Perfect Chemistry

“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.”

“¿Quién es?” 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 . . .”