Firsts (16 page)

I edge away from him, hoping he won’t put his arm around me and make me play his girlfriend again. “I hope so,” I say, but even I can hear the wariness in my voice.
If I’m such a good friend, why do I feel like I’m betraying Angela?

“Angie’s going to love this,” he says with a satisfied smile that I can’t bring myself to return. Because even though Charlie thinks “Angie” will be happy, I don’t think she would like any of what went on this afternoon behind her back.

19

I have a revelation the next morning in the unlikeliest place. Prayer group, which was rescheduled from yesterday because the drama geeks took over the library for their annual Shakespeare read-a-thon.

Charlie is reciting something that I’m not paying attention to, not only because I don’t understand it or believe it but because the very sound of Charlie’s voice today makes me think of silk, like lingerie, and Angela wearing it. It’s not a mental picture I want. As I’m staring at the open Bible in my hands, trying to think about something else, my revelation happens.

I know how to help Toby Easton with polymers. The answer was right in front of me the whole time, but not in the pages of my notes where I was looking for it.

“Come over to my place after school,” I tell Toby after his chemistry class lets out. “I have something to show you.”

He puffs out his chubby cheeks. It’s almost like he’s suspicious. He couldn’t possibly know about what goes on in my bedroom. Could he?

“Is that normal?” he says, fumbling with the papers in his hand. The top one bears a mark unfamiliar to me. A big red C. “I mean, I never went to a tutor’s house before.”

I narrow my eyes at him. “And how’s that working out for you?” I say, gesturing to the C. “Five twenty-four Silverberry Run. Be there at six.”

I stop at the water fountain on my way to class. My hair starts falling into the fountain, until a hand pushes it back for me. I close my eyes. For some reason I expect to see Zach when I stand up. But Charlie is there instead, wearing the same look he had on yesterday when I came out of the dressing room.

“I was thirsty,” I say dumbly, wiping my mouth. My cheek feels hot where his fingers just were. I don’t want his fingers there. I don’t want anybody pushing my hair behind my ears for me. That was what Luke used to do.
This is what girlfriends do.

“Hot date tonight?” Charlie says, tilting his head and pointing across the hall. I follow where he is looking and see Toby at his locker with a pudgy blond girl clinging to his neck. That must be the girlfriend who comes second to his textbook.

“No,” I say brusquely, wrapping my arms across my chest. “I’m his tutor.” How long has Charlie been watching me, anyway?

“I had no idea you were a tutor,” Charlie says, propping his foot against the wall. “But now I can totally see it.”

I nod. “Well, who knows if I’m any good at it.”

Charlie leans in. “I bet you’re an awesome teacher,” he says.

I don’t have time to react because Zach saunters up beside me and puts his hand on my shoulder.

“Hey, Mercy,” he says. “I need to talk to you about something.” He looks from my face to Charlie’s and back to me again.

Charlie crosses his arms. He opens his mouth like he wants to say something else, but the bell rings and he heads down the hallway.

“What were you guys talking about?” Zach says, staring at his retreating back.

“Nothing,” I say quickly. “Nothing important.” I start walking in the opposite direction. “I’m late for class. Can we talk later?”

Zach shrugs. “Sure, I guess,” he says, stopping abruptly. “Look, this might sound weird, but I don’t like how Charlie looks at you. He’s kind of strange, don’t you think?”

I raise an eyebrow. “That’s what you wanted to talk to me about? I can take care of myself, Zach.” I shift my backpack strap and stare at my feet. “Besides, what’s it to you? Are you jealous or something?”

Zach’s face clouds over and I immediately wish I could take back what I just said. I know Zach is just looking out for me, but I don’t need looking out for. I can take care of myself.

“You know, I don’t think there’s anything to talk about after all,” he says. “See you around.”

I remain planted in the hallway when he keeps walking.
See you around.
That’s Zach-speak for
you’re an asshole
, although he would never say that. Not even when I deserve it.

I half expect Toby Easton not to show up after school. Maybe his girlfriend isn’t okay with him going to his tutor’s house. Maybe he isn’t okay with it. I’m grateful that Kim isn’t home, because she would definitely scare him off.

It’s weird having a guy over and not going through my regular routine first. I’m wearing the same jeans and T-shirt I wore to school today, with the same flimsy ponytail and stale makeup. I get ready, but in a different way. I line up everything we will need on the kitchen counter. Then I wait.

He shows up at half past, wearing the same uneasy expression he had on in the hallway at school. “I’m desperate,” he says. “This class is killing me.”

“You’re in the right place,” I say, leading him into the kitchen.

“Holy…,” he says when he sees the cluttered countertop, all the bottles and jars and flattened Ziploc bags. “What’s all this?”

“This,” I say, spreading my arms out, “is your interactive lesson in polymers.”

He eyes me up with suspicion. He doesn’t want to put his notebook away. He’s clinging to it, to whatever he wrote down in there.

It’s not a regular lab experiment, what I have set up in the kitchen. It’s something more basic, and hopefully more fun. Because that’s how I have been teaching people in my bedroom all this time—by going back to basics, breaking it down step by step, making it less intimidating. I figure it’s worth a shot to apply this method of teaching to Toby, but in a very different way.

“During polymerization, chemical groups are lost from the monomers so that they can join together,” I explain, standing behind the counter. “But you don’t need to remember that yet. You just need to remember that examples of polymers are plastics and silicones. And that’s what we’re making. Silly putty.”

Toby laughs, until he realizes I’m serious. And the more serious I get, the more relaxed he gets. He lets go of his notebook and follows my instructions. His attention isn’t focused on writing and remembering things, just listening to each direction. He obediently shakes the glue solution and adds food coloring and makes the borax solution without flinching. By the time we end up with small plastic bags full of sticky globs, Toby looks like he’s actually having fun. I watch him stretch the putty and rub it between his fingers.

“It kind of makes sense,” he says. “The chemical properties of the putty change because of the amounts of the ingredients we used.” He shrugs. “Right?”

“Right,” I say, breaking into a smile. It worked.

“Thanks, Mercedes,” he says. “You really saved my life.”

I freeze midmotion, with my hand gripped around a wad of putty.
You really saved my life.
Somebody else said those very words to me not so long ago, after I helped him. Evan Brown.

I don’t want to think about Evan right now. I busy myself cleaning up the mess on the counter before Kim gets home and thinks I’m in the process of building a bomb or something. Toby looks genuinely grateful when he leaves, and there’s something familiar building in my chest. Pride. The same pride I used to feel when somebody left my bedroom. But this is better. This is, in chemistry terms, an undiluted solution. Not a temporary high, but something better. There’s no residual doubt, no lingering what-ifs.

I don’t know if I’m proud of Toby or of myself, or both. And if I’m proud of myself, it might be the very first time.

20

After the kitchen is clean, I know I should start my home economics assignment, the one I haven’t even chosen a topic for yet. But instead of opening my textbook, I open an old photo album instead. It’s filled with pictures of me and Angela. A few from the time we told her parents we were going to the grade-nine dance but really went to get burgers and milkshakes instead. A bunch from two summers ago at the beach, when Angela was afraid to go in the water because she was convinced a shark was going to grab her leg. One from the time we went camping and tried unsuccessfully to pitch a tent because Angela forgot the instruction manual at home.

In all of the pictures, we’re smiling, laughing, carefree. And it makes me realize that nothing has been that way lately. We’re both more serious, more withdrawn. Every time I look at Angela, she’s distracted, like she’s miles away. And maybe she would say the same thing about me.

I try to justify what Charlie told me. That he’s planning a surprise, that he just wants Angela to come out of her shell. But that’s the thing about Angela. She has always had a shell. It’s her armor, the protective barrier to guard her softness. It’s part of her. And if I know that, Charlie should, too.

I promised him I would keep his plans a secret, and I meant it. But my loyalty is to my best friend.

So I put the photo album away and grab my keys to the Jeep and pull out of the driveway, making one quick stop before ringing Angela’s doorbell.

When she opens the door, she looks surprised to see me, which makes me feel awful. I used to drop by unannounced all the time. But not anymore.

“Mercy,” she says, pulling the door open. “What’s up?”

I shrug, hopping from one foot to the other, hoping she can’t sense my nervousness.

“I was studying and got hungry,” I say, holding out the plastic bag I’m carrying. “And it’s been awhile since we did this, don’t you think?”

Her face breaks into a smile when she looks in the bag. “Chocolate chips,” she says. “You know, I could use a study break, too.”

I follow her into the kitchen and hop onto one of the barstools at the counter. I watch her pull out a cookie sheet, one that doesn’t bear the burnt residue of our previous cookie-making efforts like the ones in Kim’s kitchen.

“Let’s do it right this time,” she says, and that makes me feel even guiltier because I want to make everything right. My friendship with Angela. The distance between us.

“Well, following the recipe is a start,” I say. “Don’t turn the oven up too high. That’s what ruined it last time.”

I wonder if she’s thinking what I’m thinking, that last time was a long time ago.

“Let’s not forget the brown sugar, either,” she says. “And you got vanilla extract. This is totally going to end well.”

By the time we start measuring ingredients and mixing them together in a giant bowl, I have all but forgotten my actual reason for coming here. It feels like old times, talking and laughing as we eat more of the chocolate chips than we put in the batter, Angela chastising me for making the blobs of dough on the cookie sheet too big.

After the first batch goes in the oven, the kitchen counter is a mess of flour and sugar granules, and Angela’s face is pink and shiny as she sets the timer for ten minutes. I don’t want to bring Charlie up. I don’t want anything to ruin this.

But I know it’s now or never.

“So, how are things going with Charlie?” I ask, licking batter off the back of a spoon.

Angela takes off her oven mitts and slumps over the counter. “Good, I guess.” She cocks her head quizzically. “Why?”

I put the spoon down and sit up straight. “I don’t know,” I say, and the rest of the words dissolve like sugar on my tongue.
Because we went lingerie shopping for you last night. He picked out this white lacy thing that you’d hate and he has some big plan and I’m really worried.

Angela raises an eyebrow. “I know what you’re thinking,” she says, and I wish for once she did, because that would make this a whole lot easier.

“What?” I ask.

She stares at her hands, where she is rolling a bit of leftover dough between her fingers. “You’re thinking about what I said in your bedroom, about how I was confused. But I’m not anymore.”

My heart thuds erratically. “You’re not?”

She shakes her head and wisps of hair fall out from behind her ears. “No, I’ve made up my mind. I’m not sleeping with Charlie until we get married. No matter what.”

“Does he know that?” I blurt out.

She looks up. “Well, I haven’t said anything, but he’ll just have to understand. I always said I’d wait, and I’m not changing my mind.”

I grip the counter with my fingertips. I wish I could just be relieved, but I’m scared. Scared of how Charlie will react when Angela doesn’t want to put that lingerie on.

“That’s good,” I say. “I mean, sex is a big deal. You can’t go back, once it happens. So you have to be totally sure.”

“Like you were with Luke,” she says, and I nod quickly without meeting her eyes. A silent lie but maybe the biggest one I have ever told.

“Charlie’s planning something,” I say weakly. “For your anniversary. I don’t know what exactly, but he has some big romantic thing planned. He asked for my help. I just didn’t want you to be surprised.”

I don’t know how Angela will react to that, and this is why it’s so hard telling the truth. People don’t have a standard reaction. People aren’t a chemistry experiment you can tinker with until the proportions are just right.

People are terrifying that way.

“Thank you,” she says, touching my wrist lightly. “You know how much I hate surprises. At least if I know one’s coming, I can prepare myself.”

When I glance up, she’s smiling and I almost want to laugh because it’s true. Angela does hate surprises. She hated the surprise birthday party her parents threw for her when she turned sixteen and she hates surprise endings in movies and she hates pop quizzes even more than the rest of us. Everyone who knows Angela knows that.

Charlie should know that.

After a few more minutes, the timer starts to beep, and Angela spins around and opens the oven.

“Don’t get too excited, but these look really promising!” she says. “Quick—pass me the oven mitts before they burn.”

After putting the cookie sheet on a cooling rack, Angela plucks one cookie off and breaks it in half.