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P ennsylvania

Present Day

June

There were, Beth decided, far worse things in life than sitting across from a stranger who thought “chemical bonds” were something you made at a music festival. But none immediately came to mind.

The café glittered with Edison bulbs and Instagrammable latte art. Her date, Trevor or maybe Trent, she’d already begun to blend his name with all the others, swiveled his glass of merlot with theatrical confidence. It was a move he clearly practiced, probably in front of a mirror.

“You’re a chemistry teacher?” he asked, squinting, his voice syrupy with disbelief. “But you’re—” his eyes flicked over her face, “—like, actually cute. Scientists are usually, not.”

The café, The Roasted Acorn, the classiest spot on Main Street in Ashford Crossing, smelled of burnt espresso, cinnamon rolls, and old wood.

She automatically calculated the chemical makeup of the lemon-sweet cleaner on the table. Likely limonene mixed with just enough ammonia to crack a sinus, masked poorly by lavender oil.

The air outside had reeked of fertilizer from the dairy farm up the hill, but the faint whiff of chemicals and over-cloroxed surfaces seeped from her skin, mixing with the spritz of apple and citrus perfume she’d sprayed on her wrists at the last minute.

She’d caught a reflection in a brass sconce on the wall and sighed.

Her hair was in desperate need of highlights, a smudge of charcoal dusted her jaw, the floral wrap-around skirt had a spot of ink near her hip, her navy t-shirt had a tiny hole near the hem, and last but certainly not least, she’d scuffed her navy sandals when she tripped over the uneven sidewalk. Of course.

Her eye twitched. She could see the molecules behind his cologne. Too much vetiver, not enough self-awareness. “I’ve published three papers on catalytic reactions.” Maybe if she spoke faster, she’d get to the part where he left. “But please, tell me more about your YouTube chemistry hacks.”

Troy? Tim? beamed, oblivious. “Oh, right, the Coke-and-Mentos thing? Classic! Science should be fun, you know. Not all that complicated stuff in textbooks. Honestly, if teachers did more of that Kaboom stuff, kids would actually pay attention.”

As she traced the rim of her mug, Beth debated the merits of hurling it at his perfect too white teeth.

“Yes,” she said. “Kaboom. Why have anything to do with actual, you know, chemistry?” Or the lesson plans she’d spent all weekend preparing for, or the hungry kids she quietly fed in the back row, or every time she’d had to correct a principal who called her ‘Miss Beth’ instead of ‘Dr. Anderson.’

“Right?! Now you get it. Chemistry is, like, boring.” He grinned at her, and for a moment she wondered if he was going to reach over and pat her on the head, as he said, good girl .

She flexed her jaw and mentally recited the periodic table, a trick she’d learned from years of mediating classroom squabbles and suffering male colleagues mansplaining concepts she’d invented. “Yes,” she muttered, “let’s all abandon Avogadro’s number for TikTok experiments with dish soap.”

A notification buzzed on her phone.

Do you know where your mother kept the macaroni and cheese? Can’t find it. Good luck tonight!

Typical Dad, brilliant in the lab, helpless in the kitchen.

Her mom was probably halfway to Philadelphia for another legal conference, cell always on silent, calendar always full.

They meant well, always had, but even living five minutes apart, somehow there was never enough time for her.

She swallowed and forced a brittle smile for the date her mom swore would be perfect for her.

He was a nephew of someone from her office, supposedly a catch.

Somehow, she barely kept from rolling her eyes.

If Tucker? was a catch, she’d happily stay single forever.

Maybe she’d go ahead and adopt a dog for companionship.

“Can I get the check?” She’d meant it as a mercy plea to the universe. Instead, Thomas? beamed wider.

“I love a modern woman.” He waved the waitress over, telling her to bring him one more glass of wine and then the check.

She would have bought him the whole bottle if it meant she could leave right now.

When the check finally landed like a merciful meteor, Beth signed with a scrawl and slung her bag over her shoulder, dodging his offer to “walk her to her car” with a strained, “Thanks, but I walked.” And before he could offer and then try to weasel his way into her little duplex a few streets over, she held up a hand.

“No need to walk me, I’ve got to make a few calls on the way home. ”

Outside, the air hung thick and squirming. June in Pennsylvania could smell like honeysuckle or, as tonight, like rain-mushed grass, sweat, and the distant, ever-present barn. Overhead, stars squinted through the haze. The single traffic light flickered down Main.

When he tried to kiss her, she pretended to sneeze. “Sorry, must be coming down with a cold.”

“Whoa. You might have COVID. I hope you didn’t infect me.” He jerked back and practically ran to his obnoxious four-wheel drive, a vehicle she bet had never been taken off-road in its life.

A truck thundered past, rattling the windows. From down Main Street, the volunteer fire department siren howled, ten p.m. sharp, as ever. Heat and noise and memories of bonfire nights, community potlucks, fourth-grade spelling bees in the VFW basement assailed her as she turned and walked away.

She lived two blocks from the high school, in the same quirky old duplex she’d landed in after college.

A shoebox, yes, but one with wide plank floors, sun streaming through big windows, a postage-stamp backyard just big enough for herbs and wildflowers, and vintage appliances in avocado green that (somehow) still worked and would probably outlive her.

Paperbacks spilled off shelves, the bedroom window dripped when it rained, and the mug tree sagged under the weight of her favorite mugs.

She set her bag on the old Formica and didn’t even bother to flick on the lights.

Her phone buzzed again. This time a text from Jamal, one of her summer program students.

Dr. A, did you get my email about the catalytic experiment for tomorrow? Sorry to bug you on a Friday night.

She smiled despite herself. Her Advanced Chemistry for Gifted Students summer program was the highlight of her year.

Twelve brilliant teenagers who actually wanted to be there, who asked questions that challenged even her.

Tomorrow was their solstice celebration, combining chemistry with a bit of historical fun.

She’d planned an entire lesson around medieval alchemy, showing how the summer solstice had once been considered a magical time when the veil between worlds thinned, and certain chemical reactions were believed to be more powerful.

Got it

She texted back.

Bringing extra copper sulfate for your group. See you at 9. Don’t forget your lab notebooks.

The summer program kept her sane, gave her purpose beyond the endless cycle of standardized tests and budget cuts.

These kids reminded her why she’d fallen in love with science in the first place.

That perfect blend of wonder and precision, of rules that made sense and mysteries still waiting to be solved.

She glanced at her watch. Nearly ten. Just enough time to run to the lab and prepare for tomorrow’s demonstration.

The summer solstice experiment needed to be perfect.

Dramatic enough to capture their imagination but scientifically sound enough to teach them something real about catalytic reactions and chemical transformations.

In her room, she swapped t-shirts (navy for black), changed into a pair of matching faded black leggings, and washed her hands. Her heart wouldn’t settle. Beth stared at her reflection, a nice enough face, eyes too bright with disappointment, then grabbed her keys again.

After yet another disastrous date, she needed solace.

The comfort of her own lab, where the world kept to rules she understood.

As she walked through the moonlit school parking lot, pebbles crunching beneath her favorite high top embroidered sneakers, she nodded at old Mr. Roselli as he replaced a light in the hall.

The science wing key fob beeped. The hallway whispered back with the faint echo of adolescents, sneakers squeaking and gossip swirling and, in her domain, at least, order.

She entered her classroom, flicked on the overheads.

The air was cool. The counters were scattered with beakers, half-sorted molecular model kits, a slow-release scent of lemon floor polish, ancient duct tape, and the ghost of a hundred science fair volcanoes.

Mrs. Kline’s reminder about budget paperwork glared from her whiteboard.

As she pulled on her stained lab coat (pale blue, two buttons missing), set “Midnights” by Taylor Swift to shuffle, and made a cup of tea, Beth watched a crack of lightning fork outside the lab windows.

Thunder rumbled over the building, the overhead lights flickering and blinking in time with the storm’s fury.

She muttered the periodic table under her breath as she sorted the chemical jars back into alphabetical order. Cu for copper sulfate, NaHCO? for baking soda. The world made sense when it obeyed the table.

She surveyed the chaos of her workbench. Pipettes, beakers, a dish of sodium bicarbonate for Monday’s demo, the hydrogen balloon trembling in the draft from the storm through the window she’d cracked.

“Maybe,” she muttered, “things will actually make sense for just one?—”