RoseBlood(32)

8



OMENS


“She failed to see a shadow which followed her like her own shadow, which stopped when she stopped, which started again when she did and which made no more noise than a well-conducted shadow should.”

Gaston Leroux, The Phantom of the Opera

On Thursday morning, it finally looks like I might have a chance to get out in the garden later in the day. But the rain has already started again as Quan and I walk from breakfast to our shared first-period class.

Professor Tomlin’s science room is everything you’d expect from an ecologically minded rock-star Einsteinian who dabbles in theatrics. There’s a genuine skeleton in one corner dressed in a Shakespeare costume, spindly legs spray-painted blue in lieu of tights to match its velvet tunic and hat. A sign hangs under its fake beard that says: RESPECT THE BARD. Test tubes line several shelves, each filled with water and seeds, some already blossoming into plants. A picture of a wrecked motorcycle in a standup frame occupies one corner of the professor’s desk, seated beside a deeply dented helmet. Tomlin hit a brick wall a few years back at high speed and was thrown off his bike, yet he survived. Rumor has it he uses that story to demonstrate Newton’s law of inertia. Macabre, but memorable.

The students’ table surfaces are slick whiteboard, and each of us has our own set of dry-erase markers to work out formulas and theories, then erase them once we’ve jotted down our answers, to prevent the need for scrap paper.

Tomlin always schedules labs on Thursday, and this morning’s is on how “external force can alter the energy of a given system.” He’s separated everyone into groups of four and sent us to our tables where a steel-hooked weight sits beside a two-foot plank of wood balanced atop some books in the center. The idea is to make a ramp and alter the number of books beneath for different heights. Then we’ll drag the hooked weight up and down to measure force.

It has to be some kind of sick joke that he paired Quan and me with Kat and Roxie. There’s no love lost between Quan and the diva duo, considering how they treated both Sunny and Audrey last year. And they certainly haven’t welcomed me with open arms. A genius professor can’t be that clueless, can he?

Things are even worse ever since first-tier auditions for Renata’s role yesterday afternoon. Of course I couldn’t stop myself from leaping up and singing her aria, and despite that I fell back into my chair fatigued the instant I delivered the last note, my rendition was pristine enough it won me one of the three spots for final Renata tryouts, alongside Audrey and Kat, should I so choose. I’m already planning to develop infectious laryngitis that week and be quarantined to my room. But Kat and Roxie don’t know that tidbit.

“In your lab journals, copy down and record your data for these questions,” Tomlin says with his back turned, scribbling on the chalkboard. A few of the students have their gazes trained to his tight buns. I’ll admit he’s the hottest teacher at the school, even in a nerdy, two-piece wool suit. “And be sure to include the incline variations of your ramp from each run-through.”

As we wait to transfer Tomlin’s questions to our journals, Quan and I play tic-tac-toe on our half of the dry-erase table. It’s the only way I can keep myself from staring at the mirrored wall on the north side of the room.

The scent of chalk dust and chemicals irritates my nose, though it’s pleasant compared to Kat’s overpowering perfume and the stench of dry-erase markers saturating the air. Roxie, the resident artist, draws sketches of me on their half of the white surface. She puts an impressive likeness on a cross made of musical scores, my hands and feet nailed in place by quarter notes and whole notes, my eyes blocked out with treble clefs. It’s an obvious reference to the idiot I’ve made of myself during rehearsals and auditions over the past three days, and my cheeks grow hot when both girls start snickering.

Quan fakes a body-jolting sneeze. Eraser in hand, he swipes it through Roxie’s masterpiece as he drags his arm back across the table. I mime thank-you and he tips an imaginary hat, snubbing Roxie’s dagger glare.

By the time Tomlin reaches us to drop off our remaining lab materials, we’ve wiped our entire table clean.

“Each group needs to check the screw top on their spring scale,” our teacher stresses. “Make sure it’s calibrated to line up with the capital N. It takes a specific amount of force to stretch that spring. You want to be sure you’re measuring the stretch accurately when recording your newtons.”

Just as he hands off the final scale, there’s a knock at the door. He opens up enough to step out but ducks his head back in. “Everyone get started. Mister Jippetto’s here to discuss theater props. I’ll be out in the hall if anyone has questions.” Then the door shuts behind him.

The class erupts in whispers and the sounds of books being shuffled, wooden planks being adjusted, and journal pages being flipped.

“Well, shoot.” Kat pouts her lips. “Our scale is broken.” She holds up the tool that I could’ve sworn wasn’t missing the top piece earlier when Tomlin placed it next to her. “This would be a good opportunity for Rune to see the walk-in closet where the Prof keeps all the extra supplies, don’t you think, Roxie?”

The girls exchange twin smirks, devious enough to light up a warning inside me like a fiery red flare.

Roxie offers to show me the way, but Quan stands up instead. “I’ll take her,” he says.