Page 13 of The Wallflower and the Running Back

It’s an impossible idea, and the thought of bargaining with Logan to split the money makes my stomach turn. Not because I dislike money, or dislike the idea of walking into a ball on his arm. I just don’t think I have the audacity. Besides, if we went to the ball I’d have to be up way past nine. And I’m almost certain I turn into a pumpkin at 9:01.

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logan

I’m honestly excited to tell Rachel how my first day of chem went. I wasn’t completely lost. Granted, the first day is mostly going over the syllabus and assignment expectations, but the professor finished the first class talking about significant figures. When I raised my hand to answer one of the sample questions, the teacher actually sighed. Audibly. He probably expected me to ask some dumb shit about his bathroom policy or to make a significant joke instead of providing an actual response.

Showed him! I got the answer right and followed it up with a Boom! Probably a little cocky for a basic chem class, but the rest of the students in there were pretty excited about my reaction. I don’t even care that they laughed. I’m used to making my classmates laugh, though historically, it’s been more in the realm of smart-ass comments and bullshit answers.

Then I did it again. And this time, the teacher walked over to my desk and held out a fist for me to bump. And Boom! we both went.

I’m on cloud nine. No, ten! Eleven!

Of course, I’m also fucking late. And I forgot to get Rachel’s cell number, so there’s no way to text her.

Coach asked me to stick around for some extra routes, and I guess I could have told him I couldn’t miss tutoring and checked out, but no way was I letting Cam sub in for me. I don’t feel threatened by him, but I also don’t feel so confident that I can give him an edge and time in my spotlight. It has nothing to do with my ex and him dating, either. My priority is on earning draft attention. I couldn’t care less who Amy dates. I’m also pretty sure the only reason she’s with Cam is to get at me. She may have done the dumping, but I get the impression she still very much wants me to pine after her. Or maybe her narcissism rubbed off on me.

But now I’m busting my ass toward the library, the clouds that hovered above us most of the day finally opening up and dumping rain on me. It’s an hour past the time we were supposed to meet, and my stomach is twisting in on itself with every step I take. The library is open until midnight, so I’m sure I’ll be able to study, but Rachel was expecting me an hour ago.

I scan the main area through the glass doors before I enter, and every table is empty. There are a few groups meeting in the study rooms to the right, and a handful of students are parked in the chairs by the stacks. I take a deep breath as I step inside and dry the bottoms of my shoes on the rubber floor mat. The lobby smells like iron and mildew, and I’d swear there’s a leak somewhere in here.

I push my hoodie back and work my way toward the study rooms just in case, peeking through windows on the off chance Rachel is waiting in one. When that turns up nothing, I head to the stairs, climbing them two at a time and pacing down every aisle of the stacks, all the way to the sixth floor. There’s no reason she would be waiting for me period, let alone waiting for me in the computer lab down in the basement, but I cross that off my list. It takes me twenty minutes to scope out the entire library only to confirm what I assumed—she left because I was a no-show.

I pause just inside the main doors to pull my hoodie back over my head and tug my backpack straps tight. Staring through the wet glass, I mull over my options. I’m not so much worried about reviewing the first class materials as I am nervous that Rachel is going to bail on me. She had to know I made up that whole bit about missing a page in my notes the other night. I wanted to reassure her that I would work hard. This grade crackdown really has me freaked out. I didn’t realize how much it looked like I was flirting with her until my walk back to the parking lot. And now today, I blow her off completely.

She probably thinks I’m an asshole.

The rain eases a bit, so I step outside and rush down the steps and onto the main campus mall. Spinning slowly in the center of campus, I consider my options. The edge of the chemistry building catches my eye, and something nags me to give the labs a check. I jog down the puddled walkway, doing my best to skip over the larger pools of water, and tug open the large metal door. The modern building feels as cold as it looks with its walls made of corrugated metal, concrete, and glass. The private labs are on the second floor, and when I see lights on inside at least two of them as I scale the steps, I mutter, “Please, please, please,” to myself.

The first lab is taken by two dudes so I rush to the only other lab that’s lit and yank the door open. The pale pink braid hanging down the center of the white lab coat fills me with relief—which is quickly dashed the second a clearly startled Rachel turns around. Both her safety glasses and the regular glasses underneath fog up with her breath about a second before she drops a large piece of glassware with a bright yellow liquid onto the floor.

“What the ever-loving flip!” She clutches her chest, and I suck in my top lip, working hard not to laugh at her fake swear word.

“I’m so sorry,” I profess, pulling my backpack from my arms and dropping it by the door so I can rush to the cleaning station and arm myself with towels.

“It’s acid. Let me get it,” she says, holding up a palm and flashing me a short scowl. I’m not sure whether that was meant for the scaring her part or the massively late and no-showing thing I did.

“If you could just . . .” She nudges me closer to the door, pushing my shoulder with her gloved fingers.

“Yeah, right. Sorry.” I stumble back a step or two while she drapes some sort of industrial type paper towels across the floor, then sprays some blue liquid on top.

“What is that, like a special neutralizer?” I lean over my toes for a closer look.

“It’s soap.”

I fall back on my heels.

“Oh.”

It takes her about five minutes to clean up the acid and shards of glass. She snaps her gloves off and folds them into one another before depositing them into a yellow hazard bin. She spins to face me, immediately crossing her arms over her chest and leaning her weight against the edge of the counter she was facing when I walked in.

“Well?”

Her lips purse, her eyes laser-focused on mine, and I swear she isn’t saying flip off behind them. She’s going full F word.

“I’m really sorry I was late,” I say, going for affable, doing my best to force my eyes into full puppy dog.

“You weren’t late. You missed it completely,” she corrects.

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