."

"Stuff? Want to elaborate?"

"Not with you."

I could almost see the invisible wall going up between us. "So our

friendship ends here?"

She looks at me sideways. "Our friendship just began, Brittany.

Don't push it."

We're coming up to my house. "It's the third one on the right," I

say.

"I know." She stops her car in front of my house, not bothering to

pull into the driveway. I look at her. She looks at me. Does she expect

me to ask her in? I don't even let good friends come into my house.

"Well, thanks for the ride," I say. "And for letting me crash at

your place."

Isabel flashes me a weak smile. "No problem."

I cling to the door handle. "I won't let anything happen between me

and Alex. Okay?" Even if there's something going on below the surface.

"Good. Because if something does, it's going to blow up in your

faces."

The Oompa Loompas start knocking again, so I can't think too hard

about her warning.

In the house, my mother and father are sitting at the kitchen

table. It's quiet. Too quiet. There are papers in front of them.

Brochures or something. They quickly straighten, like little kids caught

doing something wrong.

"I . . I thought you were st--still . . at Sierra's," my mom says. My

senses pick up. My mom never stutters. And she's not giving me shit

about the way I look. This is not good.

"I was, but I got a killer headache," I say, walking forward and

focusing on the suspicious brochures my parents are so interested in.

Sunny Acres Home for Special People.

"What are you guys doing?"

"Discussing our options," my dad says.

"Options? Didn't we all agree that sending Shelley away was a bad

idea?"

My mom turns to me. "No. You decided sending her away was a bad

idea. We were still discussing it."

"I'm going to Northwestern next year so I can live at home and

help."

"Next year you'll have to concentrate on your studies, not your

sister. Brittany, listen," my dad says, standing. "We have to look into