Undecided(82)

“Not bad,” I say, wiping a drop from the corner of my mouth. “But it might be missing something.”

“Yeah,” Crosbie agrees. “It’s the best one yet, though.”

Kellan thoughtfully licks a spoon. “You’re right. I think I know what will fix it. This Chrisgiving is going to feature the best gravy any of you have ever tasted.”

“Chrisgiving?”

“Christmas plus Thanksgiving,” he explains.

Crosbie’s shaking his head. “Everyone is going to be confused by that.”

“They will not, it’s crystal clear.” He’s already ignoring us, grabbing spices from the shelf.

Crosbie and I exchange helpless looks and retreat to the couch. “Speaking of girlfriend duties,” he says, tossing the chemistry textbook in my lap. “Stop trying to jump my bones and help me study.”

“I tried to help you study,” I remind him, “and you thought ‘green’ was an element.”

Kellan snorts in the kitchen and Crosbie shifts to glower at him.

“That’s because chemistry is the worst,” he says, turning the evil eye on me.

“Then why did you take it?”

“I don’t know. To appear well-rounded?”

I laugh and open the book. “You’re very round, Cros.”

“Are you calling me fat? I knew that was too much gravy. Dammit, Kell!”

“Stop stalling and focus,” I say, kicking him in the knee. “Now, where were we? Oh, that’s right. Still on question one. What are the ten most abundant elements in the universe?”

He sighs, aggrieved. “Hydrogen, oxygen, neon, helium, nitrogen…um…iron, carbon, silicon, magnesium, and…green.”

I give him a high five. “You’re ready.”

He laughs. “Sulfur.”

“Even better. Look, this doesn’t have to be so hard. Chemistry is cool. And the periodic table is actually really interesting.”

“It’s a bunch of gibberish.”

“The elements are arranged according to their atomic number, which is determined by how many protons they have. All of the elements on this side…” I tap the right side of the table, “are stable, while the elements on the left are unstable. What’s another word for stable?”

“Please kill me.”

“The answer is ‘inert.’”

“Is there such a word as ‘ert?’”

“There’s such a word as ‘fail,’ is that what you were looking for?”

“I’m looking for a new tutor. Kellan?”

“Busy.”

I warm to the topic. “When the periodic table was first created, they only knew sixty-something elements. But based on the way it was arranged, they were able to predict the existence of yet-unknown elements and their properties. If you think about it, it’s kind of like magic. And if you fold it in half—”

Kellan suddenly starts coughing, the nose-running, eyes-streaming kind of coughing. “Are you all right?” I call.

“Too much pepper,” he gasps, running the faucet and shoveling water into his mouth with his hand. “Definitely too much pepper.”

The oven timer dings and he snatches out a muffin pan, each cup filled with various versions of his stuffing recipe.

Crosbie whimpers. “Do you need a guinea pig? I mean, a willing victim?”

“No.” Kellan wipes his eyes. He won’t even look at us anymore, just yanks off his apron and stuffs it on the counter. “I have to…nap.”

Crosbie frowns. “At three o’clock?”

“Cooking’s exhausting, man. Not that you’d know.” Without another look back, he strides into his room and shuts the door. Firmly.



*



Normally when my phone rings it’s Crosbie or Marcela, so my only excuse for answering without checking the display is that I dangerously assumed it was either of them. But it’s not. It’s much worse.

“Hi, Dad.” I try not to yawn directly into the phone. It’s seven o’clock on Thursday morning and my alarm went off four minutes ago. This is what I get for not jumping out of bed immediately.

“Hi, sweetie. How are you?”

“Just fine. Really busy. I have work in—”

“Great, that’s great. Listen, I’m calling to talk to you about Christmas.”

I perk up. “Oh? Are you…going somewhere?”

“What? No. I wanted to make sure you were still coming.”

My heart sinks. “Oh. Yeah. I’m coming.” My parents did this last year, too. Each trying to one up the other, calling earlier and earlier, trying to ascertain whose side of the house I would be staying on, where I would wake up on Christmas morning. It’s telephone tug of war and if it weren’t so cold, I’d just camp out in the neutral front yard.

“Well, your room’s ready for you. Remember that quilt you saw last year? The one with the stars? I bought it!”

I have no recollection of this quilt. Or any quilts. “Thanks,” I say, hoping I sound grateful. “Listen, I—”

He interrupts. “And honey, I wanted to let you know I spoke with Phil—Dean Ripley—and he assured me you were doing great. I’m so glad you got that wild behavior out of your system last year.”