Perfect Chemistry 1 (22 page)

truth hits me like a hammer to my gut. I look over at Alex, tucking his

flunked test into his book.

"Why did you do it?" I wait until Mrs. Peterson finishes her after-

class discussion with Alex before approaching him. I'm standing beside

his locker, where he's paying little, if any, attention to me. I'm ignoring

the stares burning into the back of my head.

"I don't know what you're talkin' about," he says.

Duh! "You switched our tests."

Alex slams his locker shut. "Listen, it was no big deal."

Yes, it is. He walks away, as if expecting me to leave it at that. I'd

watched him work diligently on his test, but when I glanced at the big

red F on the front of his paper, I recognized my own test.

After school, I hurry out the front doors to catch him. He's on his

motorcycle, getting ready to leave.

"Alex, wait!"

Feeling fidgety, I curl my hair behind my ears.

"Hop on," he orders.

"What?"

"Hop on. If you want to thank me for savin' your ass in Mrs. P.'s

class, come home with me. I wasn't kiddin' yesterday. You showed me a

glimpse into your life, I'm gonna show you a glimpse of mine. It's only

fair, right?"

I scan the parking lot. Some people are looking our way, probably

ready to spread the gossip that I'm talking to Alex. If I actually leave

with him, rumors will fly.

The sound of Alex revving his motorcycle brings my attention back

to him. "Don't be afraid of what they think."

I take in the sight of him, from his ripped jeans and leather jacket

to the red and black bandanna he just tied on top of his head. His gang

colors.

I should be terrified. Then I remember how he was with Shelley

yesterday.

To hell with it.

I shift my book bag around to my back and straddle his motorcycle.

"Hold on tight," he says, pulling my hands around his waist. The

simple feel of his strong hands resting on top of mine is intensely

intimate. I wonder if he's feeling these emotions, too, but dismiss the

thought. Alex Fuentes is a hard guy. Experienced. The mere touch of

hands isn't going to make his stomach flutter.

He deliberately brushes the tips of his fingers over mine before

reaching for the handlebars. Oh. My. God.

What am I getting myself into?

As we speed away from the school parking lot, I grab Alex's rock-

hard abs tighter. The speed of the motorcycle scares me. I feel light-

headed, like I'm riding a roller coaster with no lap bar.

The motorcycle stops at a red light. I lean back.

I hear him chuckle when he guns the engine once more as the light

turns green. I clutch his waist and bury my face in his back.

When he finally stops and puts the kickstand down, I survey my

surroundings. I've never been on his street.

The homes are so . . . small. Most are one level. A cat can't fit in

the space between them. As hard as I try to fight it, sorrow settles in

the pit of my stomach.

My house is at least seven, maybe even eight or nine times Alex's

home's size. I know this side of town is poor, but . . .

"This was a mistake," Alex says. "I'll take you home."

"Why?"

"Among other things, the look of disgust on your face."

"I'm not disgusted. I guess I feel sorry--"

"Don't ever pity me," he warns. "I'm poor, not homeless."

"Then are you going to invite me in? The guys across the street are

gawking at the white girl."

"Actually, around here you're a 'snow girl.'"

"I hate snow," I say.

His lips quirk up into a grin. "Not for the weather, querida. For your

snow-white skin. Just follow me and don't stare at the neighbors, even

if they stare at you."

I sense his wariness as he leads me inside. "Well, this is it," he

says, motioning inside.

The living room might be smaller than any room in my house, but it

feels warm and cozy. There are two afghans lying on the sofa I'd love

to have on top of me on cold nights. We don't have any afghans at my

house. We have comforters . . . custom-designed ones to match the

decor.

I walk around Alex's house, gliding my fingers over the furniture. A

shelf with half-melted candles sits below a picture of a handsome man.

I feel Alex's warmth as he stands behind me. "Your dad?" I ask.

He nods.

"I can't begin to imagine what it would be like to lose my dad." Even

though he's not around much, I know he's a permanent fixture in my

life. I always want more out of my parents. Should I feel lucky just

having them around?

Alex studies the picture of his dad. "At the time, you're numb and

try to block it out. I mean, you know he's gone and all, but it's like

you're in this fog. Then life kind of gets into a routine and you follow

it." He shrugs. "Eventually you stop thinkin' about it so much and move

on. There's no other choice."

"It's kind of like a test." I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror

on the opposite wall. I absently run my fingers through my hair.

"You're always doin' that."

"Doing what?"

"Fixin' your hair or makeup."

"So, what's wrong with trying to look good?"

"Nothin', unless it becomes an obsession."

I put my hands down, wishing I could superglue them to my sides.

"I'm not obsessed."

He shrugs. "Is it so important that people think you're beautiful?"

"I don't care what people think," I lie.

"'Cause you are . . . beautiful, I mean. But it shouldn't matter so

much."

I know that. But expectations mean a lot where I come from.

Speaking of expectations . . . "What did Mrs. Peterson say to you after

class?"

"Oh, the usual. That if I don't take her class seriously she'll make

my life miserable."

I swallow, not knowing if I should reveal my plan. "I'm going to tell

her you switched the tests."

"Don't do that," he says, stepping away from me.

"Why not?"

"Because it doesn't matter."

"Yes, it does. You need good grades to get into . . ."

"What? A good college? Give me a fuckin' break. I'm not goin' to

college and you know it. You rich kids worry about your GPA as if it's a

symbol of your worth. I don't need it, so don't do me any favors. I'll

get by with a C in that class. Just make sure those hand warmers kick

ass."

If I have anything to do about it, we'll get an A+ on the project.

"Where's your room?" I ask, changing the subject. I drop my book

bag on the living room floor. "A bedroom tells a lot about a person."

He gestures to a doorway off to one side. Three beds take up most

of the small space, with enough room for one small dresser. I walk

around the small room.

"I share it with my two brothers," he states. "Not a lot of privacy

here."

"Let me guess which bed is yours," I say, smiling.

I scan the areas around each bed. A small picture of a pretty

Hispanic girl is taped to one wall. "Hmmm . . . ,"

I murmur, glancing at Alex and wondering if the girl staring back at

me is his ideal.

I slowly walk around him and examine the next bed. Pictures of

soccer players are taped above it. The bed is messy, and clothes are

strewn from the pillow to the foot of the bed.

Nothing adorns the wall by the third bed, as if the person who

sleeps here is a visitor. It's almost sad, the first two walls saying so

much about the people who sleep below them and this one totally bare.

I sit on Alex's bed, the hopeless and empty one, and my eyes meet

his. "Your bed says a lot about you."

"Yeah? What does it say?"

"I wonder why you don't think you'll stay here long," I say. "Unless

it's because you really do want to go to college."

He leans on the door frame. "I'm not leavin' Fairfield. Ever."

"Don't you want a degree?"

"Now you sound like the damn career counselor at school."

"You don't want to get away and start living your own life? Away

from your past?"

"You see goin' to college as an escape," he says.

"Escape? Alex, you have no clue. I'm going to a college that's close

to my sister. First it was Northwestern, now it's the University of

Colorado. My life is dictated by the whims of my parents and where

they want to send my sister. You want the easy way out, so you stay

here."

"You think it's a breeze being the man of the house? Shit, makin'

sure my mama doesn't get mixed up with some loser or that my

brothers don't start shootin' shit up their arms or smokin' crack is

enough to keep me here."

"I'm sorry."

"I warned you never to pity me."

"No," I say, my eyes moving up to meet his. "You feel such a family

connection, yet you don't place anything permanent beside your bed, as

if you're going to leave at any moment. I feel sorry for you about

that."

He steps back, shutting me out. "You done with the

psychoanalysis?" he says.

I follow him into the family room, still wondering what Alex wants

for his future. It seems the guy is ready to leave this house . . or this

earth. Could it be in some way Alex is preparing for his death by not

placing anything permanent beside him? That he's destined to end up

like his father?

Is that what he meant by his demons?

For the next two hours, we sit on his family room couch and hatch a

plan for our hand warmers. He's a lot smarter than I'd realized; that A

on his test wasn't a fluke. He has a lot of ideas about how we can

research online and get information from the library on how to

construct the hand warmers and various uses for them to incorporate

into our paper. We need the chemicals Mrs. Peterson will provide,

Ziploc bags to enclose the chemicals, and to get extra brownie points

we've decided to encase the Ziploc bags in material we'll pick out at

the fabric store. I purposely keep the discussion on chemistry, careful

not to touch on any subject too personal.

As I close my chemistry book, out of the corner of my eye I see

Alex run his hand through his hair. "Listen, I didn't mean to be rude to

you before."

"That's okay. I got too nosy."

"You're right."

I stand, feeling uncomfortable. He grabs my arm and urges me back

down.

"No," he says, "I mean you're right about me. I don't place

anything permanent here."

"Why?"

"My dad," Alex says, staring at the picture on the opposite wall. He

squeezes his eyes shut. "God, there was so much blood." He opens his

eyes and captures my gaze. "If there's one thing I learned, it's that

nobody is here forever. You have to live for the moment, each and

every day . . . the here, the now."

"And what do you want right now?" Right now I itch to heal his

wounds and forget my own.

He touches my cheek with the tips of his fingers.

My breath hitches. "Do you want to kiss me, Alex?" I whisper.

"Dios mio, I want to kiss you . . to taste your lips, your tongue." He

gently traces my lips with the tips of his fingers. "Do you want me to

kiss you? Nobody else would know but the two of us."

THIRTY-TWO : Alex

Brittany's tongue snakes out to wet her perfect heart-shaped lips,

which are now shiny and oh, so inviting.

"Don't tease me like that," I groan, my lips inches from hers.

Her books hit the carpet. Her eyes follow, but if I lose her

attention, I may never get this moment back. My fingers move to her

chin, gently urging her to look at me.

She looks up at me with those vulnerable eyes. "What if it means

something?" she asks.

"What if it does?"

"Promise me it won't mean anything."

I lean my head back on the couch. "It won't mean anythin'." Aren't

I supposed to be the guy in this scenario, laying down the no-

commitment rules?

"And no tongue," she adds.

"Mi vida, if I kiss you, I guarantee there's gonna be tongue."

She hesitates.

"I promise it won't mean anythin'," I assure her again.

I really don't expect her to do it. I think she's teasing me, testing

to see how much I can take before I crack. But as her eyelids close and

she leans closer, I realize it's going to happen. This girl of my dreams,

this girl who is more like me than anyone I've ever met, wants to kiss

me.

I take over control as soon as she tilts her head. Our lips touch for

the briefest moment before I lace my fingers in her hair and keep

kissing her soft and gentle. I cup her cheek in my palm, feeling her

baby-soft skin against my rough fingers. My body urges me to take

advantage of the situation, but my brain (the one inside my head) keeps

me in check.

A satisfied sigh escapes Brittany's mouth, as if she's content to

stay in my arms forever.

I brush the tip of my tongue against her lips, enticing her to open

her mouth. She tentatively meets my tongue with her own. Our mouths

and tongues mingle in a slow, erotic dance until the sound of the front

door opening makes her jerk away.

Damn. I'm pissed off. First, for losing myself in Brittany's kiss.

Second, for wanting that moment to last forever. Last, I'm pissed at

mi'ama and brothers for coming home at the most awful time.