Imperfect Chemistry
Page 4
I’m failing. I can’t believe it. I’ve never failed anything in my life. Well, that’s not true. I did fail when I was twelve and conducting an experiment on DNA replication in E. coli the first three times, but I completed it on the fourth. I’ve always been able to finish something I’ve started, and this is not over yet. Although it is disconcerting that I’ve been pursuing this particular goal since last semester, nearly a year now, and it’s not coming as easily as I imagined.
I’m walking through the quad enjoying the crisp fall breeze as I move towards the west end of the school. My duplex is located less than a mile away. It’s an old building, a rare find in this area which has been built up in the last few years with apartments and student housing. I pass a few people heading to their evening classes. I have to step off the walkway to avoid a couple holding hands and taking up the entire path. When I stop, I pull my cell phone out of the side pocket of my bag and try to call Brad. I helped him, therefore he should help me. Besides, we’re friends. Sort of. One date may be singular, but I’m pretty sure it means something.
The call goes straight to voicemail and I’m almost relieved. I hate speaking on the phone, but sometimes it’s a necessary activity.
“Brad. It’s Lucy. Please return my call.”
I hang up and keep walking, pushing aside the self-doubt and uncertainty coursing through me. Surely he will help me. Our last interaction seemed to go okay; he even invited me into his dorm room after we shared a meal, an offer I politely declined.
I’m not sure exactly what I’m going to ask him. I need to feel emotions. Perhaps explore the typical college experience. Maybe I’ll start there, ask questions about what it is, exactly, that college students do besides go to class. Surely that’s a simple enough task.
I hear a loud, rhythmic pounding when I turn down the small alley that leads to my duplex. Someone is banging on the door. I quicken my steps, wondering if it’s one of my brothers. When I get closer, I can see that it’s not my door being pummeled into submission, it’s my neighbor’s. The same one I saw leaving the clinic not long ago.
I don’t know very much about the student who lives on the other side of the duplex even though we’ve shared a wall for at least six months now, and our doors face each other. I’ve seen him a handful of times in the last few months coming and going, and I’ve seen quite a few other people coming and going, but I haven’t paid much attention. Other than that and what I overheard today…I don’t even know his name.
“Jensen! Come on, man, open up!” the stranger banging on the door yells.
Well, now I know his name.
“This is ridiculous! I love you man!”
And now I know his sexual preference as well.
Bang, bang, bang. “You’re going to be really pissed at yourself if I die while I’m gone and you didn’t even listen to me!”
I approach cautiously. He isn’t necessarily psychotic, but this whole situation is odd. He has a slight accent that sounds Western European, Scottish or Irish or something. It’s hard to tell when he’s yelling, and I haven’t heard enough words to be able to precisely determine the cadence.
Whoever he is, he’s now resting his head against the door, his arms up on either side of him against the door frame. All I can see from the bottom of the steps that lead up to the porch is the back of a dark blond head, hair cut short, a gray pullover sweater and jeans. He’s not very tall, only a few inches taller than me, but he looks fairly muscular under the sweater. I’m not sure I could defend myself if he turns violent.
He lightly thumps his head against the door a few times and says quietly, “I’m sorry. I’m sorry, but I’m not sorry. I fucking love her, you know, and if I have to choose, I will choose her every time.”
I feel like an intruder. The emotion in his voice is raw and real, and it makes me exceedingly uncomfortable. I try to tiptoe up the stairs so he won’t notice me, but the old wooden steps creak like they’re being stabbed with each footstep and forced to remonstrate the torture being inflicted on them.
The guy at the door spins around and I hasten to my door, pulling my keys out to get inside as quickly as possible and to use as a weapon if necessary.
“Hello,” he says.
I nod and keep moving, not making eye contact, instead focusing on putting the key in the lock. First the dead bolt, then the round door knob.
“I’m sorry about the theatrics,” he calls to my retreating back, “I didn’t mean to scare you.”
And then I’m inside with the door shut and locked behind me. Scottish. He is definitely Scottish.
Once I’m alone, I relax. What is going on with my neighbor?
Chapter Three
A failure is not always a mistake, it may simply be the best one can do under the circumstances. The real mistake is to stop trying.
–B.F. Skinner