CHIAMAKA
Monday
I’m in pain.
Not the type of pain that hurts because it’s bad, but the type that hurts from laughing so hard, everything starts to ache.
I attempt to look away from Jamie, who is the cause of all this. The only downside to having my best friend as my lab partner is painful laughter and distraction from the task at hand.
He rips part of a page from his notebook and rolls it up into a thin cylinder before placing the end of it in the Bunsen burner’s flame. He brings it up to his lips and pretends to take a drag.
“I’m so tortured. I listen to The 1975. I dyed my hair pink to be ironic since, you know, my soul is black, and my Christian name is Peter, but my clan calls me Tortured Stone—because I’m obviously tortured but really badass.”
I put my hand up.
“I’m requesting a different lab partner,” I say, wiping my eyes with the sleeve of my white lab coat.
Jamie pushes my hand back down.
“Look at your options, Chi.” He gestures to the other tablesaround us. “You could sit with Lance, who breaks every piece of equipment he’s given; Clara, who eats the materials; or me: literal perfection.”
I roll my eyes. None of that is true. Well, except maybe the last part.
Jamie quirks an eyebrow up at me, eyes a little narrowed like he’s daring me to question him and his inflated ego. And he has the audacity to callmecocky. His golden freckles dance along his cheeks as his smile widens.
“I guess you’re right,” I say, giving in.
He looks triumphant. “Good choice, Chi, good choice.”
He changes the flame from orange to blue, like the instructions say we should, his wrists covered with the colorful string bracelets his mom got him from her trip to India last summer.
I place my hand on my stomach, which is still aching from laughing so hard.
“Start packing up, five minutes until the end of class,” Mr. Peterson tells us.
Jamie groans, pouting at the Bunsen burner like a child.
I turn the gas off and load our equipment onto the white tray it came from—much to Jamie’s annoyance. He loves controlling anything to do with fire in our experiments. I think his pyromania started in sophomore year, after a long summer at the camp a select few Niveus students get invited to annually, not that I care or anything. Everyone knows that legacy kids are the only ones who get invited to those events.
Legacy kids = Niveus students with superpowerful parents and generations of family members who’ve attended Niveus Academy. Aka Jamie’s entire family from the beginning of time. My parentsaren’t American and they don’t have old American money, just old Italian money, so I don’t get the same “privileges” as the legacy kids. Honestly, things would be a lot easier if I were one. My future would be more certain, and I wouldn’t have to work so hard.
Jamie’s known since he was in diapers that he’ll get into any Ivy League school he wants, inherit his father’s billion-dollar company, have connections in any important organization here in America, and never really have to work a day in his life. I want my future to look as seamless as his, everything perfectly laid out. Money can only get you so far; you need power and influence to go with it, and the Fitzjohns—Jamie’s family—have all three.
“I need to tell you something at lunch,” Jamie whispers. The intensity of his voice makes me jump a little. I nod, his shoulder brushing against mine. Jamie thrives on attention. Every single touch—every hand graze, every elbow nudge, you name it—is purposeful. He knows how to make sure he’s theonlyperson you’re focusing on. That plus his winning smile are what make him irresistible; I’ve seen him charm his way out of homework and parking tickets. I’m pretty sure he’d flirt with Death herself if there wasn’t a possibility that he’d die and not be the center of attention anymore.
“Sure, Lola’s?” I ask, trying to sound casual.
Lola’s is this imaginary place we made up. Back when we were freshmen, we thought it sounded like a quirky coffee shop you might find in the middle of an old-fashioned town, where housewives meet up to gossip and smoke. As we got older, we realizedLola’sactually sounds like the name of a sketchy strip club. Despite the connotations, we still use it. It’s our way of sayingLet’s talk in private.
Lola’s can be any place we’re alone together. In freshman year,the year we met, a teacher put us in pairs and Jamie introduced himself as the guy who was going to ruin my life, and I responded that he thought too highly of himself. Back when we first met, Lola’s was a corner in one of the empty classrooms. We would sit there during lunch and bitch about people in our year or talk about the people we wanted to be when we were seniors. I wanted to be the best. Best grades, best looks, best hair, best boyfriend… best everything—the person everyone envies. Jamie told me he wanted to be someone his parents respected.
Then, all through junior year, whenever we weren’t in school, Lola’s was his bedroom and his bed, under the covers—
“Yeah.” He smiles, winking at me. “Lola’s.”
The sounds of text tones fill the air. My phone buzzes in my pocket. I take it out.
[1 new message from unknown]
