Page 40 of Call It Chemistry
“I’m just saying,” Malik says, “the odds of him being straight were never that high. Did you see the way he dressed up for the formal? He could out-slay half the girls on campus.”
The teal-haired guy grins. “It’s the brooding that does it. You put enough angst in a lab partner and it starts leaking out the pores. It’s, like, science.”
The laughter that follows is genuine, not mean, but it still feels like a body check to the ribs.
I keep my head down, piling the world’s driest spaghetti onto my plate, but I can feel the conversation orbiting around me. There’s a gravitational pull to the drama, and I’m the new satellite. I should be flattered, or at least vindicated. Instead, all I want is to make it to my seat without tripping over my own feet.
I get within ten feet of my usual table before I realize it’s already occupied. Three first-year students, eyes wide, have claimed it as a strategic lookout point. They notice me, then look away fast, as if my mere presence might infect them with whatever viral craze I’ve become.
Plan B: the farthest booth, half-shadowed by the broken lamp overhead. I slide in, tray first, and exhale for the first time since leaving class.
I’m halfway through a forkful of pasta when my phone lights up again. This time, it’s a photo—Aaron, at the head of his table, mugging for the camera with a mouthful of sandwich. In the background, Malik is holding up two fingers behind Aaron’s head, peace sign or bunny ears, it’s hard to tell.
HUNTER:Never in my life have I been this proud. You are literally campus history, Spence.
I want to argue, to remind him that being history is rarely a good thing while you’re alive. Instead, I send a thumbs-up and return to my lunch, ignoring the spike of adrenaline that comes every time the phone vibrates.
It takes three attempts to finish the pasta. Every time I look up, I see Aaron—either in real time, laughing with his friends, or projected onto every screen in the room. At one point, he catches my eye, holds the gaze for a full second, then winks. I choke on my water, spluttering so hard a kid at the next table looks up in alarm.
I’m about to pack up and bail when I hear footsteps behind me. There’s a pause, then a familiar voice, quieter than I expect.
“Mind if I sit?”
Aaron. He’s holding a plate of fries and a half-eaten sandwich, looking like he just finished a double shift at the gym. His hair is still damp, but he’s changed into a hoodie—blue, Wilcox U crest faded from too many washes.
“Yeah,” I say. “Go ahead.”
He slides in, setting his food down with practiced care. For a second, neither of us speaks. He shuffles the fries, stacking them in little pyramids, then clears his throat.
“You surviving?” he asks, voice pitched low.
I nod, not trusting myself to talk.
He glances sideways, reading my silence. “They’ll get bored eventually,” he says, popping a fry into his mouth. He leans in. “You wanna know what they’re saying about me?”
I raise an eyebrow. “Should I?”
He grins. “Apparently, I’m the ‘bi icon’ now. Malik says I’m supposed to start giving advice to freshmen.” He rolls his eyes, but the smile doesn’t fade. “I told him I’d consider it if the pay is decent.”
I can’t help it—I laugh. It’s not loud, but it’s real.
Aaron’s smile softens. He picks at his sandwich, then looks at me, serious for the first time all day. “You’re handling this better than I thought,” he says. “I half expected you’d fake your own death.”
I snort. “I half considered it.”
He laughs, then turns his attention to the pasta on my tray. “You know that’s just noodles and ketchup, right?”
I look down. “My ancestors suffered so I could eat this.”
He laughs again, the sound echoing in the little booth. For a second, it’s just us. No memes, no stares, just a normal lunch.
Then his friends show up. Not the whole crew—just Malik and the teal-haired guy, but it’s enough to make my pulse stutter. They approach with the confidence of people who have never known social anxiety.
“Hey, Montgomery,” Malik says, sliding in next to me without asking. “Mind if we crash?”
Before I can answer, the teal-haired guy is already wedged beside Aaron, balancing his own plate on the edge of the table. “This is a summit,” he announces. “We need to work out the terms of the new social order.”
I stare at Aaron, half-expecting him to bail. But he just shrugs, as if to say, This is happening whether we like it or not.