“He’s not serious, is he?” Carswell said, turning back to his mom. “He won’t keep me grounded for the whole break?”
His mom, for maybe the first time that morning, tore her eyes away from her portscreen. She blinked at him and he suspected that she had no idea what his father’s doled-out punishment was for his low grades. Maybe she didn’t even realize what the argument had been about.
After a moment, just long enough to let the question dissolve in the air between them, she said, “Are you all ready for school, sweetheart?”
Huffing, Carswell nodded and shoved two more quick bites into his mouth. Snatching up his book bag, he pushed away from the table and tossed his blazer over one shoulder.
His dad wanted to see an improvement of grades? Fine. He would find a way to make it happen. He would come up with some solution that gave him the freedom he required during his break but didn’t include laboring away over boring math formulas every evening. He had more important things to do with his time. Things that involved business transactions and payment collections. Things that would one day lead to him buying his own spaceship. Nothing fancy. Nothing expensive. Just something simple and practical, something that would belong to him and to him alone.
Then his dad would know just how focused and dedicated he was, right as he was getting the aces out of here.
* * *
Jules Keller had hit his growth spurt early, making him a full head taller than anyone else in the class, and he was even sporting the start of peach-fuzz whiskers on his chin. Unfortunately, he still had a brain capacity equivalent to that of a pelican.
That was Carswell’s first thought when Jules slammed his locker shut and Carswell barely managed to get his fingers out of the way in time.
“Morning, Mr. Keller,” he said, calling up a friendly smile. “You look particularly vibrant this morning.”
Jules stared down the length of his nose at him. The nose on which a sizable red pimple seemed to have emerged overnight. That was one other thing about Jules. In addition to the height and the brawn and the fuzz, his growth spurt had given him a rather tragic case of acne.
“I want my money back,” said Jules, one hand still planted on Carswell’s locker.
Carswell tilted his head. “Money?”
“Stuff doesn’t work.” Reaching into his pocket, Jules pulled out a small round canister labeled with exotic ingredients that promised clean, spot-free skin in just two weeks. “And I’m sick of looking at your smug face all day, like you think I don’t know better.”
“Of course it works,” said Carswell, taking the canister from him and holding it up to inspect the label. “It’s the exact same stuff I use, and look at me.”
Which was not entirely true. The canister itself had been emptied of its original ridiculously expensive face cream when he’d dug it out of the trash bin beside his mother’s vanity. And though he’d sometimes sneaked uses of the high-quality stuff before, the canister was now full of a simple concoction of bargain moisturizer and a few drops of food coloring and almond extract that he’d found in the pantry.
He didn’t think it would be bad for anyone’s skin. And besides, studies had been showing the benefit of placebos for years. Who said they couldn’t cure teenage acne just as effectively as they could cure an annoying headache?
But Jules, evidently unimpressed with the evidence Carswell had just presented, grabbed him by his shirt collar and pushed him against the bank of lockers. Carswell suspected it wasn’t to get a better look at his own flawless complexion.
“I want my money back,” Jules seethed through his teeth.
“Good morning, Carswell,” said a chipper voice.
Sliding his gaze past Jules’s shoulder, Carswell smiled and nodded at the freckled brunette who was shyly fluttering her lashes at him. “Morning, Shan. How’d your recital go last night?”
She giggled, already flustered, and ducked her head. “It was great. I’m sorry you couldn’t make it,” she said, before turning and darting through the crowd toward a group of friends who were waiting near the water fountain. Together they broke into a fit of teasing chatter as they proceeded down the hallway.
Jules pushed Carswell into the lockers again, pulling his attention back. “I said—”
“You want your money back, yeah, yeah, I heard you.” Carswell held up the canister. “And that’s fine. No problem. I’ll transfer it over during lunch.”
Harrumphing, Jules released him.
“Of course, you’ll lose all the progress you’ve made so far.”
“What progress?” Jules said, bristling again. “Stuff doesn’t work!”
“Sure it works. But it takes two weeks. Says so right here.” He pointed at the label, and Jules snarled.
“It’s been three.”
Rolling his eyes, Carswell tossed the canister from hand to hand. “It’s a process. There are steps. The first step is”—he respectfully lowered his voice, in case Jules didn’t want the sensitive nature of their conversation to be overheard—“you know, clearing away the first layer of dead skin cells. Exfoliation, as it were. But a really deep, intense, all-natural exfoliation. That takes two weeks. In step two, it unlocks all the grease and dirt that’s been stuck in the bottom of your pores—that’s the step you’re in the middle of right now. In another week, it’ll move on to step three. Hydrating your skin so that it has a constant, healthy glow.” He quirked his lips to one side and shrugged. “You know, like me. I’m telling you, it does work. And if there’s one thing I know, it’s skin-care products.” Unscrewing the cap, he took a long sniff of the cream. “Not to mention … no, never mind. You don’t want it. It’s not worth mentioning at all. I’ll just take this back and—”
“Not to mention what?”
Carswell cleared his throat and dipped forward, until Jules had lowered his own head into their makeshift huddle. “The scent is proven to make you more attractive to girls. It’s practically an aphrodisiac, in aromatherapy form.”
A crease formed in between Jules’s brows, and Carswell recognized confusion. He was about to explain what an aphrodisiac was when a third form sidled up beside them.
“Hey, Carswell,” said Elia, the pep squad captain, slipping her hand into the crook of his elbow. She was easily one of the prettiest girls in school, with thick black hair and a persistent dimple in one cheek. She was also a year older and about four inches taller than Carswell, which wasn’t particularly uncommon these days. Unlike Jules, Carswell hadn’t seen even a glimmer of a growth spurt yet, and he was really starting to get fed up with waiting, even though none of the girls seemed bothered that they’d been outpacing him in the height department since their sixth year.
“Morning, Elia,” Carswell said, slipping the canister of facial cream into his pocket. “Perfect timing! Could you do me a favor?”
Her eyes widened with blatant enthusiasm. “Of course!”
“Could you tell me, what does my good friend Jules here smell like to you?”
Instant redness flushed over Jules’s face and, with a snarl, he pushed Carswell into the lockers again. “What are you—!”
But then he froze. Carswell’s teeth were still vibrating when Elia leaned forward so that her nose was almost, almost touching Jules’s neck, and sniffed.
Jules had become a statue.
Carswell lifted an expectant eyebrow.
Elia rocked back on her heels, considering for a moment as her gaze raked over the ceiling. Then—“Almonds, I think.”
“And … do you like it?” Carswell ventured.
She laughed, the sound like an inviting wind chime. Jules’s blush deepened.
“Definitely,” she said, although it was Carswell she was smiling at. “It reminds me of one of my favorite desserts.”
Jules released him and, once again, Carswell smoothed his jacket. “Thank you, Elia. That’s very helpful.”
“My pleasure.” She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. “I was wondering if you’re
going to the Peace Dance next week?”
His smile was both practiced and instinctual. “Undecided. I may be cooking dinner for my sick grandmother that night.” He waited expectantly as Elia’s gaze filled with swooning. “But if I do end up going to the dance, you’ll be the first I ask to go with me.”
She beamed and bounced on her toes for a moment. “Well, I’d say yes,” she said, looking suddenly, briefly bashful. “Just in case you weren’t sure.” Then she turned and practically skipped down the hall.
“Well,” said Carswell, pulling the canister back out of his pocket. “I guess our business is all concluded, then. Like I said, I’ll return your payment in full by second period. Of course, the retail price on this stuff just went up twenty percent, so if you change your mind later, I’m afraid I’m going to have to charge—”
Jules snatched the canister out of his hand. His face was still bright red, his brow still drawn, but the anger had dissolved from his eyes. “If nothing’s changed in another three weeks,” he said, low and threatening, “I’ll be shoving the rest of this cream down your throat.”
Well, most of the anger had dissolved from his eyes, anyway.
But Carswell merely smiled and gave Jules a friendly pat on the chest just as the anthem of the American Republic began to blare through the school speakers. “So glad I could clear things up for you.”
Turning, Carswell waved his wrist over his locker to unlock the ID-coded mechanism and gathered up his things, as polite a dismissal as he could give.
* * *
He walked into literature class four minutes late, his book bag over one shoulder as he deftly buttoned up his blazer. He slid into the only remaining seat—front row, dead center.
“So nice of you to join us, Mr. Thorne,” said Professor Gosnel.
Crossing his ankles, Carswell tipped back in his chair and flashed a bright smile at the teacher. “The pleasure is all mine, Professor Gosnel.”
She sighed, but he could see the corner of her mouth twitch as she punched something into her portscreen. Within moments, the screens built into the classroom desks lit up with the day’s assignment. Great dramatists of the first century, third era, was emblazoned across the top, followed by a list of names and which of the six Earthen countries each dramatist had hailed from.
“For today, I want everyone to select one artist from this list,” said the teacher, pacing in front of the classroom, “and choose a drama from their body of work that appeals to you. At half past, we’ll split into pairs and you can take turns reading the dramas you’ve found with your partner and discussing how the themes in them relate to our world today.”
A finger tapped Carswell gently at the base of his neck, the universal symbol for “I choose you.” Carswell struggled to remember who had been sitting behind him when he took this seat, and if it was someone he wouldn’t mind being partnered with. Had it been Destiny? Athena? Blakely? Spades, he hoped it wasn’t Blakely. Once she started talking, it was difficult to remember what peace and quiet sounded like.
He slid his gaze to the side, hoping he could catch his mystery partner’s reflection in the windows before committing to the partnership, when his gaze caught on the girl sitting in the seat beside him.
Kate Fallow.
His gaze narrowed thoughtfully.
Despite having been in the same grade since toddler primaries, he doubted that he and Kate had spoken more than fifty words to each other their whole lives. He didn’t think it was anything personal. Their paths just hadn’t crossed much. As evidenced at that moment, she preferred to sit in the front of class, whereas he did his best to end up somewhere near the back. Instead of coming out to sporting events or school festivals, Kate always seemed to rush straight home when classes were over. She was at the top of their class and well liked, but by no means popular, and she spent most lunch hours with her nose buried in her portscreen. Reading.
This was only the second time Carswell Thorne had stopped to ponder one Kate Fallow. The first time, he had wondered why she liked books so much, and if it had anything to do with why he liked spaceships. Because they could take you somewhere far, far away from here.
This time, he was wondering what her math score was.
There was a thud as Carswell settled his chair legs back on the floor and leaned across the aisle. “You probably know who all these writers are, don’t you?”
Kate’s head whipped up. She blinked at him for a moment before her startled eyes glanced at the person behind her, then back to Carswell.
He grinned.
She blinked. “Ex-excuse me?”
He inched closer, so that he was barely seated on the edge of his chair, and dragged the tip of his stylus down her screen. “All these dramatists. You read so much, I bet you’ve already read them all.”
“Um.” She followed the tip of his stylus before … there it was, that sudden rush of color to her cheeks. “No, not all of them. Maybe … maybe half, though?”
“Yeah?” Settling an elbow on his knee, Carswell cupped his chin. “Who’s your favorite? I could use a recommendation.”
“Oh. Well, um. Bourdain wrote some really great historical pieces…” She trailed off, then swallowed. Hard. She lifted her eyes to him and seemed surprised when he was still paying attention to her.
For his part, Carswell was feeling a little surprised too. It had been a long time since he’d really looked at Kate Fallow, and she seemed prettier now than he’d remembered, even if it was the kind of pretty that was overshadowed by the likes of Shan or Elia. Kate was softer and plumper than most of the girls in his class, but she also had the largest, warmest brown eyes he thought he’d ever seen.
Plus, there was also something endearing about a girl who seemed entirely floored by no more than a moment’s worth of attention from him. But maybe that was just his ego speaking.
“Is there a certain type of drama you like?” Kate whispered.
Carswell twisted his lips up in thought. “Adventure stories, I guess. With lots of exotic places and daring escapades … and swashbuckling space pirates, naturally.” He followed this up with a wink and watched, preening inside, as Kate’s mouth turned into a small, surprised O.
Then Professor Gosnel cleared her throat. “This is supposed to be individual study, Mr. Thorne and Miss Fallow. Twenty more minutes, and then you can partner up.”
“Yes, Professor Gosnel,” said Carswell without missing a beat, even as the redness stretched to Kate’s hairline and a few students snickered near the back. He wondered if Kate had ever been reprimanded by a teacher in her life.
He slid his gaze back to Kate and waited—five seconds, six—until her gaze darted uncertainly upward again. Though she caught him staring, she was the one who instantly turned back to her desk, flustered.
Feeling rather accomplished, Carswell took to scanning through the names. A few sounded familiar, but not enough that he could have named any of their works. He racked his brain, trying to remember what, exactly, he was supposed to be doing for this assignment anyway.
Then Kate Fallow leaned over and tapped her stylus against a name on the list. Joel Kimbrough, United Kingdom, born 27 T.E. His list of works spilled down the screen, with titles like Space Ranger on the Ninth Moon and The Mariner and the Martians.
Carswell beamed up at Kate, but she had already returned her attention to her own screen, without any sign of her blush receding.
The next twenty minutes were spent scanning through Joel Kimbrough’s extensive body of work, while his mind churned through different scenarios in which he could get Kate Fallow to help him with his math homework—preferably, just to let him copy off her so he wouldn’t need to put any more time into that wasteful venture.
When Professor Gosnel finally told them to choose a partner, Carswell scooted his desk closer to Kate’s without hesitation. “Would you like to work together?”
She gaped at him again, no less surprised than the first time. “Me?”
“Sure. Y
ou like histories, I like adventures. Match made in heaven, right?”
“Um…”
“Carswell?” hissed a voice behind him. He glanced around. Blakely was seated behind him, leaning so far over her desk that her nose was practically on his shoulder. “I thought you and I could be partners.”
“Er—one second.” He lifted a finger to her, then turned back to Kate and plowed on. “Actually, there’s something I’ve kind of been meaning to ask you for a while now.”
Kate’s jaw hung, as Carswell feigned a sudden onslaught of uncertainty and scooted his chair a bit closer. “You know how we’re in the same math class?”
She blinked, twice. Nodded.
“Well, I was thinking, if you’re not busy, and if you wanted to, maybe we could study together one of these days. Maybe after school.” He followed this up with his easiest smile—practiced and precise.
Kate could not have looked any more stunned if he’d just proposed that they move to Colombia State together and become coffee bean farmers. “You want to … study? With me?”
“Yeah. Math, specifically.” He rubbed the back of his neck. “I’m not doing that great in it. I could really use your help.” He added a drop of pleading to his expression and watched as Kate Fallow’s eyes widened and softened simultaneously. Those pretty, enormous brown eyes.
Carswell was surprised to feel a jolt behind his sternum, and suddenly he was almost looking forward to his studying time with Kate Fallow, which was a rather unexpected twist.
Because, of course, she would say yes.
Although it was Blakely who spoke next. “Carswell. We should get started on this assignment, don’t you think?” There was an edge to her tone that Kate must have noticed. Something that hinted at jealousy.
With a glance back at Blakely, Kate looked more flustered than ever. But then she nodded and gave an awkward shrug. “Sure. All right.”
Carswell beamed. “Great. And also—I hate to ask this—but would you mind if I took a look at today’s assignment? I tried to do it last night but was completely lost. All those equations…”
Stars Above: A Lunar Chronicles Collection (The Lunar Chronicles) Page 10