Perfect Chemistry

I’m steaming mad as I pull into the library parking lot and park next to the woods at the far end of the lot. The last thing on my mind is our chemistry project.

Alex is waiting for me, leaning against his motorcycle. I take the keys out of the ignition and storm over to him. “How dare you order me around!” I yell. My entire life is full of people trying to control me. My mom . . . Colin. And now Alex. I’m done with it. “If you think you can threaten me into—”

Without saying anything Alex snatches my keys out of my hand and sits in the driver’s seat of my Beemer.

“Alex, what do you think you’re doing?”

“Get in.”

The engine roars. He’s going to drive off and leave me stranded in the library parking lot.

Clenching my fists, I stomp to the passenger side. When I’m in, Alex revs the engine.

“Where’s my picture of Colin?” I ask, eyeing my dashboard. It was taped up there a minute ago.

“Don’t worry, you’ll get it back. I don’t have the stomach to look at it while I’m drivin’.”

“Do you even know how to drive a stick?” I bark out.

Without blinking or looking down, he puts the car into first gear and the car screeches out of the lot. My Beemer follows his lead as if the car and Alex are completely in sync.

“This is carjacking, you know.” Silence. “And kidnapping,” I add.

We’re stopped at a light. I look at the cars around us, glad the top is up so no one can see us.

“Mira, you got in on your own free will,” he says.

“It’s my car. What if someone sees us?”

My words really piss him off, because the tires screech angrily when the light turns green. He’s purposely ruining my car.

“Stop it!” I order. “Take me back to the library.”

But he doesn’t. He’s silent as he winds my car through unknown towns and deserted roads, just like people do in the movies when they drive to meet dangerous drug dealers.

Great. I’m going on my first drug deal. If I get arrested, will my parents come bail me out? I wonder how my mom’s going to explain that one to her friends. Maybe they’ll send me away to some military boot camp for delinquents. I bet they’d like that . . . making Shelley go to a facility and me to boot camp.

My life would suck even more.

I will not be a part of anything illegal. I am the ruler of my destiny, not Alex. I grab the handle to the door. “Let me out of here or I swear I’m jumping out.”

“You’re wearin’ a seatbelt.” He rolls his eyes. “Relax. We’ll be there in two minutes.” He shifts into a lower gear and slows the car as we enter an old, deserted airport. “Okay, we’re here,” he says as he pulls up the parking brake.

“Yeah, okay. But where is here? I hate to tell you but the last inhabited place was, like, three miles back. I’m not getting out of the car, Alex. You can do your drug deals on your own.”

“If I had any doubts you were a true blond, you’ve squelched them,” he says. “As if I’d take you on a drug deal. Get out of the car.”

“Give me one good reason why I should?”

“Because if you don’t, I’m gonna drag you out. Trust me, mujer.”

He puts my keys in his back pocket and steps out of my car. Seeing no other options, I follow him. “Listen, if you wanted to discuss our hand warmers we could have done it over the phone.”

He meets me around the back of my car. We’re standing, toe to toe, in the middle of nowhere.

There’s been something nagging at me all day. As long as I’m here with him, I might as well ask. “Did we kiss last night?”

“Yes.”

“Well, it wasn’t memorable because I have no recollection of it.”

He laughs. “I was kiddin’. We didn’t kiss.” He leans in. “When we kiss you’ll remember it. Forever.”

Oh, God. I wish his words didn’t leave my knees weak. I know I should be scared, alone with a gang member in a deserted place talking about kissing. But I’m not. Deep in my soul I know he wouldn’t intentionally hurt me or force me to do anything.

“Why did you kidnap me?” I ask.

He grabs my hand and leads me to the driver’s side. “Get in.”

“Why?”

“I’m teachin’ you how to drive this car properly, before the engine falls out from abuse.”

“I thought you were mad at me. Why are you helping me?”

“Because I want to.”

Oh. I wasn’t expecting that at all. My heart is starting to thaw, because it’s been a long time since someone cared enough to do something just to help me. Although . . . “This isn’t because you want me to pay you back with favors, is it?”

He shakes his head.

“For real?”

“For real.”

“And you’re not mad at me because of anything I said or did?”

“I’m frustrated, Brittany. About you. About my brother. About a lot of shit.”

“Then why take me here?”

“Don’t ask questions you’re not ready to hear the answer to. Cool?”

“Cool.” I slide into the driver’s seat and wait for him to sit beside me.

“You ready?” he asks when he’s settled and buckled in the passenger seat.

“Yep.”

He leans over and puts the keys in the ignition. When I release the parking brake and start the car, it dies.

“You didn’t put it in neutral. If you don’t have your foot on the clutch, it’s gonna die if you’re in gear.”

“I knew that,” I say, feeling totally stupid. “You’re just making me nervous.”

He puts the stick into neutral for me. “Put your left foot on the clutch, your right foot on the brake, and go into first,” he instructs.

Putting my foot on the gas and letting up on the clutch, the car jerks forward.

He braces himself with his hand on the dash. “Stop.”

I stop the car and put it in neutral.

“You’ve got to find the sweet spot.”

I look at him. “The sweet spot?”

“Yeah. You know, when the clutch catches.” He’s using his hands when he talks, pretending his hands are the pedals. “You release it too fast. Get that balance and stay there . . . feel it out. Try again.”

I put the car in first again and let up on the clutch as I press on the gas.

“Hold it . . . ,” he says. “Feel the sweet spot. Linger there.”

I let out the clutch and hold down the gas pedal but don’t push down on it all the way. “I think I got it.”

“Let go of the clutch now, but don’t gun the gas.”

I try, but the car jerks, then stalls.

“You popped the clutch. Don’t release the clutch too fast. Try again,” he says, totally unfazed. He’s not upset, frustrated, or itching to give up. “You needed to give it more gas. Don’t gun it, but give it enough juice to start movin’.”

I do the same steps, but this time the car moves forward without jerking. We’re on the runway, moving up to ten miles an hour.

“Press in the clutch,” he instructs, then puts his hand over mine on the stick and helps me shift into second. I try to ignore his gentle touch and the warmth of his hand, so contradictory to his personality, and attempt to focus on the task.

He’s very patient as he instructs in detail how to downshift until we’ve come to a stop at the end of the runway. His fingers are still wrapped around mine.

“Lesson over?” I ask.

Alex clears his throat. “Um, yeah.” He takes his hand off mine, then weaves his fingers through his black mane, strands falling loosely across his forehead.

“Thanks,” I say.

“Yeah, well, my ears were bleedin’ every time I heard your engine rev in the lot at school. I didn’t do it to be a good guy.”

I cock my head to the side and try and get him to look at me. He doesn’t. “Why is it so important that you’re perceived as a bad boy, huh? Tell me.”