Can't Beat the Chemistry Page 6

  ‘Thanks.’

  Whoa! First a sorry and now a thanks. Will wonders never cease? I offer a tight smile and a non-committal shrug, because I’m still undecided if she’s all that welcome. Chemistry. I’m doing this to pass chemistry.

  Neither of us speaks until we’re standing beside her dark blue Honda and she’s fishing for keys in that messenger bag of hers.

  I shove my hands into the pockets of my jeans. ‘So how do you want to do this?’

  She turns to face me. The dark blanket of her hair gleams blue-black in the late afternoon sun as she scoops it over one shoulder. ‘Why don’t you text me the days and times you’re free and I’ll work around you.’

  A good two or three seconds pass before I hand her my phone; I don’t trust this amicable version of the little hedgehog.

  Her fingers fly over the screen and a few seconds later MJ Olsen-Wang’s number is in my list of contacts.

  ‘I’ll wait for your text,’ she says, handing back my mobile.

  I nod and when I don’t say anything else—because what else is there to say?—she climbs into her car and pulls away from the kerb.

  And, yeah, I’m back to having a chemistry tutor again.

  This latest development will test my levels of corrosion resistance to the max.

  MJ

  All About Spin

  ‘… And for a pair of AOs to give a bonding or anti-bonding pair of MOs there’s got to be overlap, right?’ Luke’s question is almost drowned out by the incessant chatter coming from the study booth next to us. The way the group is carrying on, you’d think this was Friday night drinks at the local pub, not Thursday afternoon study at the university library. It wouldn’t be so disruptive if not for the guy with the explosive snort-like laugh.

  I send them a glare over the partition. The noise dies down and snort-laugh guy eats his next round of explosions.

  When I turn back, Luke’s head is bent over his notes again, his brow a crinkled sheet of concentration. For someone who’s only had just short of four sessions going over this material—I’ve managed to squeeze in an extra tutoring lesson on top of our agreed Monday afternoon one—he’s catching on surprisingly quickly. So much so I might have to revise my initial assessment of him. ‘Deadbeat drummer’ doesn’t quite describe the guy who showed up on time for all of his sessions, alert and ready to work, and with all his lecture notes at that. If you can call his pile of badly organised ideas lecture notes that is.

  Straight away, I could see his note-taking was part of the problem. There was no structure. Important concepts were there but lost among trivial information. Once I suggested he try a mind-mapping approach to organise his mountain of note vomit, it was like someone flipped a switch in his brain. After that, the facts seemed to stick a lot better.

  ‘MJ?’ Luke glances up from his notes and lifts his brows at me.

  I quickly think back to AOs and MOs. ‘Correct.’

  He nods, twirls his pen in his fingers, connects several of his mind-map bubbles with lines and makes a couple more notes, before he twirls his pen again. Clockwise, anti-clockwise, then back again.

  ‘Is that something all drummers have to learn?’

  The spinning stops, and Luke glances at the pen in his hand. ‘Yeah. We have to master it before they let us near a drum kit.’ The corners of his lips lift, sending warmth into his eyes, and the spinning starts again. ‘I can’t remember ever learning. I just do it. It’s … I don’t know … like drumming, it helps centre something inside, helps me think.’ He glances down at his notes and his smile inverts. ‘Doing this stuff, I should be spinning pens in both hands.’

  ‘You’re doing okay.’ Better than okay if I’m honest, but he’s not finding it easy, nor is he enjoying it. Which brings me to my next question. ‘Why chemistry? You’re a music major, right?’

  The spinning stops, then starts again. ‘Percussion. But my careers advisor suggested I bulk up my teaching degree with a solid minor like maths or science if I wanted to be employable.’

  ‘So why not maths?’ Many musicians have a knack for mathematics.

  The pen spins faster. Clockwise. Anti-clockwise. Clockwise. ‘It needs to be chemistry.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘It just does.’ The finality in his tone is so loud even I manage to pick up on it.

  There’s more to this chemistry story, but my brain has moved on to my next burning question. ‘You’re studying to become a teacher?’ The last word comes out more squeak than speak. If someone asked me to guess Drummer Boy’s future profession, teaching wouldn’t have made the long list.

  Luke’s pen stops spinning. ‘Something wrong with that?’

  Where do I start? ‘What isn’t wrong with that? I mean, apart from the lack of respect and bad pay, why would anyone willingly want to teach a bunch of kids who’d put the Kardashians at the top of the social science syllabus?’

  The pen drops to the table. ‘Whoa! Do you not have a filter? How can you—’ Luke shakes his head. ‘That’s a really shitty thing to say. On so many levels.’

  Struck at the flash of hurt in his eyes, I swallow, not liking the taste his unguarded emotion leaves in my mouth. ‘Sorry. I … like I said, sometimes I’m no good with …’ People. I’m no good with people, I want to tell him. But I don’t. I pick up Luke’s pen instead and, eyes fixed on my fingers to avoid the hurt in his green ones, start twisting and untwisting the ink cartridge.

  ‘I was one of those kids.’ Luke’s voice is quiet. ‘I couldn’t sit still long enough to care who or what topped the social science syllabus or any other syllabus for that matter. By Year 9 everyone had written me off.’ There’s a slow intake of breath and a creak of faux leather as Luke leans forward in his seat and rests his forearms on the table.

  ‘There was this music teacher, Mr Lane. He saw past my inattention and disorganisation, glimpsed something no one else saw—a potential nobody else bothered looking for. He gave me my first pair of drumsticks and with them, my first ever feeling of self-worth.’ Slowly, he tugs the pen from my fingers.

  I look up and brave his gaze. The hurt is gone, replaced by an emotion I know only too well: determination.

  ‘I want to do that, MJ. Give kids like me something to aspire to, something that’ll make them feel good about who they are, what they can do. Because we’re all good at something. Not everyone has the ability to find a cure for cancer but we can all contribute in a positive way.’ The pen spins again. ‘We need more teachers and schools to recognise that.’

  I don’t know what to say in the face of his revelation. I’ve never concerned myself with those at the bottom of the grading curve. All my life I’ve been told to look forward, look up, look to better myself. Those behind me have no place in that relentless forward momentum. They don’t matter.

  But they matter to Luke. His blatant outward focus, his other-centeredness, is so foreign to me it upsets my equilibrium.

  ‘What about you?’ he asks.

  I clear my throat, trying to rid myself of the familiar bitterness that’s gathered there. ‘Medicine. Cardiothoracic.’ I don’t add that I’m expected to finish up wielding a scalpel in the surgical theatre. Luke’s eyes are wide enough, whether with awe or something else, I’m not sure.

  ‘No wonder you can do this chem work in your sleep.’ He smiles but it doesn’t reach the green of his eyes.

  I may not rate his decision to become a teacher, but suddenly I’m struck with the need to validate him. ‘You know, teaching … that’s a very noble—’

  ‘Don’t.’ His voice is quieter than before. Its softness cuts my own mid-sentence. When I look up, there’s a sharp edge to the hurt in his eyes and something twists in my stomach. My gaze slinks from his, looking for something—anything—else to fix on. It lands on my phone lying on the table. Ten to five. Another few minutes and Jason will be here for our next meeti
ng.

  ‘We can finish early if you want.’ Luke’s voice is back to normal, but his movements are jerky as he closes his notebook and shoves it into the backpack at his feet.

  Great—I’ve crossed some invisible social line again.

  ‘You don’t want to discuss the last section of your notes?’

  He shrugs, twirls his pen one more time before spearing it into his backpack to follow the notebook, signalling this session is over.

  ‘Your mind is already elsewhere.’ He tips his chin at the mobile that’s made its way into my hands. I glance down and find myself looking at Jason’s last text to me, confirming our meeting time for this afternoon. A strange mix of guilt and embarrassment heats my face. I battle it the only way I know how: I pull Luke’s chemistry textbook closer and return to the safety of AOs and MOs.

  ‘Didn’t you say Professor P is allowing you to do a make-up test next week?’

  He nods.

  ‘Okay, we’ll finish this section and revise the topic on Monday night.’

  ‘Too late. Test is Monday morning.’ He slides the textbook out from under my hand and gives me another of those smiles that doesn’t reach his eyes.

  ‘Monday morning?’ Our four sessions so far aren’t quite enough to guarantee him a pass. We need at least another two. Or a serious cram session. ‘Tomorrow night then.’ I’ll tell Mum I’m studying with Jason so she doesn’t expect me home until late.

  He shoves the textbook into his backpack and zips it up with more force than necessary. ‘I told you, I can’t do Fridays.’

  My face heats again, this time with irritation rather than guilt. ‘If you want to pass, you’ll have to get your priorities straight, Luke.’

  Arms crossed, he sits back in his seat. ‘I have my priorities straight. I’m driving home tomorrow.’ The deadbeat drummer scowl is back, and that’s about as much as I can take.

  ‘Look, you need a serious cram session to pass, so whatever gig and after party you’ve got lined up for the weekend will have to wait. I’m trying to help you here.’ And getting damn sick of his lack of gratitude. I mean, I have better things to do than chase him to study.

  Snort-laugh guy chooses that moment to share another of his explosions. I’m ready to jump the partition and deck him over the head with Luke’s chemistry textbook but settle for another filthy glare instead.

  When I turn back, Luke is shaking his head, that lifeless smile spreading across his features. ‘Is this what you call no more self-righteous assumptions?’ He angles his head and lifts the corners of his lips in a smear of a half-smirk. ‘I’m driving home tomorrow after my chemistry tute. But if you’re set on a serious cram session before Monday you’re welcome to come with me. Mum’s always nagging me to bring home a friend.’

  Locked in a battle of gazes, I try to stare him down. Is he bluffing? No way am I following his sorry backside to the middle of nowhere to make sure he studies his notes.

  ‘What time do you leave?’ I bluff, hoping he will change his mind and stay here at the possibility of my joining him.

  Luke’s eyes narrow. He shifts in his chair. Now who’s calling whose bluff, Drummer Boy?

  ‘One. On the dot.’

  ‘Text me when you leave your tutorial. I’ll meet you at your car.’ I can’t have him get the upper hand.

  His jaw drops a fraction and I’m losing my fight not to smirk at the disbelief taking over his face. ‘I’m telling you, I have to get home for the weekend, MJ.’

  I raise both brows. ‘And I’m telling you I’ll meet you at your car for a home-away study session.’

  He stares at me, lips slightly parted. They’re darker than Jason’s, the bottom one a touch fuller, more generous. When a scoff escapes them I lift my gaze back to his eyes.

  ‘You’re something else, you know that?’ He stands, swipes his backpack from the floor and swings it onto his shoulder in one smooth motion. ‘Pack enough for two days and nights. We’re not coming back till Sunday.’

  A sense of deja vu descends over me as my gaze follows him along the study booths towards the exit. I’ve shaken the bulk of it off when a few seconds later Jason’s voice grabs my attention from behind.

  ‘Your tutoring student?’ He slides into the seat Luke just vacated. His eyes are focused on the exit doors, a frown puckering his forehead.

  I nod.

  Jason reaches into his bag and pulls out a wad of notes. ‘How’s that coming along?’

  Is that jealousy in his voice or am I being a hopeful idiot? I clear my throat. ‘Okay, I guess. He’s got a test on Monday so we’ve scheduled an extra session for the weekend.’

  More lines furrow his brow. ‘An extra session? Is that going to interfere with your research time?’

  The hopeful idiot in me sighs and pulls my research notes from my bag. ‘Don’t worry, I’ll have plenty of reading time over the weekend.’ Because when Luke realises I’m serious about going home with him tomorrow afternoon, he’ll do the quickest U-turn in driving history and we’ll be back to doing one extra cram session on Friday night.

  Easy.

  Luke

  She Drives Me Crazy

  Quarter to one. I lift my backpack off the floor and ease out of my chair, trying to draw as little attention to myself as possible. Even so, Professor P catches my eye as I reach for the door handle. He frowns but gives me a brief nod—acknowledgement of our unspoken agreement—and I slink out of his classroom like I’ve done every Friday since signing up for his Introductory Chemistry unit at the beginning of the year.

  It’s a two-hour trip, door to door. Not that long, but long enough for me to be stressing about the one o’clock lecture I’m missing while my ancient station wagon chugs down the highway in the direction of home. Worth it though. Seeing Rosie’s beautiful face always is—especially when I hand over my latest addition to her collection. I reach into the backpack to double check I’ve got the poster. Theo’s usher job at the cinema has turned out to be a goldmine during its latest ’80s movie marathon.

  I pull my mobile from my pocket and check the time: 12.51—right on track. If the highway is clear, I’ll be there by three without a drama. I go to shove the phone back into my jeans but stop. Text me when you leave your tutorial. Angry heat builds behind my ribcage. I’ve managed to drown out MJ’s words for most of the day but now they come crashing to the forefront of my mind, weighing down my feet, slowing them to a stop. I palm my phone, right thumb hovering over the message icon. I should text her, blow her self-righteous you’re-a-zero-commitment-muso conviction right out of that IQ-packed brain of hers. But that means spending the weekend with the little hedgehog and I’m not sure I can cope with a 48-hour bolus dose of MJ.

  While my right thumb still hovers undecided, the left one slips between my teeth and I start on the skin just above the nail. Maybe it won’t be that bad. If I ignore the way yesterday’s session ended, the tutoring has been almost bearable. Okay, maybe even kind of enjoyable. Smart is an obvious word to describe Theo’s baby sister, but, surprisingly, so is patient. And astute. Yeah, not an adjective I’d normally associate with MJ—cyborgs have better people skills—but on the academic playing field at least she reads people and situations astoundingly well. Case in point: my piss-poor note-taking system. If she lost some of her spikes she’d make a damn good teacher. The thought jerks at the corners of my mouth; one of the Muppets will win a Grammy before MJ joins the plebeian ranks of the teaching profession.

  I tongue the metallic tasting line of skin above my thumbnail and force my feet to move. If I text her, I’m stuck with her for the whole weekend. If I don’t, I’m confirming her view of me. And for some bizarre reason that bugs me more than it should.

  ‘Didn’t I say to text me when you left your chemistry tutorial?’

  My head snaps up. You’ve got to be kidding me! Arms crossed over her school blazer, my bolus dose
of MJ stands at the entrance to parking block D.

  ‘How did you know I’d be parked here?’

  She lifts her chin, possibly so she can look down her pert nose at me. ‘It’s the closest parking block to the music department. Music was your first lecture this morning and since you have a tendency to cut your arrival times fine …’ She shrugs. ‘Simple deduction.’

  I’d be annoyed if I wasn’t impressed. The girl is smart. And a little scary.

  I clear my throat and hold up my mobile. ‘I was about to text you.’ Not a complete lie; I’d half made up my mind to take her with me.

  She cocks a brow but doesn’t say anything. I’m waiting for the nose twitch and … bingo! There it is. She’s got condescension down pat this girl, but I’m fast learning there’s a predictability—a pattern—to her reactions. Patterns are a bit like beats. And beats are my thing. I can’t help the twitch of my mouth at the realisation.

  ‘This isn’t funny, Luke.’ She yanks at her bag strap. ‘I’m giving up my weekend to help you pass your make-up test, so take this seriously.’

  I cock my brow. If the size of her bag is anything to go by—one barely large enough to hold a laptop and some folders let alone a weekend’s worth of clothes—then she’s got no intention of giving up her weekend. Probably convinced I’m going to cave and ditch my ‘gig and after party’ if she holds her ground.

  I should be annoyed, but the ridiculousness of the situation just makes me want to laugh. I quash the urge. No point in aggravating the little hedgehog more than necessary. Although I can’t wait to watch the flood of horror on her face when the truth finally sinks in. It might just be worth putting up with her for the whole weekend.

  I can’t help a little dig, though. I point to her bag. ‘Traveling mighty light for two days and nights.’

  She raises her chin and squares her shoulders. ‘I’ve got everything I need.’

  I shake my head, fast realising MJ rivals Rosie for queen of stubborn, and that’s saying something. I brush past her into the car park. Her determined boot heels clunk on the concrete as she follows close behind. Half a minute later, she’s sliding into the passenger seat of my station wagon as I slide the key into the ignition.