Page 49 of This I Know
The explosion was short lived. When the sound passes, Avery finally gasps. She cups her hand over her mouth and her eyes shift around the room. Everyone’s looking at us. Ather, more specifically. And I feel each and every one of those piercing eyes for her.
I can examine the situation at last. The liquids that were once in her test tubes have since overflowed and splattered with the explosion; not onto any of us, but all over the table. My papers are sprinkled with wet marks of God only knows what kind of chemicals, and in some areas the words are smudged, but for the most part they’re fine. I pick a few up and try to wipe them against a dry area of the table.
I can only hope Mr. Miller wouldn’t have been stupid enough to trust us with toxic chemicals. Either that, or that he’d be quick enough to lunge over here, flailing his arms and shooing us away from danger. That’s what I’m counting on right now. And shifting my eyes to where he’s standing, he’s not makingamove. I take that to be a good sign.
Snickering and gasps soon fills the room as everyone assesses the situation and laughs off their nerves. Mr. Miller is standing still at the front of the classroom, clipboard and pencil in hands. He’s glaring at Avery. It’s only a matter of time before he heads over here to play the blame game.
I don’t laugh until I see her start to laugh. I wouldn’t dare. She snickers with the group, her shoulders shrugging up and down.
“Sorry,” she says to no one in particular.
As predicted, Mr. Miller approaches. His clipboard now hangs by his side, and for once he’s forgotten all things curriculum-related.
So what’s it going to be, Avery?
Yelling?
Detention?
Detention with a teacher like Mr. Miller would have to be the dullest moment of her life. I shudder at the thought. I hope he lets her off easy.
I shift away to avoid the brunt of the coming onslaught.
“Avery Dylan,” Mr. Miller says.
Oh, God. She got the full name. Everyone knows a full name from a teacher is the equivalent of a parent pulling out the middle name. Okay, maybe a little worse. I’ve only heard it happen twice in my entire high school career, and never before from a teacher with a reputation like Mr. Miller.
“Avery Dylan,” he says again.
The rest of the class pretends to resume their work. I do the same.
Mr. Miller holds out his free hand. “Let me see your work.”
She hands him the wet paper.
He looks it over, then says, “I see.” He motions with his finger. “Come over to my desk, please.”
She slinks off the stool, following Mr. Miller, leaving all her items where they are. Her arms are crossed at the elbows, covering her abdomen in protection, and before she turned from me I could have sworn I thought I saw her still trying to stifle a laugh.
I’m glad she’s taking this better. Up until now I’d always thought of her as so delicate. I guess there’s a side of her I haven’t seen yet.
She talks to the teacher for a while, standing next to his desk. She never uncrosses her arms. She briefly leans over his desk when he points to something on her paper and nods in recognition.
I assume we should keep working, so I go to pour my own liquid and almost jump again in anticipation. Then I exhale. This time, no explosion.
She’s beside me again, released from the grip of the punishment-dealer.
I lean over. “Was it bad?”
She spins her head at me, a look of shock on her face that I’m even daring to speak to her again, or that we’ve never spoken before. The way she’s looking at me now, you’d think she just witnessed a miracle.
She closes her jaw. “It wasn’t bad.”
The girl across from us lifts her eyes at our burgeoning conversation.
“So what did you do?” I continue. We’re both looking ahead now, partly out of a newfound fear of Mr. Miller and partly out of a newfound respect for what we’re doing. Mr. Miller is still at his desk, though, and apart from passing us a thick roll of brown paper towels he hasn’t said anything else about what happened. Still, I know the man fairly well by this point in the school year – and with the way the room is finally peaceful and quiet now, if we raise our voices I’m likely to face his wrath.
“Something wrong, obviously,” she whispers.
