CHAPTER 1

Atoms, Molecules, and Ions

Quiet, silent, muted, hushed, stilled, reticent… I moved my mouth, breathed the words—soundlessly—from my hiding place.

This game comforted me, calmed me, settled my nerves. Yes, recalling synonyms while anxious was a bizarre coping strategy, but it worked. And very little usually worked.

The voices from beyond the cabinet grew louder and were accompanied by the click of heels and the dull echo of tennis shoes. I held my breath and strained to decipher how many sets of feet were represented by the approaching shoes. I guessed two, also because only two voices were audible.

“…think that he’s going to want to fuck you? After what happened last Friday?” The words were a hiss emanating from an unknown male voice; I tensed at the use of vulgarity.

“I’ll get there late. If you do your job then he won’t even remember it,” came a feminine reply. The female was closest to my hiding spot in the chemistry lab cabinet; her words were, therefore, much clearer. 

“Shit,” he said. I tried not to huff in disgust at his foul language as he continued. “I don’t even know how much to use. I’ve only used it on bitches.”

“I don’t know either. Just…double it. Martin is, what? Like, twice the size of the girls you usually dope out?”

I tensed again, my eyes narrowing. The name Martin, in particular, made my heart beat faster. I knew only one Martin.

Martin Sandeke.

Martin Sandeke, the heir to Sandeke Telecom Systems in Palo Alto, California, and smartypants in his own right. I also came from a notable family—my mother was a US senator, my father was the dean of the college of medicine at UCLA, and my maternal grandfather was an astronaut. However, unlike Martin’s family, we weren’t billionaires. We were scientists, politicians, and scholars.

Martin Sandeke, the six-foot-three modern day physical manifestation of Hercules and captain of our university’s rowing team.

Martin Sandeke, unrepentant manwhore extraordinaire and kind of a jerk-faced bully.

Martin Sandeke, my year-long chemistry lab partner and all-around most unobtainable person in the universe—who I never spoke to except to ask for beakers, relay findings, and request modifications to the heat level of my Bunsen burner.

And by Bunsen burner I meant, literally, my Bunsen burner. Not the figurative Bunsen burner in my pants. Because I hoped Martin Sandeke had no idea that he affected the heat levels of my figurative Bunsen burner.

He did affect them. But, obviously—since he was cosmically unobtainable and kind of a bully—I didn’t want him to know that.

“He’s about two twenty, so…yeah. I guess,” the male responded. His tennis shoes made scuffing sounds on the linoleum as he neared my hiding spot.

I rolled my lips between my teeth and stared at the crack in the cabinet doors. I couldn’t see his face, but I could now discern he was standing directly in front of the cabinet, next to the unknown girl. Maybe facing her.

“But what’s in it for me?” the cuss monster asked, his voice lower than it had been, more intimate.

I heard some rustling then the sloppy sounds of kissing. Instinctively, I stuck my tongue out and mocked gagging. Listening to public displays of affection was unpleasant, especially when lip smacking and groaning was involved, and most especially while trapped in a chemistry lab cabinet that smelled heavily of sulfur.

The next words spoken came from the girl and were a bit whiny. “Money, dummy. Martin’s loaded—well, his family is loaded—and they’ll buy me off. All you have to do is give him the stuff tonight in his drink. I’ll take him upstairs, record the whole thing. Bonus if I get pregnant.”

My mouth dropped open, my eyes wide, unable to believe what I’d just heard. The awfulness, rustling, and lip smacking continued.

“You dope him and I’ll rope him.” The girl’s pleasure-filled gasps were audible and rather ridiculous sounding.

“Oh, yeah baby—touch me there.” These breathy words were accompanied by the sound of a beaker crashing to the ground and a zipper being undone.

I winced, scowled. Really, people had no manners or sense of decorum.

“No, no, we can’t. He’ll be here any minute. I need to leave,” the girl pleaded. I noted she sounded the perfect mixture of regretful and hurried. “You need to make sure he stays at the house for the party. I’ll be there at eleven, so give him the stuff around ten thirty, okay?”

The zipper came back up, the man backed into the cabinet. I jerked at the resultant bang of the doors. “How do you know where he’ll be all the time?”

“We dated, remember?”

“No. He fucked you. You never dated. Martin Sandeke doesn’t date.”

“Yeah, well, I know his schedule. He comes here on Fridays and does…hell if I know what with his ugly little lab partner.”

Ugly?

I twisted my lips to the side, my heart seized in my chest.

I hated the word ugly. It was an ugly word.

Ugly, unsightly, gross, misshapen, repelling…I mentally recited. For some reason, the synonym game didn’t help me this time.

“His lab partner? Wait, I’ve heard about her. Isn’t her dad an astronaut, or something?”

“Who cares? She’s nobody. Kathy or Kelly or something. Whatever,” the girl huffed, the heels of her shoes carrying her farther away. “Forget about her, she’s nothing. The point is you need to stay here and make sure he comes tonight, okay? I gotta go before he gets here.”

“Bitch, you better not be playing me.”

The girl responded but I didn’t catch the words. My back itched and while tucked in the cabinet, I couldn’t reach the spot. In fact, it would be a difficult spot to reach even if I were standing in an open field. Also, my mind was still reciting synonyms for ugly.

I didn’t think I was ugly.

I knew my hair was unremarkable. It was long, wavy, and dark brown. I always wore it in a ponytail, bun, or clip. This was because hair, other than warming my head, served no purpose. Mostly, I ignored it.

I rather liked my eyes. They were grey. It was an unusual color I’d been told on more than one occasion. Granted, no one ever said they were pretty, but no one ever said they were ugly either. That had to count for something.

I was no supermodel in height or size, at five foot seven and a size ten. But I wasn’t Jabba the Hut either.

My teeth were reasonably straight, though I had a noticeable gap between the front top two. I was also pale—the color of paper my best friend, Sam, had once said. My eyebrows were too thick, I knew this. Sam—short for Samantha—often remarked that I should get them plucked, thinned out.

I ignored this advice, as I didn’t care about thick eyebrows so long as they never became a unibrow like my aunt Viki’s.

I glanced down at my comfortable clothes—men’s wide-leg, navy cargo pants with torn-off cuffs, worn Converse, and an oversized Weezer T-shirt. I might be plain, unremarkable, or even mousy. But it’s not like I was a horrible beast who turned people into stone with a single gaze. I was just…low maintenance.

That was okay with me. I didn’t need attention, didn’t want it. People, especially people my age and especially other girls, made very little sense to me. I didn’t see the value in spending hours in front of a mirror when I could be playing video games, or playing the guitar, or reading a book instead.

But sometimes, when I was with Martin and we were calculating particulate levels, I wanted to be beautiful. Really, it was the only time I wished I looked different. Then I remembered he was a jerk-face and everything went back to normal.

I gave myself a mental shake and gritted my teeth. Straining to listen, I pressed my ear against the cabinet door and waited for signs the unknown male was still present.

The itch in the center of my back was spreading and I didn’t know how much longer I could stand it. On the itch scale, it was quickly moving from aggravating to brain-exploding torturous.

But then the sound of shuffling footsteps approaching from the hall snagged my attention. They slowed, then stopped.

“Hey man. Whatsup?” said the mystery cussing fiend.

“What are you doing here?” Martin asked. I guessed he was standing at the entrance to the lab because his voice was somewhat muffled. Regardless, it made my stomach erupt in rabid butterflies. I often had a physical response to the sound of Martin’s voice.

“Wanted to make sure you’re coming to the house party tonight.”

I heard more footsteps. They were Martin’s. I’d know that nonchalant gait anywhere—because I was pathetic and maybe a little obsessed with all things Martin Sandeke. But the difference between my obsession with Martin and the other girls’ obsession with Martin was that I had absolutely no problem admiring his finer features from afar.

Because Martin really was kind of a jerk.

He’d never been a jerk to me, likely because I was an excellent lab partner. We spoke only about chemistry—and he liked acing assignments—but I’d seen him in action. He’d lose his temper and then BOOM! he’d go off on whatever poor soul he happened to believe responsible.

If it was a girl, they’d leave crying after coming in contact with his razor wit (and, by razor, I mean cutting and wound inducing). He never called them names, he didn’t have to. He’d just tell them the truth.