Can't Beat the Chemistry Read online

  ‘Thanks.’ He’s up and reaching for his backpack.

  ‘Luke, wait—’ The faux-leather squeals as I shoot up to grab his arm. ‘I’m—’ What? Sorry? Well, yes, but that doesn’t change the fact that this whole tutoring thing has come at a seriously inconvenient time. Still, I don’t want to leave it like this. ‘It’s just that final exams are soon and I’m working on my own uni assignments and—’

  ‘Save it, MJ.’ His lips stretch into a parody of a smile. ‘I get it. You haven’t got time to waste on someone like me.’ With that he pulls his arm from my hold and, backpack slung over one shoulder, walks along the row of study booths towards the exit.

  My teeth catch the corner of my bottom lip and bite down hard to stop myself from calling after him. It’s better this way. Friend of Theo’s or not. I grab my messenger bag and make my way out of the library.

  It doesn’t escape me that I walk the entire stretch of study booths and half the expanse of the peace lawn before my palm loses the warm memory of Luke’s solid bicep.

  Luke

  Drum Balm

  The moment my eleven o’clock Teachers Ed lecture finishes, my feet make for the music department like they’re programmed to chew up the distance in as little time as possible. As I walk, I bite into the chicken and mayo sandwich I picked up from the student cafeteria. The thing might as well be made of sawdust. Maybe the lack of flavour has something to do with the sandwich sitting in my bag for the past hour. Or maybe I’ve lost my sense of taste after this morning’s epic ego bashing.

  So I was tired and forgot my notes. Not a good start, I get it. But did she have to make me feel so bloody stupid?

  I take another tasteless bite and send up a silent prayer: please let the rehearsal room be empty. This isn’t one of my regular practice sessions, and I can’t remember if someone else has booked this time slot, but if I don’t do something to rid myself of this unsettling mix of numbness and frustration, I’ll lose my nut.

  That look on her face. Too stupid to waste time on. A mix of pity and disdain. Too stupid to waste time on. That look said more than any of her words ever could.

  And it was exactly like the one on my father’s face all those years ago.

  I was only seven, too naive to understand what the look meant. But even then, I recognised the superiority in it; the conviction that he was somehow above the responsibility life had handed him.

  Too stupid to waste time on.

  Yeah, well, they can both shove their superiority where the grass don’t grow.

  I swallow but the saw dust sandwich sticks to the roof of my mouth. I turf the rest of my uneaten lunch into the nearest bin.

  My mobile rings just as I push open the door to the music building. I don’t need to check to know it’s Theo. I was meant to meet him at the cafeteria for an early lunch. I toy with ignoring the call. Nah, he’ll figure out where to find me. Besides, if I don’t have this conversation now, I’ll be forced to have it later tonight. And I’d rather do it over the phone, where he can’t see the anger written all over my face.

  I hit talk. ‘Hey. I’m not coming.’

  ‘Could have told me. I’ve been waiting at The Not So Dim Sim for the past ten minutes.’ As though to verify what he’s saying, someone orders the sweet and sour pork on the other end of the line.

  ‘Sorry. Something came up.’ I take a left past the sound editing rooms, my feet on autopilot.

  ‘Like what?’

  ‘Emergency rehearsal.’ I wince at the lie.

  Theo’s a good guy, a friend. But I’m not about to tell him a few well-aimed words from his little sister blasted a gaping hole in my ego and now I need to hit some skins to bring the feeling back into my numb sense of self-worth.

  ‘For what?’

  I don’t expect the question. I’m frantically scratching around in my brain for a believable answer when the scream of an electric guitar down the hall sparks an idea. ‘One of the guitarists from my music class scored an audition. Asked me if I could help him run through his set.’

  ‘Which one?’

  ‘Which one what?’

  ‘Guitarist. Is it Patrick or the dude with the turd-like dreadlocks?’

  Despite my crappy mood, I smile. The guitar solo down the hall gains speed; semiquavers racing each other in a crescendo. I recognise the AC-DC classic. Definitely something Patrick would be into.

  ‘Patrick.’ I shake my head in disgust. Bad enough I’m lying, but now I’ve dragged Patrick into the dishonest mud with me.

  ‘Funny,’ Theo says.

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because Patrick’s here, stuffing his face with noodles.’

  Damn. I slow. Stop. Close my eyes for a beat.

  ‘Luke?’ Theo waits. When I don’t say anything … ‘How did this morning go?’ The guy is way too perceptive.

  I slump a shoulder against the wall and focus on the screeching guitar solo filtering down the hallway. ‘Look, thanks for trying but it’s … your sister can’t help me.’ No, not can’t, won’t … she won’t help me.

  ‘Are you sure? ’Cause, like I said, she really knows her stuff. She’s a child prodigy.’

  ‘That’s not it. It’s not the content. It’s … our schedules just don’t line up. And she’s working on some paper for some important assignment, and I’m …’ Too stupid to waste time on.

  There’s a dull throb on the side of my head. I’ve got the phone pressed so hard against my ear the edge is digging into the cartilage. My jaw locks and I press harder; the ache takes the focus off those six words swimming around in my head.

  ‘I can talk to her again, get her to—’

  ‘No!’ The word has more bite than intended, but I’ll eat a bucket of sawdust chicken and mayo sandwiches before I get him to beg MJ for her intellectual charity. I ease the mobile away from my ear a little. ‘Leave it, yeah?’ I say, this time with less teeth. ‘It’s not going to happen.’

  Theo goes quiet. Lunchtime cafeteria noise and chatter travels down the line instead.

  ‘Again, thanks for trying.’ I push off the wall. ‘Talk to you at home.’

  I start walking again. Faster. My destination: the soundproof rehearsal room.

  ***

  The rehearsal room is empty. Thank you, musical gods. As soon as the door shuts behind me, my eyes zero in on the drum kit near the far wall. It’s bigger than the one at home: four toms plus the floor, two extra crash and ride cymbals, and a double kick. I don’t usually use the full kit—much prefer a clean, pared back sound—but today I’m planning on hitting every available surface. And then some.

  I cross the room, my footfalls eerily quiet, their sound swallowed by the soundproof panels on the walls. Five seconds later I’ve plugged my phone into the sound system, my sticks are in my hand and I’m adjusting the throne for my height.

  My foot finds the kick pedal, tests its familiar weight, filling the room with a warning boom, once … twice. Too stupid to waste time on. I twirl the sticks in my fingers, concentrating on the slide of cool wood against my skin. Too stupid to waste time on. I bite down on my frustration, but the words still echo in my head. Too stupid to waste time on. Only one way to drown them out.

  I press play.

  The speakers vibrate with the opening riff of Titanium. I ride the cymbals, gently at first, on the end of the opening eight bars. Close my eyes, add the kick in the second eight. Two, three, four … then the tom, two, three, four … the snare two, three, four. The beat pushes up my legs, into my cold core. Each hit of the toms fractures my anger, chips away at my numbness until I’m bulletproof. My fingers absorb the cymbal reverb, each clash a shot at those stupid, bloody words. I don’t know who I’m angrier at—my father or MJ. Doesn’t matter. He’s not part of my life and I’ll be damned if I ever deliberately cross paths with MJ again.

  I focus on the beat as
it pulses under my skin, through my veins, into my bones.

  Steady. Calming.

  Accepting.

  I am titanium.

  MJ

  The Not So Dim Sim

  The classes before lunch pass in a blur. My thoughts are a mess, continually drifting to my meeting with Jason. It’s highly annoying, but what did I expect? I’m anxious to know what decision he’s come to about the topic for our research paper. Other than a brief bout of guilt, courtesy of a text from Theo asking me to call him about the tutoring, I’ve thought of nothing else.

  As a consequence, I scan the hall for Jason’s serious face the moment I make it to our biology lecture. He’s in the second row, an empty seat to his left. We’ve never sat together during our shared lectures, but now that we’re paired for the assignment, I’m sure he won’t find it strange if I sit beside him.

  ‘Sorry. Excuse me. Just need to … thanks.’ I shuffle along the row, knocking knees and dodging bags, all the while ignoring the annoyed glares thrown my way.

  ‘Hi,’ I whisper as I slide into the empty seat beside him. He gives me a quick smile before returning his attention to his laptop and his notes.

  Normally I would be just as engrossed in Professor P’s take on molecular genotyping as Jason is, but today my eyes keep finding the clock display on my laptop, willing the Arrow of Time to hurry the hell up and finish this lecture already. I know we agreed to discuss our project at lunch but the waiting is killing me!

  Halfway through the lecture I can’t take it anymore. It can’t hurt to give him a nudge. I dig out his periodicals and plonk them next to my laptop—right in his view. According to Sandy, guys are visual creatures, so here’s hoping this stack of peer-reviewed temptation raises Jason’s pulse rate.

  Sure enough, he glances over, glances again, gives me another quick smile and then—damn—more tapping of computer keys as he returns to his notes.

  I don’t expect him to forget the lecture and launch into a full-blown discussion about the project right here and now, but how hard is it to drop a hint? I slump back in my chair and spend the rest of the lecture half-heartedly taking notes and whole-heartedly glaring at my laptop clock.

  The moment Professor P unclips his microphone, I shut down my computer and face Jason. ‘I’m not really hungry so I’m happy to stay here and talk.’

  He gives me a crooked angles and planes smile. ‘Do you mind if we talk over lunch like we planned? I skipped breakfast this morning to get to an early study room.’

  I force my head to nod. No matter how badly I want to get this conversation started, I can’t deny the guy some food. The cafeteria is only a short walk away, but I’m itching to get the ball rolling. ‘So, what did you think about the articles I gave you?’

  ‘Interesting.’ We file through the doors and out into the lick of early spring sunshine. ‘That recent study looking at the SIGMAR1 mutation in particular.’

  Not quite the response I’m after but at least it’s positive. ‘Yes. SIGMAR1. Significant finding that, but I still think—’

  ‘I agree with you, though,’ Jason says, ‘CRISPRS seems to be the most suitable option for our research paper.’

  I grind to a halt so quickly I’m sure I’ve left skid marks on the footpath. ‘You do?’ When Jason doesn’t notice I’ve stopped, I rush to fall into step beside him. ‘I mean, that’s great that you do!’

  ‘It’s controversial but that should play into our hands. And like you said, Professor P is guaranteed to like the idea.’

  His words must have hands because they’ve lifted an anxious weight off my shoulders.

  ‘Guaranteed.’ I nod and give him a relieved smile of my own. Genetics! He’s agreed to do our paper on genetics! There’s a squeal inside me dying to force its way out, but I quash the immature reaction. Instead, I smooth my hair behind one ear the way Sandy does when she’s successfully closed a debate.

  As expected, the cafeteria is swarming with hungry undergrads. Our chances of finding a table look slim. I’m about to suggest Jason buys his lunch and we head outside to talk when he points towards a group of people getting up to leave a four-seater.

  ‘You said you’re not hungry,’ he says as I sit down. ‘Mind holding the table while I grab something to eat?’

  ‘Knock yourself out,’ I say. Although maybe I should ask him to buy something for me after all. I didn’t eat much for breakfast as I was too worked up about seeing him today. I sigh and instead dig in my messenger bag for one of the muesli bars I keep stocked for occasions such as these.

  Ten minutes later, Jason returns with a burger and fries. As soon as he’s seated, I pull out his stack of periodicals. ‘So now that we have a topic for our paper, we should read around it to help tease out a focused research question.’

  Jason nods and takes a bite of his burger.

  ‘A couple of the articles you gave me—’ I pat his magazines, ‘—are relevant to the broader topic, but we’ll have to read wider to cover the breadth of developments in the field.’

  He nods again. ‘I’ll set up a Google Doc reading list we can add to as we search. That way we won’t double up on the same material.’

  And there it is again, the conviction that this guy is so damn perfect for me. I mean, Google Doc reading list! That was going to be my next suggestion.

  He takes another bite of his burger, reminding me of the untouched muesli bar in my hand. Now that Jason has agreed to use my idea for the project, my previous anxiety has evaporated, leaving room for a stomach-churning of a different sort. Suddenly I’m famished. I rip into my muesli bar, still a little stunned at how easily everything is falling into place.

  I’m about to ask Jason how often he’d like to meet while we delve into our background reading, when the sight of a familiar bottle-green school uniform across the cafeteria grabs my attention.

  Sandy comes to a stop beside our table, a serve of gyoza in her hand and a side of exasperation in her eyes. ‘Found you. Not an easy task in this crowd. Especially when you don’t answer your mobile.’ If she wore glasses, she’d be looking over the rim of them at me right now.

  ‘I keep it on silent during lectures.’ Nothing more annoying than a phone going off in the middle of class.

  ‘Of course you do,’ she says and turns to Jason. ‘Hi, I’m Sandy, MJ’s roommate. Jason, right?’

  Jason, still chewing on his burger, mumbles something around his food and nods a quick hello.

  ‘What are you doing here?’ I say before Jason can swallow and start a conversation. Sandy hasn’t risked ditching class since Anthony Sabatini tempted her with VIP tickets to a P!nk concert last year. I’m no music expert, but lunch at the university cafeteria is not in the same league as a P!nk concert.

  ‘It’s a B week. I have a double free Monday B week, so …’ She shrugs, like she doesn’t spend every single one of her free periods studying in the school library, usually beside me.

  ‘So you decided to trek all the way over here to try cafeteria food?’

  She rolls her eyes in that don’t-be-ridiculous way of hers. ‘No, I wanted to talk to you.’ She slides into the seat beside me.

  ‘Can’t it wait ’til we get back to the boarding house? We’re kind of in the middle of something here.’ I widen my eyes meaningfully and point to the stack of periodicals.

  Her gaze brushes the magazines before she offers Jason an apologetic smile.

  ‘I won’t keep you long,’ she says to me, dunking a gyoza into her soy sauce. ‘I just want to know when my first drum lesson will be.’ She bites into the dumpling and looks at me expectantly. ‘I mean, Luke’s on campus on Mondays, right?’

  Ah, damn … drum lessons. My brain scrambles for the best way to break the bad news to her.

  ‘You give drum lessons?’ Jason’s eyes widen with what I assume is shock as they shift from Sandy to me.

&n
bsp; ‘No.’ I turn back to Sandy. ‘Now, about the lessons …’ There’s no easy way to tell her so … Just spit it out. ‘There won’t be any.’

  Sandy stops chewing, swallows. ‘What do you mean, there won’t be any?’

  I swallow too, even though all traces of muesli are long gone from my mouth. ‘This morning didn’t work out.’

  Her neatly-plucked brows snap together. ‘What do you mean, it didn’t work out?’ The confusion in her question makes me want to wince.

  ‘Well, when we looked at the logistics, we realised it would be, you know, too hard … what with school and uni and …’ My gaze flits Jason’s way. Mouth back around his burger and eyes round with curiosity, he’s all ears. Maybe having this conversation in front of him isn’t the smartest idea.

  ‘You know what? Those look great.’ I point to Sandy’s gyoza. ‘Show me where you got them from.’ In one fluid motion, I snatch up my bag and grab Sandy’s arm, then drag her out of her chair so quickly she has no chance to argue. ‘Back in a minute,’ I say over my shoulder to Jason, who’s back to flicking through a Scientific American magazine.

  Sandy plays along but by the time we’re in the queue at the Not So Dim Sim she’s the one gripping my arm. ‘You’ve ditched him? Ditched the tutoring?’ There’s equal parts hurt and disbelief in her voice.

  I pull free of her grip and move forward in the line, both to get some distance between us—her disappointment is so palpable it’s hard to look at her—and to buy a few seconds to think. ‘It’s just not going to work.’

  ‘Why?’ She’s come around, so there’s no escaping the emotion on her face. ‘And don’t give me any of this crap about logistics.’

  I cross my arms, less in defence and more to keep a grip on the situation. ‘He showed up wasted, spun me some drove-all-night-to-get-home story, then didn’t even have his chemistry notes with him. So, no, it’s not going to work.’ I brace myself for Sandy’s reaction. She’s perfect law school material—the cool, calm, collected type—but with those closest to her she’s not afraid to parade the full spectrum of emotion.