Page 3

It’s been a year. A whole fucking year of this.

I drag my hands down my face, forsaking the maroon-black backs of my eyelids for my shadowy ceiling. A chandelier twinkles back.

Trifon told me to breathe. Have some cake! What if I don’t want any more fucking cake? What if all that consumes me, day in and day fucking out, is finding this mole? I want to not feel so fucking useless. Like a failure I’m not used to being.

When my phone buzzes in my pocket, I almost ignore it. It’s probably one of my siblings wondering where the fuck I disappeared to. I could just let it go. But I don’t ignore calls and texts. That’s not who I am. It isn’t who I fucking want to be either.

The screen is too bright, and I blink against its white glare. It takes my brain several seconds to process what I’m looking at: three messages from a number I don’t recognize.

A location pin. A time. And the words, Come find me, Yuri.

I nearly trip on my feet in my haste to get out of bed.

Chapter 2 - Meera

Three years of teaching it, and I’ve yet to cross paths with a seventeen-year-old who finds the Krebs cycle remotely interesting. I try not to take it personally. I probably wouldn’t have cared when I was seventeen either, despite being a notorious nerd. Then again, when I was seventeen, I also had a mother who would’ve grounded me till I was in a nursing home if I’d been pulling my phone out in class the way Abel Torres is doing now, despite sitting only two rows from the very front of my classroom.

“Abel.”

He doesn’t look up.

Oh, for the love of God. “Abel, I can see the screen reflecting off your glasses.”

Well, at least that gets a ripple of laughter from the rest of the class. The kid slides his phone back into his pocket with a grin that’s sheepish enough. Probably texting someone about Friday night plans, I theorize. It isn’t as if that TGIF feeling is reserved for teenagers.

After all, I, too, have a hot date with Netflix and a bottle of merlot this weekend, thank you very much.

For now... “As I was saying.” I sternly tap the whiteboard, gesturing to the diagram of the electron transport chain. “The final electron acceptor is oxygen. If you remember nothing else from today’s lesson, remember that. It will be on the quiz next week.”

A hand goes up near the back. It’s Priya Mehta, one of my more dedicated students. “Ms. Gallagher, is it true that cyanide kills you by blocking the electron transport chain?”

I bite back a proud smile. “Yes, Priya.”

“So, technically, learning about cellular respiration could save a person’s life?” she asks pointedly, and I get the feeling this jab is targeted at Abel.

“Um...” I try not to laugh. “I’d say that learning about it will definitely save your GPA’s life, Priya. Which is what’s generally under more immediate threat. Gold star for morbid relevance, though. That’s very astute of you.”

Another wave of laughter follows. I allow myself a small smile at last. I’ve long since found that the thrill of earning laughter from surly teenagers isn’t limited to being one of their peers. It’s as easy to get high off of now as it was when I was one of them. It’s a good thing that I feel so normally about getting a good grade in being the hip teacher they like, right? That’s a thing that is totally possible and normal to want, surely.

I take pride in the fact that I’m decent at this part of it, challenging and engaging these kids. I am definitely not one of those made-for-the-screen teachers who’ll inspire and change their lives. Hilary Swank won’t play me in a film any time soon. Still, these days, even holding thirty-two kids’ attention for an extended period of time feels like a huge win.

Even if, by the time the bell rings, I’m exhausted.

The room empties with the typical speed and a chaos of backpacks swinging, chairs screeching across the floor, and a sea of chatter that pours out the doors.

Within ninety seconds, I’m utterly alone.

The most intimate relationship in my life these days is probably with cellular respiration, I think. Maybe we’ll have a June wedding.

Reality argues with me when my phone buzzes atop my desk.

It’s a text message from my best friend, Nia Davis.

Nia: Still alive or has the American public school system finally claimed you?

I’d fallen asleep checking papers last night while we’d been on the phone. So, I can’t fault her sass.

Me: I’m sorry!