Seven Ways We Lie(29)

I glance at the boy sitting next to me. He shoots back a Don’t look at me sort of glare.

“Uh,” I say.

Dr. Norman sighs. “You know, as much as your attendance is appreciated today, Ms. Scott, I have to say, it would mean more if you were conscious.”

Snickers spark up around me. I imagine the sounds glancing off my skin, blow by tiny blow. “Kat,” Norman says, “I’m going to ask you to stay after class and clean up the lab equipment for the AP students.”

“I have rehearsal,” I say.

Dr. Norman gives me a feral smile. Not a good sign. He loves making examples out of students for laughs. It makes me think his ego is fragile beyond belief, because, seriously, what forty-five-year-old with any self-esteem gets his kicks by making fun of teenagers?

“Rehearsal?” he says. “That’s funny, because I was talking with Dave García the other day, and he was telling me that he gave the cast Friday off. So, if you could get him to explain, that’d be wonderful.” His smile stretches wider, scrunching lines up into his white, rubbery cheeks. “Otherwise, you’ll be staying afterward to clean up, thank you.”

Everyone goes, “Ooohhh,” in unison, the universally accepted sound of Somebody just got their ass handed to them. I shoot dirty glances around, the humiliation lingering against my skin like a too-close flame. Norman didn’t have to say it that way. I didn’t even mean to lie—I forgot García gave us today off.

Ten minutes later, the bell rings. I leave my backpack at my desk and head to the front of the room. Dr. Norman waits behind his desk with justice in his eyes. He probably thinks he’s fighting the good fight against juvenile delinquency, saying shit in front of the class like that, but all he’s doing is making me resent him.

After showing me what he wants cleaned, Norman bustles out of the room, leaving me alone. I trudge toward the black buckets by the sink, old and scratched, filled with graduated cylinders. I test the tap water and pick up the soap.

The door opens behind me. I glance over my shoulder.

A kid stands in the threshold, blonder than I am and barely taller. He has the physique of a stick insect, and his clothes don’t help the illusion: his skinny khakis make his legs look like pipe cleaners, and his black peacoat is so huge, it looks like it’s eating him alive.

“Need something?” I say.

“Yes, hello,” he says. “There must be a mistake. I’m supposed to clean the equipment.”

“Are you in AP?” I ask.

He nods.

“Well,” I say, “guess you’re off the hook, AP. Norman told me to do these buckets.”

“Oh.” The boy’s eyes fix on my hands, still stuck beneath the warm water. A patronizing look flits across his face, his eyes narrowing to slits.

“What?” I say.

“You’re not seriously washing graduated cylinders with tap water, are you?”

I’m almost impressed. That level of derision could flay a person with thinner skin than mine. I turn off the tap. “Yeah, what’s the problem?”

“Deionized. You have to use deionized water. You’re going to contaminate the—it’s over the—oh, just let me—” The kid strides toward the cabinets and throws them open one by one, muttering under his breath. He chucks his backpack to the ground. It slumps against the counter.

After a straight minute of muttering, the boy flings open the last cabinet. “Here.” He pulls down a pair of plastic squeeze bottles with thin nozzles attached to their lids. As he sets down the bottles by the sink, I catch his eyes. They’re sharp, an indeterminate bluish-greenish-grayish color. Chameleon eyes. He doesn’t hold my gaze long, though—his glance darts away to my hairline, my neck, the wall behind me.

I wait for him to leave, but he stands there as if he’s waiting for a gold star. After the most uncomfortable silence in recorded history, I clear my throat. “So, you gonna go, or what?”

“I’ll help.” He grabs a bottle of his special miracle water and starts rinsing out a graduated cylinder.

“Uh.” What’s the politest way to say, Like hell you will? “No,” I say, “that’s really fine.”

“I’m going to be here anyway,” he says. “My mom’s a guidance counselor, and I have to wait for my ride home. So maybe you should be the one leaving. This was my job first.”

“Look, AP, I don’t need the attitude.” A muscle over my left eye spasms. I rub it. Like a retort, it spasms again.

“Looks like what you need is some sleep,” he says.

“No shit, genius.”

When the guy says nothing, I glance back at him. “Sorry,” I mumble. “That just sort of came out.”

He cocks his head like a perplexed puppy. “It’s all right. Social interaction is generally not my forte, either.”

“Your what?”

“My forte,” he repeats.

“You mean for-tay?”

“No, that’s an Italian word used in musical notation. The English word is adapted from the French fort, meaning strong. One syllable. Forte.”

My mouth droops open, and I try not to let anything too disparaging fall out. Who the hell is this guy, some sort of malnourished TA? It’s almost refreshing, his total weirdness.