How to Be Brave(47)

It’s not for the grade.

It’s not part of the overarching Get Through Senior Year project.

I actually enjoy my time alone in my room, immersed in my own projects, learning new techniques off YouTube. It’s the only time I enjoy being alone.

I was wait-listed by the University of Illinois Urbana–Champaign, but I’m getting comfortable with the thought of staying at home, working at the restaurant, and going to city college. I’ve been spending a lot of time with my dad. Well, at least in the same room as my dad. We don’t talk much. Not that there’s much to say. I spend afternoons at the front of the restaurant, studying my chem homework (I think I can, I think I can), sketching, and working the register while my dad preps and cleans and cooks. I know he likes having me there, and I know he can use the help.

In return, he gives me enough money to pay for my classes at the Soul Power Yoga studio, of all places. Ironically, it’s the one thing from the list I’ve kept with. I’ve become somewhat addicted to the place, going to tribal yoga and the other basic yoga classes. It’s about the only time, other than when I’m painting, that my brain is not replaying that night with Gregg. It’s about the only time I can breathe.

I push open the door. The outside air suffocates me with its chill, but the air inside these hallways is worse. I’ve stopped using my locker since the location smack-dab between Daniel and Liss is the worst kind of asphyxiation imaginable. I head straight to history. I take a seat in the front row, pull out my notebook, and start copying the agenda from the board.

I’m a good girl now.

Just like my father wanted.

*

Daniel’s standing at Zittel’s door when I get there for second-period chemistry. He’s leaning against the door frame with his arms crossed and hair mussed, looking all GQ-ish, and I’m so mad at myself for f*cking it up with him. Liss deserves him. And I mean that in the best possible way. They’re both good people, and beautiful, too. They make a pretty couple.

I just about bolt. I could hide in the bathroom for a few minutes, tell Zittel I’m having lady issues to shut him up about me being tardy—but then Daniel looks me in the eye and smiles, his signature smile, warm and kind.

“Georgia! Finally. I found you. Here.” He hands me a folded sheet of paper. “I can never catch you in Marquez’s class. You always disappear right when the bell rings. Meet me at Ellie’s after school, okay? We need to talk.”

I open my mouth to say something, but I’m choking on the toxic air of Zittel’s ammonia solution seeping out from the classroom, mixed with a healthy dose of absolute shock.

“See you later,” he says.

And then he bolts.

I stumble to my desk and open the paper.

Three words:

She misses you.


What is he doing? Meet him at Ellie’s? Is it just going to be him? Or will Liss be there, too? Why is he getting involved?

I haven’t learned much from Zittel, but I do know this: Never mix certain chemicals, like ammonia with bleach, because the subsequent vapors could knock you dead.

I miss Liss, too, but I don’t know if it’s worth it—the two of us in the same room at the same time. And with Daniel in the mix as well.

We might very well need emergency assistance.

*

I avoid making eye contact with Daniel, but I can feel him staring at me over Marquez’s balding head. Now that it’s nearing the end of the year, Marquez has pretty much stopped teaching and he lets us do whatever we want, as long as we’re there and turn in a set amount of pieces every two weeks, and as long as we keep sketching.

I try to focus on my Sharpies—black and gold and red—on this rhythmic, patterned piece that requires my very careful attention. It’s too hard, though. My hand is shaking. I have too many questions in my head. Fifty-two minutes until Ellie’s.

I put aside my project and pull out my chem book. Zittel told us today that if we get a C on the rest of our tests, we can get a C in the class. The next big one is two days away. I guess a bunch of us are failing. Big surprise, considering the man can’t teach to save his life. Here’s hoping he curves the scores.

I open to the homework. This is what it says:

Practice Questions: Write the balanced equations for the following reactions.

1. Na + H2O → NaOH + H2

2. C2H6 + O2 → CO2 + H2O

3. Ammonium nitrate decomposes to yield dinitrogen monoxide and water.

4. Ammonia reacts with oxygen gas to form nitrogen monoxide and water.

5. How many grams of ammonia, NH3, can be made from 250 grams of N2(g)?


And on, and on, and on.

It’s a f*cking foreign language.

But hell, it gets my mind off Daniel for a bit. I’m moving letters and carrying numbers and determining some kind of solution, even though I have no idea if the solutions are correct. Zittel said we had to at least try, so that’s what I’m doing.

I look up at the clock. Five minutes left.

I can’t help glancing at Daniel, who feels my gaze. He looks up from his project, gives me an enthusiastic thumbs-up, and mouths, “Ellie’s!”

Hollow. Pit. In. Stomach. Growing.

“Miss Askeridis,” Marquez yells across the room. “May I speak with you after class?”

Ugh. Now what.

I look back over at Daniel, who is shaking his head. “Not today,” he mouths.