“Yes, yes.” Mr. Kaplan runs a greasy hand over the top of his shiny, bald head as his other frantically lifts the various papers that litter his desk. “Jensen, Jensen, Jensen Mackey… here we go.”
He hands me the schedule and offers a smile at Jensen, his stare lingering a bit too long. Even Mr. Kaplan can sense Jensen doesn’t fit in here.
I glance over his schedule.
Ugh.
Our first and last blocks are together: Chemistry and AP English. He doesn’t look like an AP student. He doesn’t look like someone who would consider his grades or merit.
His locker number is printed on the bottom of his schedule, along with the combination. At least we’re in different hallways. I don’t think I could survive my last three weeks of senior year being joined at the hip with him all day long.
“We have to get to class,” I say, pulling on his shirtsleeve. “I’ll show you your locker later.”
He yanks the schedule from my hand. “Going to let me see what Kath signed me up for? Good. Drawing II and Mixed Media.”
We blaze into chemistry with thirty seconds to spare before the tardy bell rings. All the window seats are taken, so we settle for a table in the back row. Mrs. Davenport takes roll call, and when she gets to Jensen, she makes him stand up.
“Tell us a little about yourself,” she says with an open-mouthed smile. She shows the same kind of enthusiasm when she talks about thermite reactions because, you know, thermite reactions are super exciting. She pulls on her long necklace that holds a bedazzled charm in the shape of a beaker. “I realize we’re in the final weeks of the school year, but it’s never too late to make new friends and get to know each other.”
Jensen stands, his head leaning to one side and a hand on his hip. He rubs his eyebrows and clears his throat. He is literally too cool to give a crap about all the people staring at him. “I’m Jensen Mackey. Just moved here from Charter Springs, Arizona. Finishing my senior year.”
Two girls, cheerleaders, spin around from the table in front of us. They flash toothpaste-commercial-quality smiles and toss their curled hair over their shoulders like they share a brain.
“Hi, Jensen,” the brunette says. “I’m Claire Fahnlander, and this is Harper Griffin.”
Jensen offers an off-center smile, one that makes him look drunk and cocky all at the same time. I’m rolling my eyes—on the inside, of course.
“We’re glad to have you, Jensen. You can partner up with Waverly today. Her usual lab partner is out sick. Okay, safety kits out.” Mrs. Davenport turns to the white board, writing today’s lesson plan on the board as we retrieve our goggles and lab coats.
Claire and Harper giggle and snap selfies behind Mrs. Davenport’s back, making goofy faces through their goggles and flashing peace signs with fish-lipped pouts. Jensen watches them. Errant heat sears through my belly, tingling and evaporating as a tiny part of me hates that they’re earning his attention.
“Do you have an extra beaker we can borrow?” Claire says to Jensen, batting her lashes. She sticks a finger in her mouth and bites the tip of her long, pink nail as she winks. Harper giggles.
“Probably shouldn’t put your finger in your mouth,” Jensen says, avoiding her gaze. “You’re in a chem lab.”
Claire blushes and spins around. Harper is still giggling, leaning her head on Claire’s narrow shoulder. I have to give Jensen credit for not falling for that like every other guy in school does. She’s eager to make him hers before anyone else has a chance to. Claire is the alpha female of a catty group of senior girls who rule the school with iron-clad, manicured fists.
They infuriate me, especially when I’m the target of their mean-girl giggles, but I never let it show. It’s not worth it. In just a few short months, I’ll be trekking all over a college campus, my English lit books in hand, with a group of collegiate peers with more important things to discuss besides who’s dating whom.
The period ends before we know it. I don’t remember much of it. Jensen did most of the work, which is unlike me, but my thoughts were jumbled all morning. I chalk it up to being thrown off my routine that morning and promise to do better the next day.
“You need me to show you your locker?” I ask as we file out of the classroom.
“Nah, just point me there. I can find it.” His independence very well might be his only redeemable quality.
“South hall. Red lockers.”
He pats me on the back like I’m an old pal and gives a quick nod before disappearing into a sea of students without so much as a “see you later.” I wouldn’t say I miss him, but his sudden absence is noticeable.
“Hey, Waverly.” I spin around to see Cade Corbin, the guy who’s been relentlessly pursuing me since middle school. His perennial tan, cleft chin, and deep blue eyes always seem to work in tandem to try and melt my resolve, but I’ve stayed strong. “What are you doing this weekend?”
“Cade.” I fight a grin and shake my head as we trudge ahead. Every week he asks me this. He knows I’m not allowed to have a boyfriend. He knows I can’t date. He refuses to give up. I’m quite positive he only wants me because he can’t have me. “Who’s that guy you walked in with this morning?”
“A family friend.”
Cade slips his arm around my shoulders as he walks me to History. He’s tall and lanky, star of our cross-country team. The space around him is scented with clean shampoo and fabric softener, and there’s a hint of peppermint on his breath as he talks.