“Delilah and I had quite an argument yesterday,” I say solemnly, measuring out hydrochloric acid. We have been left to our own devices to complete the day’s chemistry lab. I’m trying to follow directions to the letter, because I’m so distracted I fear I may accidentally cause an explosion.
Delilah wasn’t waiting for me today when I arrived at school. She wasn’t at my locker.
Chris hands me an eyedropper. “Girls go crazy. It’s just what they do. Give her a couple of days to chill, and she’ll forgive you for whatever you did.” He glances at me. “What was it, anyway?”
“I kissed Allie McAndrews.”
Chris winces. “Bro, Delilah’s not coming back to you.”
“Thank you so much for the support,” I mutter.
“Well, damn, what were you thinking?”
“We were role-playing,” I explain.
“Call it whatever you want,” Chris says, smirking.
“It was for the drama club. Delilah walked in at the worst possible moment.”
He shakes his head. “I don’t know what to tell you, man. From her point of view, it doesn’t look good.”
I pass him the evaporating dish so he can hold it over the Bunsen burner. “I’d do anything to take it back.”
“Well, unless you have a time machine, that’s not gonna happen,” Chris says. “What you need is a grand gesture. Something that makes her completely forget what she saw.”
“I don’t understand.”
“I’m talking going all out. Flowers. Get down on one knee. Confess your love. Haven’t you ever seenThe Notebook?”
I look at him, dubious. “That sort of thing really works?”
“Chicks eat it up,” Chris assures me.
The evaporating dish cools, leaving behind pure white crystals, tiny diamonds. It is remarkable to think that something so beautiful was born from acid.
Maybe Chris is right.
Maybe there’s still hope for me.
I just wish there were a recipe I could follow that would make it easier.
“What’s wrong?” Jessamyn asks that evening, when we are sitting at dinner.
“Nothing,” I say, using my fork to push around the peas on my plate.
“Well, you’re not eating. Or at least, you’re not eating as much as usual. . . .”
I put down my utensils. “Did you ever fight with . . . Dad?” I ask.
“No,” Jessamyn answers, straight-faced. “We were Barbie and Ken.” Before I can even ask who on earththeyare, she continues. “Ofcoursewe fought, honey. All couples argue. If you’re in a relationship and you’re not fighting, you’re probably doing something wrong.”
“Delilah saw me kissing another girl,” I blurt out.
She chokes on her sip of water. “Excuse me? Is one girl not enough?”
“It isn’t what you think,” I explain. “It was part of a play.”
“I might have to take her side on this one. . . .”
