by Kat Colmer
Can’t Beat the Chemistry
© Kat Colmer, 2019
Published by Rhiza Edge, 2019
An imprint of Rhiza Press
PO Box 1519,
Capalaba QLD 4159
Australia
www.rhizaedge.com.au
Cover design by Rhiza Press
Layout by Rhiza Press
Print ISBN: 978-1-925563-69-6
Ebook ISBN: 978-1-925563-70-2
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any form by any means without the prior permission of the copyright owner. Enquiries should be made to the publisher.
To the Boarders; keep looking out for each other.
And to Ethan, the far-from-deadbeat drummer in my life.
MJ
Factors of Compatibility
‘Boy in house!’
Walls vibrate as Year 7 and 8 girls stampede down the boarding house stairs. The 9s and 10s follow, slower, but just as eager to interrogate the guy waiting to see his friend or girlfriend or friend-he-wishes-would-be-his-girlfriend in the common room.
Car keys dangling from my fingers, I glance at the red clipboard on my desk with the heading, Boarding House Boy Test.
‘Don’t even think about it,’ Sandy says in her best head-of-debating voice. My roommate shoves the plastic bag with paint supplies under my nose and waves me towards our dorm room door. We were supposed to be dropping them at my brother’s. ‘If we want to get back before curfew we need to leave now. No time to join the inquisition.’
The alarm clock on my bedside table reads 4:45pm. I’ll be cutting it fine getting back by six, but someone needs to stop all the trivial ‘favourite animal / vegetable / cereal’ type questions with ones that actually shed light on compatibility. I owe my fellow boarding sisters that much. I don’t understand why Sandy doesn’t appreciate my contribution to the science behind dating.
‘Don’t worry. I’ll be quick.’ I swipe the clipboard off my table and bolt downstairs before she can stop me.
In the common room, boarders are crowded all around a senior guy in a St Barnaby’s uniform fidgeting on the couch.
‘So, Bryce—’ one of the bolder Year 7s leans forward from her vantage point on the coffee table, ‘—if you could be any animal, what would you be?’
My eye roll is unavoidable.
‘Um …’ Bryce throws a help-me glance at a nervous-looking Ally Brinski sitting on the couch opposite him. He must be here to see her. She mouths the word sorry to him. There’s really not much she can do about the infantile question.
But I can.
‘Why don’t you tell us about your post Year 12 aspirations instead?’ I say, stepping further into the room. Ally spies my clipboard and her eyes widen. A sign of relief that I have the situation in hand, I’m sure.
Bryce looks around the common room like someone might give him the answer. ‘A gap year in Europe?’ he says eventually. He gives Ally a smile. ‘Relax, bum around a little, that kind of thing.’
Bum around a little? Ally is working her bum off to get into the Con. She won’t be bumming around next year. I put a cross next to question one.
‘What about extra-curricular activities? What groups or clubs or committees are you part of this year?’
Ally pales a little at my question. Does she already know the answer but wishes it were a different one?
‘Football and rowing,’ Bryce offers.
‘And?’ I wait. Surely there’s more.
Bryce looks confused. ‘That’s it.’
Ally’s pale face now makes perfect sense. I know off the top of my head, she has piano, saxophone and musical theory classes each week. I put a cross next to question two. At this rate I hold no hope for this relationship.
I take a breath and try the next question. ‘What would you say is the most important personal attribute in a—’
‘MJ!’ With a large, blank canvas wedged under one arm and a bag of paints in the other hand, Sandy waves at me from the common room door. ‘Time to go.’
I look down at my clipboard and frown. ‘I’m not even halfway through.’
Sandy glances from me to Ally to Bryce. ‘I’m sure Ally’s got all the answers she needs.’
‘Yes.’ Ally nods vigorously. ‘I do. Please go.’
Good point. Bryce’s answers to the first two questions said plenty enough.
‘All right, then. Nice meeting you, Bryce.’ I close the clipboard, take the bag of paints from Sandy and head to the front desk to sign out.
‘You know, you’ve really taken the Boarding House Boy Test to a whole new level,’ Sandy says, following me out into the brisk September air.
‘Thank you. It needed an injection of empirical rigour.’
Sandy opens her mouth, then shuts it and shakes her head. ‘Empirical rigour? Is that what they call it in your bio lectures?’
At the mention of the biology unit I’m doing at Head Start uni this semester, my shoulders somehow sag and tense at the same time. ‘Professor P said the words when he paired us up for our assignment. I agreed with the terminology.’
‘I still can’t believe you get to miss double PDHPE every second Monday. If douchebag Donovan makes us do the beep test one more time, I’m putting in an official—Hold on a sec!’ She steps ahead of me so she can catch my eye. ‘You’ve already been partnered up for your all-important science assignment?’
I nod.
Her mouth gapes. ‘Well, did you get partnered with Jason or not?’
At the sound of Jason’s name my shoulders just plain seize up. The beautiful, broody St Barnaby’s boy sits up the front in our Head Start bio lecture. I’ve taken to staring at the back of his head as much as the study notes on the whiteboard. I manage a nod. ‘Professor P thinks we’ll work well together.’
Sandy grabs my arm, her carefully manicured nails digging into the earthy green of my school blazer. ‘Why didn’t you tell me?’ She tugs on my sleeve—hard—in case it isn’t clear she’s ticked off. Her reaction is understandable. She’s usually the first person I go to with this sort of news. And yet, this time, because, well, Jason …
I suck in a deep breath, tip my head back and close my eyes against the darkening sky. ‘I’m nervous I’ll say the wrong thing at the wrong time and somehow he’ll think I’m just a stupid high school girl.’
When I open my eyes, Sandy’s normally smooth brow is all kinds of crinkled. ‘MJ, look up braniac science geek in the dictionary and you’ll find your mug shot next to the entry.’
‘I’m not talking about school or uni stuff.’ It takes several presses of the remote to open the Civic’s boot. My fumbling fingers aren’t helping.
Sandy rests the canvas against the car. ‘Wait, are you actually saying what I think you’re saying?’
I look up and collide with Sandy’s narrow-eyed gaze, and it’s my turn to frown. How am I meant to know what she thinks I’m actually saying before I’ve actually said it? Why can’t people just ask direct questions?
She rolls her eyes like she’s heard my mental whinge. But then, Sandy has always been better at reading people than I have.
‘You like Jason?’ she says.
My face heats. For a split second I contemplate changing the subject—even lying—anything to stave off my growing discomfort at this topic. But Sandy would see right through me, and as uncomfortable as I am with touchy-feely stuff, I need her to know. I need her advice on all things romance-related.
‘Possibly, yes.’ I drop the bag of paints into the boot an
d take the canvas from her. ‘According to my Boarding House Boy Test questions, Jason and I could work well together outside the science lab as well as in.’ Another lick of heat shoots across my cheeks. I slam the boot shut with a little too much force.
In the Civic, Sandy’s dumbfounded gaze burns a hole into the side of my face. ‘You made him do your crazy questionnaire?’
‘Not crazy. Empirically rigorous.’ I glare back at her. ‘And no, I haven’t had a chance to ask Jason to do the questionnaire. I’ve deduced the answers based on what I’ve learned about him over the past six months at uni.’
Sandy shakes her head.
‘What?’
‘I didn’t realise you were into Jason that way.’ There’s a click of Sandy’s seatbelt. ‘I mean, he’s just, well …’
‘He’s what?’ Where is she going with this?
‘You’ve got to admit, Jason isn’t exactly what you’d call bursting with personality and charisma. Other than that Zac Effron thing he’s doing with his hair, brains is about all he’s got going for him.’
My mouth drops open, but no words come out. Sandy has seen Jason’s charisma—or lack of—in action while facing the St. Barnaby’s debating team, so I can’t exactly argue. I’m not the best judge of people, but even I have to agree Jason isn’t likely to be the life of any party. Which is just as well, since the last party I attended was back in primary school and involved a piñata.
‘Well, there’s nothing wrong with liking a guy mainly for his brains.’ I start the car and switch the heater on. Not that I need it; the heat coming off my face could warm a small suburb.
Sandy nods. ‘I completely agree, but it helps if there are other draw cards. Like a personality.’
I clip on my seatbelt, but I realise she’s not even close to being done.
‘—and respect and kindness and a car and good taste in movies and music like, say, Vance Joy.’ She rubs her hands in front of the heater and grins, showing a set of straight white teeth that would make her orthodontist proud. ‘And a toned pair of arms honed by hours of drum practice.’ I can’t help a head shake as I pull away from the kerb. This is likely the real reason Sandy was so keen to drop off Theo’s paints.
‘Explain to me again what you see in my brother’s roommate?’ Because the handful of times I’ve found myself at Theo’s place on a Sunday arvo, Luke has stumbled in tired and bleary-eyed and not at all that friendly. If he’s trying to live up to the ‘deadbeat drummer’ stereotype, he’s doing a stellar job.
Sandy shrugs and smooths down the pleats of her uniform skirt. ‘He seems more introspective. Less assuming and in your face than a lot of the guys I know.’
‘How can you tell? You’ve only ever been around Luke a few times.’ When she’s tagged along to Theo’s with me.
‘I may have asked your brother the odd question about Luke and the guy seems intriguing.’
‘Define intriguing.’
Sandy twists in her seat to face me. ‘He’s super private and disappears each weekend. All very mysterious …’
Probably off drumming with some band in seedy pubs and clubs, the name of which he doesn’t want anyone to know.
‘… add those gorgeous green eyes and wicked sense of rhythm and, yeah, definitely intriguing.’ She winks and rubs her hands in front of the heating vent again.
I’m shaking my head before I’m even conscious of it. ‘Relationships aren’t built on a sense of rhythm, and definitely not on eyes, gorgeous green or otherwise.’
‘But they’re built on brains, apparently?’
‘Well, yes,’ I say as I pull up outside Theo’s building. I climb out of the car and catch her shaking her head at me across the bonnet.
She tugs her school blazer tighter around herself as she follows me to the back of the Civic. ‘So is that your number one criteria for dating a guy? Intelligence?’
‘Yes.’ The word comes out immediately. I don’t even have to think about it.
‘And the others?’
‘Others?’ I press the remote. For once the boot pops open without a fuss, and I find Theo’s paints strewn all over the place. I sigh and reach for the tubes of colour.
‘Your other criteria.’ There’s no mistaking the exasperation in Sandy’s voice. ‘Like I just said, respect, kindness, sense of humour, ability to overlook your lack of it. That kind of thing.’
Other than a watch it glare in her general direction, I don’t give her the satisfaction of an actual response. But other criteria? I drop the tubes of paint back into their plastic bag. I’ve never really given other criteria much thought. Intelligence has always been the most valued and rewarded personal attribute in our family, so it makes sense I’d be attracted to guys with superior smarts. Not that I had any time for a boyfriend between the extra tutoring, piano lessons and Saturday classes my mother had me going to throughout all of high school. But if I play my cards right with Jason, that may all be about to change.
‘Well?’ Sandy rubs her hands up and down her arms in an attempt to keep warm.
I ease Theo’s blank canvas from the boot and consider my non-existent ‘other’ criteria. ‘Good personal hygiene,’ I say eventually, and make a mental note to add this to my Boarding House Boy Test questions.
Sandy screws up her face like she’s got spinach stuck between her back teeth. ‘That’s more like a prerequisite. Try again.’
‘Fine.’ I thrust the bag of paints at her. ‘Kindness and a sense of humour. You happy?’ I head for the front door.
‘You’re not even trying.’
‘So I like my guys smart. Is that so bad?’
‘No worse than me liking guys for their taut drummer arms.’ She wriggles her perfectly plucked eyebrows.
‘That is not the same and you know it.’ I press the buzzer next to apartment twelve. ‘Being attracted to someone’s intelligence is not shallow. Liking someone because of the way they look is.’
‘Really?’ She tilts her head in that head-of-debating way of hers and I know I’m in trouble. ‘The way I see it, it’s prejudice either way.’
I’ll regret it, but I ask anyway. ‘Exactly how?’
‘It’s not like a guy has control over how smart or good looking he is. He gets what nature dishes out and has to make do with it.’
I open my mouth to protest, but she cuts me off with a wave of the plastic bag. ‘And before you sprout some argument about study and education, that’s the equivalent of eating right and working out. It only makes the best of what you already have.’ She tilts her head to the other side and smiles her closing argument smile at me. ‘I’m right, aren’t I?’
I want to argue, but on some warped level she’s got a point, dammit.
The intercom crackles. ‘Yo?’ Theo’s voice saves me from having to give Sandy an answer.
‘It’s me.’ I hear the click of the deadlock releasing and push the door open.
Sandy slips past me but stops and turns before heading up the stairs. ‘I think you’re missing out, MJ.’ Then she’s gone, up the stairs, leaving me to haul the large canvas up three flights by myself.
Luke
The Problem With Failing
I’m staring at the pathetic excuse for food in our fridge when Theo pads back into the kitchen after answering the buzzer. ‘So what did Professor P want to talk to you about today?’
Behind me, Theo discovers my drumsticks on the kitchen table. I try to decide how to answer him while I ignore his noise pollution.
‘He’s concerned about my chem marks.’ My shoulders tense as the conversation replays in my head.
The noise pollution stops—Theo has dropped one of my sticks. Here’s hoping he’ll leave it on the floor.
‘Maybe you’d be better off doing something that doesn’t suck the life out of you like chem does.’
‘No.’ My fingers clamp around
the fridge door. ‘It’s got to be chemistry.’ He knows that.
There’s a sigh from the kitchen table. It’s resigned more than frustrated—because Theo knows why it has to be chemistry. ‘The uni will give you special consideration, though, right?’
I snort. ‘Why would they? It’s my choice I miss Friday lectures.’ Uninspired by last night’s leftover spag bol, I grab two soft drinks from the fridge and face Theo.
‘I thought the P-man knows the situation.’ He bends to pick up the stick. I take a deep breath and wait for the thwacking to start up again.
‘He does, but there’s only so much he can do to help. He’s already turning a blind eye to me leaving his tutorials early on Friday afternoons.’ And quietly encouraging me to stick to what I’m good at—music. Not something that requires actual smarts like chemistry.
There is one other thing Professor P is doing to help. ‘He’s arranged for me to do a make-up for the mid-sem.’
Theo smiles and the thwacking gains speed, making me fear for my sanity. I have to end this.
‘Catch.’ I throw one of the softies at my roommate. The airborne promise of a sugar hit wins out and my rhythmically challenged friend drops the drumsticks on the table to catch the can. We pop the ring at the same time. There’s a fizz, then a few blessed beats of silence as we both gulp our drinks.
Theo puts his can down and runs paint-stained fingers through his dark blond-tipped hair. When he first bleached it I assumed it was some artistic nod to his mother’s side of his Chinese-Norwegian parentage. I assumed wrong. It was intended to tick his mother off.
‘I’ve got to pass it, Theo. I can’t fail again.’
‘So get a tutor,’ he says.
I choke out a laugh. ‘And pay with what?’ I’m barely making enough money to cover petrol and rent.
I sit opposite Theo at our beat-up kitchen table and turn the whole shitty problem around in my head. I can’t jeopardise the science half of my degree—that’s not negotiable—which means I have to pass chemistry; something that’s looking increasingly unlikely if I continue to cut Friday lectures and leave Professor P’s chemistry tutorials early.