I smirked. “Yes, the people who need help in Chemistry went ahead and taught each other. We’re super good at Chemistry now.”
Isabel rolled her eyes.
Over Isabel’s shoulder I could still see Lucas. He looked up, a small smile on his face. Had he been following our conversation or was he amused by something in his book?
Isabel hit my arm. “I hope you’ve learned by now that Lily likes to joke,” she said to David.
“I have,” David said.
“You have?” I said.
“Yes.”
Isabel moved her eyebrows up and down at me. I ignored her.
“Why are we extending the torture of Chemistry beyond school hours again?” I asked, picking up my pen.
“So we don’t have to retake the class next year?” David offered.
“Good point.” I opened my book.
“What are you guys up to this weekend?” Isabel asked, instead of focusing on Chemistry. “We should all do something.”
I glanced at David. I wondered if he knew that Isabel was trying to set us up.
“What day?” he asked.
“I don’t know,” Isabel said. “Whatever day we all have open.”
I said nothing.
David flipped through the pages of his textbook. “The band is playing for the home game on Friday.”
“You’re playing at the football game?” Isabel asked, widening her eyes. “Fun. We’ll totally go watch you. Right, Lily?”
“Um … I’ll have to make sure I’m not stuck babysitting again, but sure,” I said hesitantly. “Sounds fun.”
“And maybe we could all hang out after the game?” Isabel added. She was so persistent.
David nodded and tentatively looked at me. I couldn’t read him very well. I wasn’t sure if he wanted me to give an encouraging look or if he was trying to get out of this plan.
I smiled, just in case that would help when really I just wanted to say, Yeah, I’m trying to get out of this too, but you don’t know my best friend very well if you think there is hope for either of us.
“We’ll be doing our marching band performance at halftime,” David finally said, glancing back at Isabel.
“I love watching the marching band,” Isabel exclaimed. “It’s so cool to see all those formations. How long do you have to work on those?”
“Months,” he said.
“Lily likes anything with music.”
Apparently I was still going with the “not-talking” strategy. I finally found my voice. “It’s true.”
David smiled. “Music and chemistry. Bringing people together.”
For some reason, I blushed. Music and chemistry. Why had he said that?
I thought about the Suspects page in the back of my notebook. I had written down two possibilities so far: A guy named George from my composition class who yesterday morning was going on and on about his parents’ divorce and how he was going to write a song about it. When I’d heard him say that, my heart had jumped. George wasn’t that cute, but he seemed smart. I was willing to consider him. The other suspect was Travis from P.E.; I’d overheard him telling his friend that reverse psychology works well on teachers. My letter writer had said something about reverse psychology. I guess I was grasping at straws.
But now, sitting in the library, I wondered if I could add a third name to the Suspects list: David.
Finally, I thought, as I settled into my seat in Chemistry on Thursday. I couldn’t listen to Mr. Ortega for the normal five minutes I usually did before reading. I unfolded the note right away.
I hadn’t realized it was lab yesterday. It surprised me. Maybe I should start paying more attention in class. I blame you for the distraction. The problem is that you’re making me look forward to Chemistry or something. In what crazy world does anyone look forward to Chemistry? Can you stop being so amusing? I think that will help. Did you start on our first song? “Left Behind.” It’s hard to tell if someone is kidding or not in a letter. Are you actually a songwriter?
That last sentence made me pause. I wanted to be a songwriter. But I really wasn’t. I hadn’t even written a full song. I had partial lyrics, and incomplete melodies, but nothing finished. I shook off the thought and continued reading.
If so, I’m impressed. If not, maybe you should be. You seem passionate about music and you have a way with words. Sometimes I wish I were passionate about something real. Something I knew I could succeed in. Right now all my dreams are a little far-fetched. Oh no, Mr. Ortega wants us to complete a worksheet with our seat partner. Gotta go.
I smiled, and checked up to see Mr. Ortega writing some endless formula on the board. I immediately produced a fresh piece of paper and wrote:
You think songwriting is a realistic dream? That was a joke, right? Like you said, it’s hard to tell from a letter. But yes, I am passionate about it. Now, if only I could actually write a complete song, I might feel like I could call myself a songwriter. For now, I’m just a far-fetched dreamer like you. It might stay that way until I get out of my house. It’s impossible to write there.
What is this far-fetched dream of yours anyway? Something your home life prevents, like mine? How are things at home? Any improvement with your mom or dad? You said your dad left and you haven’t seen him in a while, but you have talked to him, right?
Ugh, now Mr. Ortega is asking US to complete the worksheets. Gotta go too.
Twenty-four hours was a long time to think about what answers my pen pal would give to my questions. I found myself worried about him the rest of the day and that night, wondering what his far-fetched dreams were that he didn’t feel he could believe in.