Perfect Chemistry 1 (7 page)

"I heard that ho was dissin' you to her friends," a guy named Pedro

says as he and a bunch of other guys join us carrying either trays from

the cafeteria or food they brought from home.

I shake my head, wondering what Brittany said and how much

damage control I'll have to do. "Maybe she wants me and doesn't know

any other way to get my attention."

Lucky laughs so hard everyone within a few yards stares at us.

"There's no way Brittany Ellis would get within two feet of you on her

own free will, giley, let alone date you," he says. "She's so rich the

scarf around her neck last week pro'bly cost as much as everythin' in

tu casa."

That scarf. As if the designer jeans and top weren't fashionable

enough, she'd probably added the scarf to showcase how rich and

untouchable she is. Knowing her, she had it professionally dyed to

match the exact shade of her sapphire eyes.

"Hell, I bet you my RX-7 you can't get into her panties before

Thanksgiving break," Lucky challenges me, breaking my wayward

thoughts.

"Who'd want those panties?" I say. They're probably designer, too,

with her initials embroidered on the front.

"Every single dude in this school."

Do I need to state the obvious? "She's a snow girl." I'm not into

white chicks, or spoiled chicks, or chicks whose idea of hard labor is

painting their long fingernails a different color each day to match their

designer outfits.

I pull a cigarette from my pocket and light it, ignoring Fairfield's

no-smoking policy. I've been smoking a lot lately. Paco pointed it out

yesterday night when we hung out.

"So what if she's white? Come on, Alex. Don't be an idiot. Look at

her."

I take a glance. I admit she's got it goin' on. Long, shiny hair,

aristocratic nose, slightly tanned arms with a hint of muscle in her

biceps to make you wonder if she works out, full lips that when she

smiles you think world peace is possible if everyone had her smile.

I shove those thoughts from my mind. So what if she's hot? She's

a first-degree bitch. "Too skinny," I blurt out.

"You want her," Lucky says, leaning back on the grass. "You just

know, like the rest of us Mexicanos from the south side, that you can't

have her."

Something inside me clicks on. Call it my defense mechanism. Call it

cockiness. Before I can switch it off, I say, "In two months I could

have a piece of that ass. If you really wanna bet your RX-7, I'm in."

"You're trippin', man." When I don't answer, Lucky frowns. "You

serious, Alex?"

The guy will back down, he loves his car more than his mama.

"Sure."

"If you lose, I get Julio," Lucky says, his frown turning into a

wicked grin.

Julio is my most prized possession, an old Honda Nighthawk 750

motorcycle. I rescued it from a dump and turned it into a sleek ride.

Rebuilding the bike took me forever. It's the only thing in my life I've

made better instead of destroying.

Lucky is not backing down. Time to either back down myself or play

the game. The problem is, I've never backed down . . . not once in my

life.

The most popular white chick at school would sure as hell learn a lot

by hanging with me. Little Miss Perfecta said she'd never date a gang

member, but I bet no Latino Blood ever tried to get into those

designer pants.

Easy as a fight between Folks and People--rival gangs on a Saturday

night.

I bet all it'll take for Brittany to come around is a bit of flirting.

You know, that give-and-take wordplay that heightens your awareness

of the opposite sex. I can kill two birds with one stone: get back at

Burro Face by taking his girl and get back at Brittany Ellis for having

me called into the principal's office and dissin' me in front of her

friends.

Might even be fun.

I imagine the entire school witnessing the pristine white chick

drooling over the Mexicano she vowed to hate.

I wonder how hard she'll fall on that tight white ass when I'm done

with her.

I hold out my hand. "Deal."

"You gotta show proof."

I take another drag of my cigarette. "Lucky, what do you want me

to do? Pluck out one of her fuckin' pubes?"

"How'd we know it's hers?" Lucky responds. "Maybe she's not a

real blond. Besides, she pro'bly gets one of those Brazilian wax jobs.

You know, where every thin' is--"

"Take a picture," Pedro suggests. "Or video. I bet we could make

muchos billetes on that thing. We can title it Brittany Goes South of

the Border."

It's trash-talkin' times like these that give us a bad rep. Not that

rich kids don't talk trash, I'm sure they do. But when my friends go at

it, it's no-holds-barred. To be honest, I think my friends are damn

entertaining when they're ragging on someone else. When they're

ragging on me, I don't find it half as funny.

"What'cha talkin' about?" Paco asks, joining us with a plate of food

from the cafeteria.

"I bet Alex my car for his motorcycle he can't get into Brittany

Ellis's pants by Thanksgiving."

"You loco, Alex?" Paco says. "Makin a bet like that is suicide."

"Lay off, Paco," I warn. It isn't suicide. Stupid, maybe. But not

suicide. If I could handle hot Carmen Sanchez, I can handle vanilla

cookie Brittany Ellis.

"Brittany Ellis is out of your league, amigo. You might be a pretty

boy, but you're one hundred percent Mexicano and she's as white as

Wonder Bread."

A junior named Leticia Gonzalez walks by us. "Hi, Alex," she says,

flashing me a smile before sitting with her friends. While the other

guys drool over Leticia and talk to her friends, Paco and I are left

alone by the tree.

Paco nudges me. "Now she's a bonita Mexicana, and definitely in

your league."

My eye isn't on Leticia, it's on Brittany. Now that the game's on,

I'm focusing on the prize. It's time to start flirting, but no bullshit

come-on lines will work with her. Somehow I think she's used to those

from her boyfriend and other assholes trying to get into her pants.

I decide on a new tactic, one she won't expect. I'm going to keep

riffling her feathers until I'm all she thinks about. And I'll start next

period when she's forced to sit next to me. Nothing like a little

foreplay in chemistry class to spark things up.

"Carajo!" Paco says, throwing down his lunch. "They think they can

buy a U-shaped shell, stuff it, and call it a taco, but those cafeteria

workers wouldn't know taco meat from a piece of shit. That's what this

tastes like, Alex."

"You're makin' me sick, man," I tell him.

I stare uncomfortably at the food I brought from home. Thanks to

Paco everything looks like mierda now.

Disgusted, I shove what's left of my lunch into my brown paper

bag.

"Want some of it?" Paco says with a grin as he holds out the shitty

taco to me.

"Bring that one inch closer to me and you'll be sorry," I threaten.

"I'm shakin' in my pants."

Paco wiggles the offending taco, goading me. He should seriously

know better.

"If any of that gets on me--"

"What'cha gonna do, kick my ass?" Paco sings sarcastically, still

shaking the taco. Maybe I should punch him in the face, knocking him

out so I won't have to deal with him right now.

As I have that thought, I feel something drop on my pants. I look

down even though I know what I'll see. Yes, a big blob of wet, gloppy

stuff passing as taco meat lands right on the crotch of my faded jeans.

"Fuck," Paco says, his face quickly turning from amusement to

shock. "Want me to clean it off for you?"

"If your fingers get anywhere close to my dick, I'm gonna

personally shoot you in the huevos," I growl through clenched teeth.

I flick the mystery meat off my crotch. A big, greasy stain lingers.

I turn back to Paco. "You got ten minutes to get me a new pair of

pants."

"How the hell am I s'posed to do that?"

"Be creative."

"Take mine." Paco stands and brings his fingers to the waistband of

his jeans, unbuttoning right in the middle of the courtyard.

"Maybe I wasn't specific enough," I tell him, wondering how I'm

going to act like the cool guy in chem class when it looks like I've peed

in my pants. "I meant, get me a new pair of pants that will fit me,

pendejo. You're so short you could audition to be one of Santa Claus's

elves."

"I'm toleratin' your insults because we're like brothers."

"Nine minutes and thirty seconds."

It doesn't take Paco more than that to start running toward the

school parking lot.

I seriously don't give a crap how I get the pants; just that I get

'em before my next class. A wet crotch is not the way to show Brittany

I'm a stud.

I wait at the tree while other kids throw away their lunches and

head back inside. Before I know it, music starts playing through the

loudspeakers and Paco is nowhere in sight. Great. Now I have five

minutes to get to Peterson's class. Gritting my teeth, I walk to

chemistry with my books strategically placed in front of my crotch,

with two minutes to spare. I slide onto the stool and push it as close to

the lab table as possible, hiding the stain.

Brittany walks into the room, her sunshine hair falling down the

front of her chest, ending in perfect little curls that bounce when she

walks. Instead of that perfection turning me on, it makes me want to

mess it all up.

I wink at her when she glances at me. She huffs and pulls her stool

as far away from me as possible.

Remembering Mrs. Peterson's zero-tolerance rule, I pull my

bandanna off and place it in my lap directly over the stain. Then I turn

to the pom-pom chick sitting next to me. "You're gonna have to talk to

me at some point."

"So your girlfriend can have a reason to beat me up? No thanks,

Alex. I'd rather keep my face the way it is."

"I don't have a girlfriend. You want to interview for the position?"

I scan her from top to bottom, focusing on the parts she relies on so

heavily.

She curls her pink-frosted top lip and sneers at me. "Not on your

life."

"Mujer, you wouldn't know what to do with all this testosterone if

you had it in your hands."

That's it, Alex. Tease her into wanting you. She'll take the bait.

She turns away from me. "You're disgusting."

"What if I said we'd make a great couple?"

"I'd say you were an idiot."

NINE : Brittany

Right after I call Alex an idiot, Mrs. Peterson calls the class to

attention. "You and your partner will pick a project from this hat," she

announces. "They are all equally challenging and will require meeting

with your partner outside of class."

"What about football?" Colin interjects. "No way I'm missing

practice."

"Or poms," Darlene chimes in before I can say the same thing.

"Schoolwork comes first. It's up to you and your partner to find a

time that works for both of you," Mrs. Peterson says as she stands in

front of our table and holds out the hat.

"Yo, Mrs. P. . . is one of them a cure for multiple sclerosis?" Alex

asks with his cocky attitude that's setting my nerves on edge. " 'Cause

I don't think there's enough time in the school year to complete that

project."

I can see that big D on my report card right now. The

Northwestern admissions counselor won't care that it was my

chemistry partner who wanted to make a joke out of our project. The

guy doesn't care about his own life, why should he care about

chemistry class? The thought of Alex controlling the grade I receive in

this class is overwhelming me. Grades to my parents are a reflection of

your worth. Needless to say, a C or D means you're worthless.

I reach into the hat and pull out a little white slip of paper. I open

it slowly while I bite my lower lip in anticipation. In bold letters I read

‘HAND WARMERS’.

"Hand warmers?" I question.

Alex leans over and reads the paper with a confused look on his

face. "What the fuck are hand warmers?"

Mrs. Peterson shoots Alex a warning glare. "If you'd like to stay

after school, I have another blue detention slip on my desk with your

name already on it. Now, either ask the question again without using

foul language or join me after school."

"That'd be cool to hang with you, Mrs. P., but I'd rather spend the

time studyin' with my chem partner," Alex responds, then has the

nerve to wink at Colin, "so I'll rephrase the question. What exactly are

hand warmers?"

"Thermal chemistry, Mr. Fuentes. We use them to warm our hands."

Alex has this big, cocky grin as he turns to me. "I'm sure we can

find other things to warm."

"I hate you," I say loud enough for Colin and the rest of the class

to hear. If I sit here and let him get the best of me, I'll probably hear

my mom tsk'ing in my head about reputations meaning everything.

I know the class is watching our interaction, even Isabel, who

thinks Alex isn't as bad as everyone thinks he is. Can't she see him for

what he is, or is she blinded by his chiseled face and popular status