by Kat Colmer
There’s a slight tremble of her bottom lip—the first crack in the Great Sandra DeVaughn Fault?—but then she snaps her mouth shut and forces her lips into a ruler-thin line. ‘You couldn’t do this one thing for me?’
The line moves again, taking me and my growing guilt with it.
When it stops, a need to defend myself burns its way up my throat. I grip my bag strap tighter and lean in closer to her. ‘He’s just some wannabe pop star from the wrong side of the Bridge. Can’t you just stick with the preppy North Shore guys you normally date?’
My voice has steadily crept up in volume and people behind us cast curious glances our way. I shift my weight to my other foot and try to keep my own fault line from cracking any further.
‘Wannabe rock star from the wrong side of the Bridge?’ The hurt on Sandy’s face stings almost as badly as a B on an end of year exam. ‘Ever thought I might actually like Luke? That there’s a reason why I want—’
‘Like him? You don’t know anything about him past the colour of his eyes and the size of his biceps!’
Sandy’s mouth pinches so hard her chin gets that pock-marked lemon skin look. I’ve done it again—I’ve gone too far.
She throws a glance over her shoulder at Jason. When she swings her gaze back to me, cool, calm and—almost—collected, Sandy is back. ‘Maybe a girl who’s been out with all those preppy North Shore guys could teach you at least one thing about dating.’
My stomach tenses in warning. ‘You know I didn’t mean it like that.’
She draws in a breath, makes herself taller somehow. ‘Like what, exactly?’
‘Like I’m implying that you…’ For once, I catch my foot heading for my mouth and stop, because if the look on her face is any indication, she’s about to go all Krakatoa on me.
‘Sandy, don’t do this.’ I adjust the strap of my bag on my shoulder, the material suddenly damp. ‘There’s no reason Luke can’t give you drum lessons without the tutoring.’
‘There’s one very good reason: pride.’ She folds her arms across her chest. The action draws my eye to the crest on her school blazer—ex scientia victoria: from knowledge comes victory. ‘If you had any sort of emotional intelligence, you’d know that Luke—or any other guy for that matter—would not want any reminders of this whole tutoring venture. Not only will there be no drumming lessons, but the guy will likely not want anything to do with me now, since I’m the roommate of the girl who made him feel stupid for forgetting his notes. Thanks a million, MJ.’
We stand there, in the middle of the student cafeteria, me staring at her in confused disbelief and Sandy glaring at me in frustrated disappointment.
My mobile buzzes in my bag. Another text from Theo.
You sure you can’t manage even one tutoring session a week with Luke? It’d help the guy a heap and mean a lot to me. He’s in a really tough place.
The knot of guilt forming in my gut would make a girl scout proud. A huff brings my head back up from my phone screen.
‘Sandy, wait!’ Too late. She’s spun on her heel and is walking out of the cafeteria, leaving me with the sight of her school bag perched on rigid shoulders.
‘What can I get you?’ The question jolts me out of my stupor. I turn to face the owner of the impatient voice. ‘The menu. What would you like?’
A way to get my friend back and make my brother happy. But I don’t have to look at the Not So Dim Sim’s menu board to know I won’t find that here.
Luke
The Agreement
Symbol Ti. Atomic number twenty-two. Titanium. The corrosion resistant element mocks me from the inside cover of my chemistry textbook. Wrestling with my notes on bonding in diatomic molecules, I’m about as far from corrosion resistant as I can get. One look at the red-raw skin around my thumbnails confirms the pathetic fact.
Atoms interact by merging waves. I spin my pen in my fingers as the sentence revolves in my head. I’ve read the line and the paragraph that follows four times, but it still makes no damn sense. I’ll need to listen to the upload of the lecture again. Maybe it’ll be more enlightening the third time around.
I chuck the pen at my useless excuse for notes and dig my fingers into the corners of my eyes, pressing at the hopelessness. This study-session is corroding my will to live.
Time for a hydration break.
It’s just me and my piss-poor chem notes at the apartment. Usually I’m hanging for Theo to get back from his Monday night shift at the cinema. He’s always up for some mindless Netflix and a debrief about the weekend. For some reason he never seems to mind me harping on about Rosie’s latest antics.
Today, however, I’m hoping he’ll be back late from his shift. He’d pick up on my I-don’t-want-to-talk-about-it vibe, and I’m not in the mood for the worried glances he’d throw my way when he thought I wasn’t looking.
The buzz of the intercom kills the quiet just as I reach the fridge. I scratch my cheek. It’s not even six yet. Shouldn’t Theo still be cleaning up empty popcorn packets or something? Besides, the guy has keys.
Maybe I ordered pizza and forgot, because my brain has bonded with diatomic atoms while merging waves with molecules or … whatever.
I grab a can and make for the intercom. ‘Yeah?’
‘It’s MJ. Can I come up?’
She can’t be here. Not after today. What the hell is she doing here?
‘Um … Luke?’
The cold sting of the lemonade in my hand brings me back to the here and now. I work my throat to wake up my vocal chords and press the intercom again. ‘Sorry, Theo’s not here.’ My voice is flat, uninviting, just so there’s no misunderstanding about the underlying message—not that she would misunderstand, what with that powerhouse of brains she’s carrying on her tiny shoulders. ‘Try his mobile. He won’t be back before eight.’ That’s all I give her before my thumb slides off the intercom and I head back down the hallway. I’m not the type of guy who holds a grudge but that look on her face, those words. It’s still too raw.
Four steps, that’s all I manage before the intercom buzzes again. I slump a shoulder against the wall, dig my fingers into the corners of my eyes again.
What now? More paint supplies? Maybe that’s it. If she’s just delivering tubes of paint, I can deal. Five seconds of interaction max—open the door, grab the bag, Thanks, I’ll make sure Theo gets these, close the door. Done.
I am titanium.
I down a mouthful of lemonade—briefly wishing it were something stronger—then drag some air into my lungs and release the door.
Her muffled footsteps slap up the stairs quickly. Definitely not the sluggish climb of someone burdened with a guilty conscience. Not like I was expecting remorse. I’m on the wrong side of a straight A average to inspire that emotion in the little hedgehog.
There’s a knock at the door, and the bruised part of me wants to keep her waiting, just a little. But my need to get this over with wins out. I open the door, eyes angled down at grab-the-bag level.
But there’s no bag to grab.
Brows bunching, my gaze climbs a trail up her jean-wrapped legs and cable jumper to her face.
‘Theo’s not here.’ I’ve already told her that. And it doesn’t escape me that the moronic echo will only verify her too-stupid-to-live opinion of me, but hey, she’s already tried and sentenced me so … whatever.
She shifts from foot to foot. ‘Cinema. I, um, know.’
So if she knows Theo’s out and her empty hands make it clear there’s no art supply delivery, that means … she’s made the trek up the stairs to see me? I scan her expression for hints of an apology. If she was planning on delivering one, I’d find it written somewhere on that expressive face of hers—nothing. Her mouth is a tightly clamped zip-lock bag and her moonless midnight eyes unreadable.
‘Can I come in?’
‘Why?’ The word is r
ude around the edges. I smother a wince. If Mum heard me use that tone with a ‘young lady’, I’d feel the swat of her hand on the back of my head.
‘I, um, need to talk to you.’ MJ adjusts her bag on her shoulder. She grips the strap so tightly her knuckles gleam pearl white. Maybe I shouldn’t write off an apology just yet.
I step aside to let her in. Damn, if I’m not curious how she’ll go about this. Call it instinct, but something tells me this girl lacks apology experience.
Head held high, she leads the way into the kitchen. Once there, she faces me, still strangling that bag strap of hers.
‘About this morning. I’d like to …’ Her gaze wavers, brushes a spot over my left shoulder, then skims the scratched Formica benchtop beside me only to land on her dark blue Vans.
Come on, MJ, you can do it. The word you’re looking for is apolo—
‘Revisit my decision.’
‘Revisit your decision? What does that mean?’
Filled with resolve, her eyes lift to meet mine. ‘It means I may have been too hasty this morning. You were tired, regardless of the … reason.’ Her brows arch. It’s condescending as hell. ‘And, as they say, everyone deserves a second chance and all that.’
I swallow a snort; no way does she believe that last part. I make my way past her to the other end of the kitchen and lean back against the sink.
‘And now you, what?’ I take another gulp of my drink. ‘You want to give the tutoring another try?’ Because coming from her, I’m having trouble swallowing this second chance claptrap. Unless … ‘Hold on, has Theo twisted your arm on this?’
For a moment, her eyes flash with something resembling guilt. Then she squares her small frame and her expression shutters again. ‘Like I said, I was hasty. Unfair. So, maybe we should try for another day, when you’re less likely to be, um, tired.’
Right, definitely sibling guilt.
I deposit the soft drink on the sink and cross my arms. ‘I don’t need your charity.’
She widens her stance a little, and her free hand joins the other to clutch her bag strap. ‘It’s not charity when you’re paying for it. Sandy is looking forward to the lessons and is more than happy to accommodate your schedule. Just name an afternoon, and she’ll be there.’
Her gaze does the shoulder to Vans journey again, this time skating over the scratched table between us on its way. The whole thing is highly suspicious for someone who uses eye contact as a form of interrogation.
I give her a tight smile and reach for my lemonade. ‘You know what? This isn’t going to work.’ This time I have no problem being her echo.
MJ’s guarded expression disappears the moment my refusal is out. Her eyes grow larger and her mouth drops open as blatant surprise floods her face. The reaction rankles, like I should be grateful that she’s giving me a second chance or something. Whatever. Even chem-failing first years have some pride.
When surprise gives way to her next emotion, the can of drink stalls halfway to my lips. Panic. Her face is frozen in full out, petrifying panic. What the hell?
She recovers quickly enough and pulls her features together again. ‘Can we, um, talk about this?’
I’m wary of this bland-faced MJ. Unguarded MJ’s reactions might be a slap in the face but at least I know she’s being honest. This watered-down version is fake, and judging by the strain around bland-faced MJ’s eyes and mouth it’s a mask she’s not used to wearing. So why put it on for me? And to convince me to do something she wanted no part of right from the start?
Time to get some answers.
I pitch the can into the bin and fold my arms again. ‘Let’s cut the crap. Why are you really doing this?’
Her head jerks back and there’s a return of the zip-lock bag. I’m ready to bet my sense of rhythm she’s about to spin me another tall tale when she lets out a defeatist sigh, the tension in her shoulders deflating like a punctured tyre. Then, for the first time tonight, she looks at me with honesty in her eyes.
‘Theo asked me. I don’t want to let him down, and …’
‘And?’
She sucks in a deep breath. ‘I need your help.’
Whoa! What? ‘You need my help?’
‘Yes, I know, hard to believe, right?’
The insult should sting, but she delivers it so matter of fact, I almost laugh at her lack of social awareness. Almost.
‘How?’
‘Okay.’ She releases the strangle hold she has on her bag strap and slides her hands down to rest on the bag. ‘You might or might not remember, but I’m working on a science project …’
Yeah. Huge. Important. Whatever.
‘… It’s a research paper for uni. It’s also collaborative, which means I need to write the paper with a partner.’
My eyebrows shoot up so high they collect cobwebs off the ceiling. ‘You want me to help you write a science paper?’
MJ’s face scrunches. Two seconds later the creases of confusion iron out. ‘God no! I want you to give Sandy her drumming lessons because she’s peeved at me.’
I frown at her—she really doesn’t have any filters. ‘What’s this got to do with your science paper?’
Her face flushes a telling shade of red. ‘I can’t have Sandy peeved at me. I need her to help me make Jason realise we could be more than just assignment partners.’
Ah, now the maths is adding up. Little hedgehog’s got her spines all in a twist for a guy. ‘So why can’t you just tell this Jason guy you’re into him?’
She huffs. ‘Because I don’t have Sandy’s gift with words … or guys.’ There’s more than a hint of vulnerability in her statement.
Despite myself, a pang of pity hits me for this girl of complex contrasts. With her pale skin and midnight eyes, she’d turn her fair share of heads. Sure, she’d need to lose some of her spines. And maybe learn some basic social ettiqu—why am I even thinking about this?
I think back to Friday, Sandy sitting in almost this exact spot on the benchtop and suggesting the drum lessons as soon as I said I couldn’t afford to pay for the tutoring. Then I look up and … shoulder, tabletop, Vans.
There’s more to this than sibling guilt and snagging a guy. I smell something foul and it’s getting stronger. ‘What aren’t you telling me?’
MJ blinks at me and the bland expression is back. ‘What do you mean?’
I shake my head. Someone should tell her that wannabe poker face will send her broke. ‘Either you tell me what’s really going on or you can forget the whole thing.’
The earlier panic flashes across her features. She goes for her bag strap but changes her mind mid-grab and grips one of the chairs by the back rest instead.
‘Okaaay.’ The way she sucks in a breath has me narrowing my eyes at her. ‘The thing is, Sandy might have a bit of a thing for you …’
Ah hell.
I grab the edge of the sink behind me, partly because my arms have suddenly gone limp but also because it stops me from tearing my hair out in disbelief. ‘You’re setting me up with your friend?’
‘What? No!’ She has the nerve to roll her eyes at me. ‘It’s just drum lessons. But if you want to include side benefits, I’m sure Sandy—’
‘Whoa! Hold up one damn minute.’ Did she just say side benefits? I push away from the sink and grip the back of a chair opposite her. ‘I don’t do side benefits.’
She keeps hold of the chair but leans away from the harshness in my voice. ‘Okay, okay. I just thought, since you’re into the music scene and all, you’d—’
‘What? Jump at the chance to mess around with any high school girl that shows interest? Because I’m a muso? A drummer?’
Her cheeks stain a guilty crimson even as she shrugs a shoulder in a silent yes.
I shake my head because … No words. I have no words. She really has no clue about the whole girl-guy
relationship thing.
Side benefits!
‘Okay, just give her drum lessons then,’ she says, matter of fact.
My mouth drops open. The girl has labelled me stupid and easy in the space of a day and she’s still expecting me to do this? I push away from the chair so hard it bangs against the table. I need to get out, get away from her judgmental bullshit.
Her hand on my arm stops me three steps from the kitchen door. ‘Luke, wait!’
I spin to face her. ‘For what? More of your self-righteous assumptions?’
She flinches like I’ve struck her. Good. Maybe it’s finally sinking into that socially challenged brain of hers that I’m pissed off.
Despite the startled look on her face, she has a death grip on my forearm. Her throat works as she swallows. ‘I’m sorry.’
I blink … blink again.
‘I’m sorry about this morning.’ She releases my arm but holds my gaze as she scoops the inky weight of her hair over one tense shoulder. ‘About just now. I didn’t mean to … Sometimes I’m no good at …’ She blows out a long breath. ‘The thing is I need your help and you need mine. If I promise to get you through chemistry and not make any more, um, self-righteous assumptions, will you consider the drum lessons—just the drum lessons—for Sandy?’ All trace of bland-faced MJ is gone, her expression open, genuine.
My instinct screams at me to say ‘no’. The whole thing is trouble. But her midnight eyes are more than a little desperate and I am failing chemistry.
She glances at me. When I don’t say anything, her hands reach for that bloody bag strap and when her slim fingers close around it, clutching it in a silent death grip I—Ah hell!
‘Fine.’
Her mouth pops open. ‘Fine? You mean you’ll—’
‘Yes. I’ll do the drum lessons,’ I say, avoiding MJ’s eyes. The uncharacteristic gratitude in them is making me edgy. ‘I’ll walk you down.’
I head for the door. I’m done with this conversation, but we still need to organise another time for a tutoring session. I turn to ask how she wants to go about this arrangement when she speaks first.