Can't Beat the Chemistry Page 3

  ‘The research into Cas9 looks interesting,’ he says, not looking up.

  Yes! But all I give him is a noncommittal ‘Hmm’ as I shove my hands under my thighs.

  As he reads, Jason runs a hand through his hair, attempting to tame the few rogue strands that just won’t stay off his forehead. Zac Efron, eh? I squint, and well, maybe Sandy is onto something. Although Jason’s hair is a lot darker than the movie star’s, and his eyes are a pale blue, whereas Efron’s are … well, I wouldn’t know what colour Zac Efron’s eyes are.

  My own eyes take in the rest of him. His face is more angles than planes: straight ski-slope nose, defined razor-blade jaw, two smooth hollows for cheeks, like he’s permanently sucking them in. My gaze strays to his lips. They’re a pale pink, top lip slightly bowed. Nice. Even if they do look a bit pouty with that sucked-in cheek thing he keeps doing. They’re also the only soft-looking feature in amongst all his stark seriousness. Maybe the contrast is nothing more than a trick of the coffee shop’s light. Only one way to find out.

  The thought shoots sparks of excitement up my spine, followed closely by the cold, clammy hand of self-doubt. What am I doing, thinking about testing the softness of Jason’s lips? My only experience with this kind of thing amounts to ten minutes of awkward groping with Michael Chang in Aunt Maylin’s crammed laundry after Chinese New Year dinner last January. Just what every girl dreams of: a first—and very overdue—make-out session involving a bum wedged into a basket of dirty clothes.

  Jason McNeil is one personal project I want to pass with more than an average grade.

  I’m about to compare the rest of his physical attributes to Zac Efron’s when Jason cuts my inspection short.

  ‘I’m happy to put CRISPRS on our shortlist.’ He closes the magazine and puts it back on the pile. ‘But I think we should give other areas of biotechnology consideration. It’s never a good idea to make a decision as big as this without exploring all possibilities.’

  I swallow the sudden wave of disappointment and remind myself Jason was a finalist in the Siemens competition last year. That alone is enough motivation for me to curb my urge to argue.

  I force a smile instead. ‘Of course. Like you, I’m open to suggestions.’

  He smiles back. The action sends the softness of his lips across the angles and planes of his face, and some of my disappointment disappears.

  Jason bends, rummages in his bag, then turns towards me so swiftly I lean back in my chair. ‘I also came prepared.’ He dumps his own stack of periodicals on the table, all marked with Post-its.

  Like mine.

  The rest of my disappointment evaporates and I smile. This time there’s nothing forced about it.

  Jason points out a selection of articles. ‘How about you read these over the weekend and I’ll read yours? We can decide on a project topic next week when we meet up again.’

  I nod. ‘Sounds fair.’ And it is only fair that I take Jason’s suggestions as seriously as I want him to take mine.

  ‘First thing Monday morning good for you?’ Jason looks at me expectantly. ‘To meet up again, that is. We could meet before our nine o’clock lecture.’

  First thing, eh? Nice and eager, I like that. I nod. ‘Monday morning is—’ then I remember, ‘—no good.’

  My mixed head-nod no-good message has Jason bunching his brows.

  I slump a little in my chair. ‘I have a tutoring student.’

  ‘Oh.’ Jason’s cheeks cave a fraction further as he purses his mouth. ‘This tutoring student won’t interfere with your commitment to the assignment, right?’

  ‘What? No!’ I sit bolt upright again. ‘It’s nothing. I … he’s a friend of my brother’s. He just needs some help with his chemistry work leading up to exams.’

  Jason leans back in his seat, hands reaching for his stack of science journals. ‘MJ, I can’t work with someone who doesn’t take this as seriously as I do, so if you’re not sure, I can always ask Professor P for a new—’

  ‘No! I’m fully committed.’ I slap a hand on the periodical pile and swallow my rising panic. ‘I won’t let it interfere, I promise.’ So much for earning brownie points in the brains department. The way Jason is cocking his head and eyeing me sceptically, he’s not too keen on me sharing my brains with anyone other than him.

  I offer him a reassuring smile. ‘It won’t interfere.’ At least that’s the truth, because I’ll dump Luke’s chem-challenged backside the minute it looks like it might stand in the way of me partnering Jason. Schooling my face into what I hope is a no-nonsense expression, I grab hold of Jason’s forearm. He’s sinewy beneath the cotton of his long-sleeve T-shirt. ‘Trust me, I’m committed.’

  He regards me a moment longer but then smiles, warmth tugging at his angles and planes. ‘I guess if you make sure it’s not a problem …’

  Relief has me sagging in my chair. ‘What about Monday lunch instead?’ We’re in the same first year science classes thanks to the Head Start program.

  He considers this for a moment. ‘Monday lunch is good,’ he says, pulling over my pile of periodicals. ‘You know, I’m glad Professor P suggested you as my assignment partner. I think he’s right about us working well together.’

  His gaze drops to my mouth, only for a second, but it’s enough to send tingles dancing all over my lips. Monday lunch can’t come soon enough. Unfortunately, I have to endure Monday morning’s tutoring session first.

  Luke

  Oh Tutor, My Tutor

  My plan is simple: get to the library before MJ does. Call it juvenile, but I figure arriving before her will give me the upper hand. I’d bet a new set of Zildjian cymbals she’s the über-organised type—bookshelves sorted in alphabetical order, T-shirts stacked in colour-coordinated towers. Being on time is part and parcel of that kind of package.

  I usually avoid people like her. My lack of organisation tends to disappoint the MJs of this world. No such luxury this time; I need the über-organised little hedgehog to pass my chem final.

  The peace lawn behind the library is close to deserted. It’s only the hardcore-8am-lecture students trekking across it in the bite of the eight-degree morning. I feel like a fraud trudging in the same direction. You take chemistry? The stunned disbelief in MJ’s voice bounced around in my brain all weekend. By Sunday I was so rattled I started messaging Theo with instructions to tell his sister not to bother showing up this morning. If it hadn’t been for Rosie demanding my constant attention, I would have pressed send.

  Beating MJ to the library is my way of reclaiming some control over this messed-up situation. Juvenile? Maybe. But at this point it’s all I’ve got.

  Or not.

  I stumble to a stop at the bottom of the library stairs, blink, rub my eyes. I’m barely awake so they can’t be trusted but … you’ve got to be kidding me. Arms crossed over her overcoat, back straight as a 2B pencil, she’s already here.

  Goodbye, upper hand.

  I breathe out, my defeat clouding in the frigid air.

  ‘Morning.’ I try for light and weightless but the word sticks to my tongue. Not the best day to skip my morning coffee. I climb the steps to where she’s standing. ‘You know the library doesn’t open ’til eight, right?’

  Her lips flatten. ‘The library might not open ’til eight but the twenty-four-hour study space is open—’ she points to the sign on the sliding glass door to the left of the entrance, ‘—twenty-four hours.’ One delicate brow arches. Slowly. Like the fact I may have forgotten this has earned me a strike against my name on one of her lists somewhere.

  ‘I’ve been here studying since seven.’ Her chin lifts. ‘While you’ve been sleeping off the consequences of your wild weekend by the looks of things.’

  Whoa! Hold up one damn minute. ‘Consequences of my wild what? Why … what makes you think I’ve been sleeping off anything?’

  She eases c
loser and assesses my face like she’s looking at bacteria under a microscope. ‘Those rings under your eyes either mean you were partying all weekend or you’re hiding a more serious habit.’

  Talk about regretting skipping my morning coffee. Somehow I manage to keep from rubbing at the dark circles MJ sees as evidence of a wild night. I’m tired, that’s about as obvious as the unimpressed scowl on her face, but partying isn’t the reason. As for a more serious habit, I might be failing chemistry but I’m not stupid enough to touch drugs. This morning’s Night of the Living Dead impersonation is all thanks to Rosie. The past few weekends she’s been clingy, not wanting me to leave. Which means I have to wait until she’s asleep before heading back to the apartment. By the time I crawled under the sheets after the drive back last night, it was well after two. Getting up this morning was an effort—one MJ clearly doesn’t appreciate. Besides, didn’t she say eight o’clock? Some deep-buried defensive instinct has me crossing my own arms.

  ‘I’m here, aren’t I?’ I glance at my watch—five to eight. ‘Early even.’

  Her nose twitches. ‘I’m telling you now, I won’t work with you if you don’t take this seriously.’ The strap of her messenger bag slips off her shoulder. She hoists it back into place like she’s steadying a rifle, then takes another shot at me. ‘I refuse to work with you if you show up after a bender.’

  Drugs? A bender? ‘You got all this from a couple of dark rings under my eyes?’

  Both her brows lift; a silent invitation to contradict her self-righteous assumption.

  Man, I so don’t need this crap. Especially on a non-caffeinated Monday morning.

  A guy I recognise from my chem tute walks up to the library doors and the reason I’m here floods back on the tide of my unfortunate reality—I do need this crap. I need to pass chemistry.

  I sigh and unfold my arms. ‘I drive home to Muswellbrook every weekend. It’s a good two-hour trip, that’s if there’s no pile up on the highway. I didn’t make it back ’til early this morning.’

  She doesn’t lose her barbed wire attitude but at least my explanation makes her scowl disappear.

  ‘Well … fine.’ Another one of those damn annoying nose twitches. ‘But make sure it doesn’t happen again.’ She gives her bag strap another yank and marches through the now-open library doors.

  With a shake of my head, I follow. Mental note: don’t forget to buy coffee before the next session with the prickly little hedgehog. Large espresso, double shot.

  MJ

  This Isn’t Going to Work

  Despite barely managing to keep his eyes open, I feel the weight of Luke’s stare between my shoulder blades as he follows me into the library. Most of the study booths are empty this early in the day—testament to the stereotype that university students sleep late. I like studying here nice and early. Mornings at the boarding house are crazy with Year 7 girls frantically searching for missing bits of their school uniform while the choral group seniors use the showers as their personal rehearsal space.

  So, Drummer Boy claims he drives home every weekend, eh? Isn’t the whole point of uni to get away from home, not run back? Or try to get out of home earlier, like me.

  Mum wasn’t pleased when I asked to become a weekly boarder at the start of Year 11. She would have much preferred I stayed at home where she could keep a closer eye on me in my final years of high school, but with the long hours she works and all the travelling Dad does for his job, I convinced her boarding would be a good option, at least during the week. I didn’t bother pushing for full-time boarding. No chance of that in Meike Olsen-Wang’s hawk-eyed hell. Thankfully, her and Dad agreed to the weekday-only arrangement. I desperately needed the distance to breathe.

  I’d toed the academic line through all of high school, never complaining about the extra tutoring or the Saturday classes. I stayed quiet about never having friends over and always having to say no when someone invited me to a birthday party or a sleepover or, heaven forbid, something as frivolous as a night at the movies.

  Sometimes, in my own way, I pushed back. I’d practise that day’s piano sonata only four times instead of five. Or deliberately skip a few questions in the allocated chapter of my Extension Maths textbook. Sometimes, despite the sick feeling it caused in the pit of my stomach, I’d even arrive at a class a few minutes late.

  Small rebellions, I know. Pathetic, even. Never anything that might have brought Meike Olsen-Wang’s Viking-ancestor wrath down on me. Never anything that carried lasting consequences. I’m not that brave.

  Not like Theo.

  I slide into the study booth and motion for Luke to do the same. The faux leather creaks under our weight as we settle. ‘First off, you should tell me where you think your deficiencies lie.’

  ‘My deficiencies?’ His brows bunch as he unzips his fleece-lined hoodie.

  ‘Your deficiencies: the areas in which you have a lack, a shortcoming—where you need my help.’

  His jaw clenches and he stares at me without answering. I watch something like indecision flicker in his eyes. They’re parakeet green. Nice enough, but I don’t know what Sandy is fussing about.

  When the silence starts to become uncomfortable, I sigh. ‘Which sections of the exam did you get the worst marks in?’

  He works his jaw some more. ‘Chemical reactions and energy flows.’

  ‘Is that all?’ If he’s failing that can’t be all.

  He leans back in his seat, making the upholstery protest again. ‘And modelling bonding in molecules. They’re my main … deficiencies.’

  There are sure to be more but it’s enough to start with. ‘Fine. Show me your study notes on those topics. I’ll need to see if you have any glaring gaps in the information you’ve taken down.’ I’m hoping it’s as simple as teaching him how to take notes effectively.

  Half my high school cohort has no idea how to write study notes. The downside of being born part of the copy-and-paste generation, my mother claims. So while other kids learned to swim laps or ride bikes, I surfed databases and cycled down the information highway, learning to summarise, paraphrase and reconstruct other people’s knowledge. Far more useful, Mum insisted. And I guess it is—as long as I stay away from large bodies of water and never hope to win the Tour de France.

  While Luke rummages in his backpack, I use the opportunity to take a peek at his apparently taut drummer’s arms. The hoodie makes things a little difficult but as far as I can tell … they’re just arms. His bicep bulge isn’t even all that impressive. What is Sandy making such a fuss about?

  My arm inspection is interrupted when Drummer Boy stops his rummaging and sends his head lolling onto the backrest behind him. He groans so loudly the girl in the next booth turns around to glare shut-the-hell-up daggers at us.

  ‘Keep it down,’ I say. ‘No one’s interested in your self-inflicted hangover.’

  ‘Now hold up one damn minute.’

  Startled by Luke’s sudden outburst, I push back into my seat.

  He rests the very arms I was giving a once over on the table between us and leans forward. ‘I’m not hungover. I didn’t party last night and I don’t do drugs.’ His voice is paper-thin, strained with the effort to keep it just above a whisper. ‘I’m tired. That’s it—tired.’

  For the first time this morning, his eyes are wide and green and fully awake.

  ‘If anything, the fact I showed up—and early—proves I’m serious about this tutoring thing.’

  Valid argument, but it’ll take more than that to convince me.

  ‘So what’s with the deathbed groaning?’ I force some steel into the question even though his glare keeps my back flattened against my seat.

  Said glare loses some of its defensiveness. ‘I forgot to bring my chem notes.’

  It takes me a moment to register what he’s said, because who in their right mind comes to a tutoring session and for
gets to bring their notes?

  ‘Tell me you’re not serious.’

  Drummer Boy shoves a hand into the dark blond waves of his hair. ‘Look, I got home late, was rushed this morning, and, yeah …’ His gaze slinks from mine. ‘I forgot my notes.’

  When he looks up again, there’s a silent apology in the tired green of his eyes.

  Another set of eyes—pale blue—come to mind.

  ‘I don’t think this is going to work.’ I pile my books and binders into my messenger bag before I can change my mind. ‘I really don’t have time to waste on someone who can’t organise his own bag in the mornings.’ If he really was serious he’d come prepared. Like Jason. I shake my head. How can I even think about the two of them in the same brainwave?

  ‘You never wanted to do the tutoring, did you?’

  Judging character is not one of my strengths, but the way Luke is slouching, arms folded, the apology in his eyes replaced by a defiant glint, he looks the very picture of a deadbeat drummer.

  ‘No.’ I shove my laptop into my bag.

  ‘So why did you say yes?’

  Why did I? Sandy is hard to refuse, but that’s not the reason I said yes.

  I take a breath. ‘Because Theo asked me to.’ And I’ve never been able to say no to Theo. Before he left for uni it was because of the way he always, without fail, stood up for me. After graduation, it was guilt—because the one time he needed me to, I couldn’t find the courage to stand up for him.

  ‘But now you’ve decided I’m too stupid to waste time on.’ It’s not a question, yet there’s no doubt Luke is waiting for an answer. My mouth opens but … I don’t know which words to give him in reply. What I do know is the exact moment he hears the shameful ‘yes’ in my silence.