Perfect Chemistry 1 (5 page)

him."

Ms. Small walks toward us with her CD player, complaining about

someone moving it from her usual spot and that's why she's late.

When Ms. Small tells us to stretch, Sierra nudges Darlene over so

she can talk to me.

"You are in big trouble, girl," Sierra says.

"Why?"

Sierra has ‘super’ eyes and ears; she knows everything going on at

Fairfield.

My best friend says, "Rumor has it Carmen Sanchez is looking for

you."

Oh, no. Carmen is Alex's girlfriend. I'm trying not to freak out and

think the worst, but Carmen is tough, from her red-painted fingernails

all the way down to her black, stiletto-heeled boots. Is she jealous I'm

Alex's chem partner, or does she think I reported her boyfriend to

the principal today?

The truth is I didn't report him. I got called into Dr. Aguirre's

office because someone who'd seen the parking incident and witnessed

our confrontation on the steps this morning reported it. Which was

ridiculous because nothing happened.

Aguirre didn't believe me. He thought I was too scared to tell him

the truth. I wasn't scared then.

But I am now.

Carmen Sanchez can kick my butt any day of the week. She

probably practices with weapons, and the only weapon I know how to

use is, well, my pom-poms. Call me crazy but somehow I doubt my poms

will scare off a girl like Carmen.

Maybe in a word war I would make a good showing, but definitely

not in a fistfight. Guys fight because of some primal, innate gene that

makes them prove themselves physically.

Maybe Carmen wants to prove something to me, but there is

seriously no need. I'm no threat, but how do I let her know that? It's

not like I'm going to go up to her and say, "Hey, Carmen, I'm not going

to make a move on your boyfriend and I never reported him to Dr.

Aguirre." Or maybe I should. . . .

Most people think nothing bothers me. I'm not going to let them

know something does. I've worked too long and hard to keep up this

facade and I'm not about to lose it all because some gang member and

his girlfriend are testing me.

"I'm not worrying about it," I tell Sierra.

My best friend shakes her head. "I know you, Brit. You're

stressing," she whispers.

Now that statement worries me more than the idea of Carmen

looking for me. Because I try really hard to keep everyone at a

distance . . . not really knowing what it's truly like to be me or what it's

like to live at my house. But I've let Sierra know more about me than

everyone else. I wonder if I should back off from our friendship

sometimes, to make sure she's kept at arm's length.

Logically, I know I'm paranoid. Sierra is a true friend; she was even

there when I cried last year about my mom's nervous breakdown but

never revealed the reason. She let me cry it out, even when I refused

to give her details.

I don't want to end up like my mom. That's my biggest fear in life.

Ms. Small has us get in formation, then plays the custom music

made for our squad by the music department while I count off. It's a

mixture of hip-hop and rap music, specially mixed for our routine.

We've titled our routine ‘Big, Bad Bulldogs’ because our team mascot is

the bulldog. My body hums to the beat. That's what I love about being

part of the squad. It's the music that pulls me in and makes me forget

about my problems at home. Music is my drug, the one thing that makes

me numb.

"Ms. Small, can we try starting in the broken T position instead of

the T position like we previously practiced?" I say. "Then go into the

low V and high V combos with Morgan, Isabel, and Caitlin moving to the

front. I think it'll look cleaner."

Ms. Small smiles, obviously pleased with my suggestion. "Good idea,

Brittany. Let's try it. We'll start in the broken T position, elbows bent.

During the transition I want Morgan, Isabel, and Caitlin in the front

row. Remember to keep your shoulders down. Sierra, please make your

wrists an extension of your arms instead of bending them."

"Yes, ma'am," Sierra says from behind me.

Ms. Small plays the music again. The beat, the lyrics, the

instruments . . . they all seep into my veins and lift me up no matter

how low I feel. As I dance in sync with the other girls, I forget about

Carmen and Alex and my mom and everything else.

The song is over too quickly. I still want to move to the beat and

the lyrics when Ms. Small turns off her CD player. The second time

around is better, but our formation needs work and some of the new

girls are having a hard time with the steps.

"Brittany, you teach the basic moves to the new girls and then we'll

try it as a group again. Darlene, you lead the rest of the squad in

reviewing the steps," Ms. Small instructs as she hands me the CD

player.

Isabel is in my group. She kneels down to take a drink from her

water bottle. "Don't worry about Carmen," she says. "Most of the time

her bark is worse than her bite."

"Thanks," I say. Isabel looks tough, with her red Latino Blood

bandanna, three eyebrow rings, and hands always folded on her chest

when she's not doing the routines. But she has kind eyes. And smiles a

lot. Her smile softens her harsh appearance, although if she put a pink

bow in her hair instead of a red Latino Blood bandanna I bet she'd

actually look girly. "You're in my chemistry class, aren't you?" I ask.

She nods.

"And you know Alex Fuentes?"

She nods again.

"Are the rumors about him true?" I ask carefully, not knowing how

she's going to react to my prying. If I'm not careful, I'll have a long

list of people who are out to get me.

Isabel's long brown hair moves as she talks. "Depends on which

ones you're referring to."

As I'm about to rattle off the list of rumors outlining Alex's drug

use and police arrests, Isabel stands. "Listen, Brittany," she says. "You

and me, we'll never be friends. But I have to tell you, no matter how

much of a jerk Alex was to you today, he's not as bad as the rumors.

He's even not as bad as he'd like to think he is."

Before I can ask another question, Isabel is back in formation.

An hour and a half later, when we're all exhausted and crabby and

even I've had enough, we're dismissed from practice. I make a point of

walking over to a sweating Isabel and telling her what a good job she

did today on the routine.

"Really?" she asks, looking surprised.

"You're a fast learner," I tell her. It's true. For a girl who never

tried out for poms the first three years of high school, she's caught

on to the routine really fast. "That's why we put you on the front line."

While Isabel's mouth is still open in shock, I wonder if she believes

the rumors she's heard about me. No, we'll never be friends. But I can

tell we'll never be enemies, either.

After practice I walk to my car with Sierra, who's busy texting her

boyfriend, Doug, on her cell.

A piece of paper is tucked under one of my windshield wipers. I pull

it off. It's Alex's blue detention slip.

Crumpling it up, I shove it into my book bag.

"What was that?" Sierra asks.

"Nothing," I say, hoping she gets the hint that I don't want to talk

about it.

"Guys, wait up!" Darlene yells, running up to us. "I saw Colin on the

football field. He said to wait for him."

I look at my watch. It's almost six and I want to get home to help

Baghda make my sister's dinner. "I can't."

"Doug texted me back," Sierra says, "He's invited us for pizza at

his house."

"I can come," Darlene says. "I've been so bored now that Tyler is

back at Purdue and I probably won't see him for weeks."

Sierra is still texting away. "I thought you were gonna visit him

next weekend."

Darlene stands with her hands on her hips. "Well, that was until he

called and said all the pledges in the fraternity had to sleep at the frat

house for some crazy initiation thing. As long as Tyler's penis is intact

when it's all over, I'm happy."

At the mention of ‘penis,’ I search for my keys in my purse. When

Darlene gets to talking about penises and sex, stand back because she

never stops. And since I'm not one to share my sexual experiences (or

lack thereof), I'm out of here. A perfect time to escape.

As I dangle my keys on my fingers, Sierra tells me she'll get a ride

from Doug, so I'm alone during the drive home. I like being alone.

Nobody to put on an act for. I can even blast the music if I want.

Enjoying the music is short-lived, though, when I feel my phone

vibrate. I pull my cell out of my pocket. Two voice messages and one

text message. All from Colin.

I call him on his cell. "Brit, where are you?" he asks.

"On my way home."

"Come over to Doug's."

"My sister has a new caretaker," I explain. "I have to help her out."

"Are you still pissed because I threatened your gangbanger

chemistry partner?"

"I'm not pissed. I'm annoyed. I told you I could handle it and you

totally ignored me. And you caused a whole scene in the hallway. You

know I didn't ask to be partners with him," I tell Colin.

"I know, Brit. I just hate that guy. Don't be mad."

"I'm not," I say. "I just hate seeing you get all riled up for no

reason."

"And I hated seeing that guy whispering in your ear." I feel a

headache coming on, full force. I don't need Colin to make a scene

every time a guy so much as talks to me. He's never done that before

and it left me open for more scrutiny and gossip, something I never

want to happen.

"Let's just forget it ever happened."

"Fine by me. Call me tonight," he says. "But if you can get out early

and can come to Doug's, I'll be there."

When I get home, Baghda is in Shelley's room on the first floor.

She's attempting to change her special leak-proof undergarments, but

she has Shelley in the wrong position. Her head is usually where her

feet are, one leg is dangling off the bed . . . it's a disaster and Baghda

is huffing and puffing as if it's the most difficult task she's ever

attempted. Did my mom check her credentials?

"I'll do it," I tell Baghda, pushing her aside and taking over. I've

changed my sister's underwear since we were kids. It's not fun

changing the undergarments of a person who weighs more than you do,

but if you do it right it doesn't take long and it doesn't become a big,

drawn-out deal.

My sister smiles wide when she sees me. "Bwiee!" My sister can't

enunciate words, but she uses verbal approximations.

‘Bwiee’ means ‘Brittany,’ and I smile back while situating her better

on her bed. "Hey, girlie girl. You hungry for dinner?" I ask as I pull

wipes from the container and try not to think about the task I'm doing.

As I slip new leak-proof underwear on her and slide her legs into a

fresh pair of sweats, Baghda watches from the sidelines. I try

explaining while doing the task, but one glance at Baghda and I can tell

she's not listening.

"Your mother said I can leave when you got home," Baghda says.

"That's fine," I say as I wash my hands, and before I know it

Baghda has Houdini'd on me.

I wheel Shelley into the kitchen. Our usually pristine kitchen is a

disaster. Baghda hasn't cleaned up the dishes, which are now piled in

the sink, and she didn't do such a hot job of wiping the floor after

Shelley's earlier mess.

I prepare Shelley's dinner and wipe up the mess.

Shelley drawls out the word ‘school,’ which really sounds like ‘cool,’

but I know what she means.

"Yeah, it was my first day back," I tell her as I blend her food and

set it on the table. I spoon soupy food into her mouth while I keep

talking. "And my new chemistry teacher, Mrs. Peterson, should be a

boot camp instructor. I scanned the syllabus. The woman can't go a

week without scheduling a test or a quiz. This year isn't going to be

easy."

My sister looks at me, decoding what I've told her. Her intense

expression says she's giving me support and understanding without

having to say the words. Because every word that comes out of her

mouth is a struggle. Sometimes I want to say the words for her

because I feel her frustration as if it's my own.

"You didn't like Baghda?" I ask quietly.

My sister shakes her head. And she doesn't want to talk about it; I

can tell by the way she tenses her mouth.

"Be patient with her," I tell her. "It's not easy coming into a new

house and not knowing what to do."

When Shelley finishes eating, I bring her magazines so she can

scan them. My sister loves magazines. While she's busy flipping pages,

I stick some cheese between two slices of bread for my own dinner

then sit at the table to start my homework while I eat.

I hear the garage door open just as I pull out the notebook paper

Mrs. Peterson gave me to write my ‘respect’ paper.

"Brit, where are you?" my mom yells from the foyer.

"In the kitchen," I call out.

My mom saunters into the kitchen with a Neiman Marcus bag on her