Perfect Chemistry

After school I’m at my locker when my friends Morgan, Madison, and Megan come up to me. Sierra calls them the Fairfield M-factor.

Morgan hugs me. “Oh my God, are you okay?” she asks, pulling away and examining me.

“I heard Colin protected you. He’s amazing. You’re so lucky, Brit,” Madison says, her signature curls bouncing with each word.

“It wasn’t a big deal,” I say, wondering what the rumor is in contrast to what really happened.

“What exactly did Alex say?” Megan asks. “Caitlin took a picture on her cell of Alex and Colin in the hallway, but I couldn’t make out what was going on.”

“You guys better not be late for practice,” Darlene yells from the end of the hallway. Just as quickly as Darlene appeared, she’s gone.

Megan opens her locker, which is next to mine, and pulls out her poms. “I hate the way Darlene kisses Ms. Small’s butt,” she says under her breath.

I close my locker and we walk toward the practice field. “I think she’s trying to focus on dance instead of obsessing about Tyler going back to college.”

Morgan rolls her eyes. “Whatever. I don’t even have a boyfriend so she gets zero sympathy from me.”

“No sympathy from my end, either. Seriously, when is that girl not dating someone?” Madison asks.

When we reach the practice field, our entire squad is sitting on the grass waiting for Ms. Small. Phew, we’re not late.

“I still can’t believe you got stuck with Alex Fuentes,” Darlene says quietly to me as I find an open spot beside her.

“Wanna switch partners?” I ask, although Mrs. Peterson would never allow it. She made that crystal clear.

Darlene sticks her tongue out in full gross-out mode and whispers, “No way. I never go slumming on the south side. Mixing with that crowd’ll get you nothing but trouble. Remember last year when Alyssa McDaniel dated that one guy . . . what was his name?”

“Jason Avila?” I say in a low voice.

Darlene does a little shiver. “In a matter of weeks Alyssa went from being cool to being an outcast. The south side girls hated her for taking one of their guys and she stopped hanging with us. The confused little couple was on an island all alone. Thank God Alyssa broke up with 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 arm. “Here, this is for you.”

I reach in the bag and pull out a light blue Geren Ford designer top. “Thanks,” I say, not making a big deal about it in front of Shelley, who didn’t get anything from my mom. Not that my sister cares. She’s too focused on the best-and worst-dressed pictures of celebrities and all their shiny jewelry.

“It’ll go with those dark denims I bought you last week,” she says as she pulls out frozen steaks from the freezer and starts defrosting them in the micro wave. “So . . . how was everything with Baghda when you got home?”

“Not the best,” I tell her. “You really need to train her.” I’m not surprised she doesn’t respond.

My dad walks through the door a minute later, grumbling about work. He owns a computer chip manufacturing company and has prepped us that this is a lean year, but my mom still goes out and buys stuff and my dad still bought me a BMW for my birthday.

“What’s for dinner?” my dad asks as he loosens his tie. He looks tired and worn, as usual.

My mom glances at the micro wave. “Steak.”

“I’m not in the mood for heavy food,” he says. “Just something light.”

My mom turns off the micro wave in a huff. “Eggs? Spaghetti?” she says, listing suggestions to deaf ears.

My dad walks out of the kitchen. Even when he’s physically here, his mind is still on the job. “Whatever. Just something light,” he calls out.

It’s times like these I feel sorry for my mom. She doesn’t get much attention from my dad. He’s either working or on a business trip or just plain doesn’t want to deal with us. “I’ll make a salad,” I tell her as I pull lettuce out of the fridge.

She seems thankful, if her small smile is any indication, for the help. We work side-by-side in silence. I set the table while my mom brings the salad, scrambled eggs, and toast to the table. She mumbles complaints about not being appreciated, but I figure she wants me to listen and not say anything. Shelley is still busy looking at her magazines, oblivious to the tension between my parents.

“I’m going to China on Friday for two weeks,” my dad announces as he comes back to the kitchen in sweatpants and a T-shirt. He plops himself down at his usual spot at the head of the table and spoons eggs onto his plate. “Our supplier there is shipping defective material and I’ve got to find out what the deal is.”

“What about the DeMaio wedding? It’s this weekend and we already RSVP’d.”

My dad drops his fork and looks at my mom. “Yeah, I’m sure the DeMaios’ kid’s wedding is more important than keeping my business afloat.”

“Bill, I didn’t insinuate your business is less important,” she says, dropping her own fork on her plate. It’s a wonder our plates don’t have permanent chips in them. “It’s just rude to cancel these things at the last minute.”

“You can go by yourself.”

“And have rumors start because you’re not accompanying me? No thank you.”

This is typical Ellis dinner conversation. My dad saying how hard work is, my mom trying to keep up the facade that we’re a happy-go-lucky family, and me and Shelley quiet on the sidelines.

“How was school?” my mom finally asks me.

“Okay,” I say, omitting the fact that I got stuck with Alex as a partner. “I got a really tough teacher for chemistry.”

“You probably shouldn’t have taken chemistry,” my dad chimes in. “If you don’t get an A, your GPA’ll go down. Northwestern is a tough school to get into, and they won’t give you a break just because it’s my alma mater.”

“I got it, Dad,” I say, totally depressed now. If Alex isn’t serious about our project, how am I going to get an A on it?

“Shelley had a new caretaker start today,” my mom informs him. “Remember?”

He shrugs because the last time a caretaker quit, he insisted Shelley should live in some facility instead of at home. I never remember screaming so much as I did then, because I’m never letting them send Shelley to a place where they’ll neglect my sister and not understand her. I need to keep an eye on her. That’s why it’s so important for me to get into Northwestern. If I’m close to home, then I can live here and make sure my parents don’t send her away.

At nine Megan calls to complain about Darlene. She thinks Darlene changed over the summer and now has a big ego because she’s dating a college guy. At nine thirty Darlene calls to say she suspects Megan is jealous because she’s dating a guy in college. At nine forty-five Sierra calls to tell me she talked to both Megan and Darlene tonight and she doesn’t want to get in the middle of it. I agree, although I think we already are.

It’s ten forty-five before I finally finish the respect paper for Mrs. Peterson and help my mom put Shelley to bed. I’m so exhausted my head feels as if it’s about to fall off.

Sliding into bed after I’ve changed into my pj’s, I dial Colin’s number.

“Hey, babe,” he says. “What’re you up to?”

“Not much. I’m in bed. Did you have fun at Doug’s?”

“Not as much fun as I would’ve had if you were there.”

“When did you get back?”

“About an hour ago. I’m so glad you called.”

I pull my big pink comforter up to my chin and sink my head into my fluffy down pillow. “Oh, really?” I say, fishing for a compliment and speaking with my flirty voice. “Why?”

He hasn’t told me he loves me in a long time. I know he’s not the most affectionate person in the world. My dad isn’t, either. I need to hear it from Colin. I want to hear he loves me. I want to hear he missed me. I want to hear him say I’m the girl of his dreams.

Colin clears his throat. “We’ve never had phone sex.”

Okay, those so aren’t the words I expected. I shouldn’t be disappointed or surprised. He’s a teenage guy and I know guys are focused on sex and fooling around. This afternoon I pushed away the feeling in the pit of my stomach when I read Alex’s words about having hot sex. Little does he know I’m a virgin.

Colin and I have never had sex, period. Phone sex or real sex. We got close in April last year at the beach behind Sierra’s house, but I chickened out. I wasn’t ready.

“Phone sex?”

“Yeah. Touch yourself, Brit. And then tell me what you’re doing. It’ll totally turn me on.”

“While I’m touching myself, what’ll you be doing?” I ask him.

“Choking the gopher. What’d you think I’d do, my homework?”

I laugh. Mostly it’s a nervous laugh because we haven’t seen each other in a couple of months, we haven’t talked all that much, and now he wants to go from “hi, nice to see you after a summer apart” to “touch yourself while I choke the gopher” in one day. I feel like I’m in the middle of a Pat McCurdy song.

“Come on, Brit,” Colin says. “Think of it as practice before we do the real thing. Take off your shirt and touch yourself.”

“Colin . . . ,” I say.

“What?”

“Sorry, but I’m not into it. Not now, at least.”

“You sure?”

“Yeah. You mad?”

“No,” he says. “I thought it’d be fun to spice up our relationship.”

“I didn’t know we were boring.”

“School . . . football practice . . . hanging out. I guess after a summer away I’m sick of the same old routine. The entire summer I’ve been waterskiing, wakeboarding, and off-roading. Things that get your heart racing and blood pumping, you know? Pure adrenaline rush.”

“Sounds awesome.”

“It was. Brit?”

“Yeah.”

“I’m ready for that adrenaline rush . . . with you.”