In the Stars Read online

  “What?!” I feel a rush of annoyance, oddly mixed with curiosity.

  “Wednesday,” she recites slowly, the word rising to my ears on a whisper.

  “What about Wednesday?” I ask. Because I’m supposed to, not because I want to.

  Cherise lowers her head so that I can no longer see her eyes and says in a slightly spooky voice, “Mars enters Gemini on Wednesday. Wednesday is your special day. The day your soul mate will be revealed and—”

  “We’re done here,” I quickly cut her off. I put down my sewing and gather up her chart. “Time for you to go.” Cherise tries to block me, insisting that she isn’t finished yet, but I’m too quick. I hand her the paper and, in one swift move, fold up the table.

  While she’s packing up her backpack, Cherise tells me, “I’ll check out your daily horoscope in the morning.”

  “Whatever,” I mutter, giving in to the fact that there’s no stopping her. I’m headed to the front of the shop, hoping Cherise will take the clue and follow me. She follows, but slowly, almost haltingly, as if she is enjoying my discomfort.

  Cherise finally opens the door to let herself out. “Oh.” She turns back toward me. “You should wear gray. That’s Virgo’s special color. I have a new gray-striped skirt that was made by blind nuns in Guatemala. You could wear it Wednesday …”

  I adore Cherise, but I’m done with her for today. “Out!” I charge.

  Later, well after I put her astrological reading out of my mind and return to my hemming, I notice that Cherise secretly slipped the red candle of love into my purse.

  Three

  You are at a loss as to how to proceed with an attractive person. Loosen up and start the conversation.

  www.astrology4stars.com

  Wednesday has arrived. I am not wearing gray. In fact, I’ve taken great pains to make certain there is no gray anywhere in my outfit. I even left my watch at home on account of its gray woven band. I’m not going to get sucked into Cherise’s nonsense.

  Cherise called last night to tell me she’d left me a surprise package outside my apartment door. It was the gray skirt she wanted me to borrow. Very cute, but there was no chance in hell that I was going to wear it. Not today. Not ever. I have to give it back to her. Immediately. Unfortunately, Cherise has an early class on Wednesdays, so I’m not going to see her until lunch. I can’t leave the skirt in her locker on account of her keeping it unlocked all day. So I have the skirt in my backpack, with the hope that I can catch her in the hall between classes.

  When I get to school, it’s a convenient surprise to find Cherise’s twin brother, Tyler, hanging out in the hall near my locker. Cherise and Tyler might be twins, but they dress like night and day. Literally. Where Cherise wears brightly colored flowing gauzy free-range frocks, Tyler dresses completely Goth. He wears black. Nothing but black.

  From his shoes to his pants to his belt to his shirt—if I turned off the lights, Tyler would disappear. His too-long hair is dyed the color of midnight. Tyler wears it slicked back in a small ponytail and then ties a black bandanna around his forehead.

  I have to admit, I do get a kick out of the fact that he wears the earring I gave him last Christmas at their family’s Christmas gift exchange. My father keeps the tuxedo shop open late Christmas Eve for formal-wear emergencies, so I usually spend the evening with Cherise’s clan. After seven years, it’s become a tradition.

  Tyler’s earring was meant to be a joke—a skull and crossbones to go with his all-black pirate motif. The joke didn’t go as I expected. He’s worn the earring every day since.

  Without taking the time to find out what he wants, I shove Cherise’s skirt at him, telling him to return it to her, that I don’t even want to be near the thing.

  Tyler takes the skirt from me and agrees to give it to his sister when he sees her next period.

  I like Tyler well enough but ironically, given the amount of time I spend with his sister and family, I don’t really know him very well. In all our years, I swear I’ve never actually had a full-fledged conversation with him about anything. Tyler’s a bit like furniture that happens to be in the room. If you’re sitting on the sofa, do you really notice the end table? My friendship’s with Cherise. Tyler’s a lot like her shadow—he even dresses the part.

  This is why I’m so surprised when he asks: “Want to grab a bite after school today?”

  “Huh?” His question throws me off for a second. Cherise and I regularly “grab a bite” at the Corner Café after school, before I head over to the tuxedo shop. Tyler simply shows up, nearly every day, whether we’ve invited him or not. No one has ever made plans to go to the Café … we just go and have been doing it for years.

  I know, being as busy and scholarship focused as I am, it’s hard to imagine that I waste time over a piece of pie every single day. But I do. I’m most comfortable when I have a routine. I like unwinding from school before I have to go to work. And the pie at the Corner Café is to die for!

  “Want to go to the Corner Café?” Tyler asks, as if we might be going somewhere else. Is there anywhere else?

  “I’ll be there,” I tell him, unclear why we are having this conversation at all.

  When Tyler opens his mouth again, as if he has something more to say, I worry that he’s going to hand me back the skirt. I don’t want to give Tyler the chance to turn down my errand, so I interrupt whatever he’s about to say by telling him I’m in a rush and then hurrying down the hall.

  Three class periods later, I’m entering the chemistry laboratory. After this, there’s lunch, and then two more classes. In another thirteen hours, it will be Thursday. I will have survived Wednesday and Mars will be moving out of Gemini, for whatever that’s worth. (Not that I’ve given Cherise’s prediction a second thought or anything.) At precisely midnight tonight, I will have made it through the day without discovering my “soul mate.” Ha-ha-ha.

  At the stroke of midnight, I’m planning to call Cherise and tell her exactly where she can stick her astrological chart.

  Hang on a second! Someone’s sitting on my chem lab stool!

  It’s my stool because that’s where I always sit. Always.

  I look at the already-filled room and survey the laboratory tables. Yep, that’s my table, third from the right, under the window. My table and my stool. Everyone knows it. So why is someone sitting there?

  Ever since Showgo Yakimora moved back to Japan in the middle of last semester, I’ve had my own setup in the chem lab. I like it that way. Being the only one without a lab partner, I rely solely on myself to make sure experiments are done properly. I’ve worked extra hard to be a standout in chemistry lab. Chemistry is an integral part of astronomy. It’s all about how molecules move and combine to form special matter. No dumb dude who’s happy with a passing C in chemistry just to graduate high school is going to ruin my course grade.

  I mix my own chemicals, monitor my own outcomes, and never, ever, ever, share. Mistakes are my mistakes and the joys of discovery are all mine, too.

  So what is some brown-haired, green-eyed, good-looking guy with nicely cut arm muscles doing on my stool at my lab space?! And why did I notice the color of his eyes?

  Something bad is happening, and I don’t have to be in tune with the universe to know it.

  “Sylvie,” Mrs. Wachmeister reprimands me from the front of the room. “Why aren’t you sitting down? We are about to begin.”

  “I know,” I start, “but—”

  “No excuses, young lady.” She uses her long pointing stick to indicate an empty stool at the back of the room. “Bring that stool over and sit next to Adam Forrester.” She moves her pointer to the interloper sitting at my table. “I’ve already introduced him to the class. His family just moved to town from California. He’ll be your new lab partner.”

  Any words after his name are completely redundant. I can see for myself that he’s a new student. And I can surmise, by the fact that he’s invading my space and touching my equipment, that he’s going to b
e my lab partner. I feel a stabbing pain well up behind my eyes as I march to the back of the room to haul the stool over to the table. My table.

  Taking deep, calming breaths, I drag the stool across the room. It makes a sharp, scraping sound that seems to soothe my nerves.

  As I pass Phillipa Goetz, she touches my back and mutters, “You go, girl!” to me. From another table, Madeline Reinhart whispers, “Lucky!” from behind her thick glasses. I’ve no idea what they are talking about. Getting a new lab partner is a stroke of terrible misfortune, not good luck.

  After taking my time to position the stool at an angle to the table, I step up on my tiptoes and settle down onto the seat. Unfortunately, one stool leg is shorter than the others, and the stool wobbles left. Unable to react fast enough, I tip over, nearly tumbling into Adam’s lap. He grabs my arm to help me steady myself.

  If I had to take an oath, I’d swear he held onto my arm for at least ten—if not fifteen—minutes before I was able to redistribute my weight and precariously balance back on the broken stool. In reality, he probably only touched me for a few seconds.

  “Careful,” Adam says, releasing me. I can still feel the warm place on my arm where he held me steady. “I guess this explains why that stool was in the back corner over there.”

  As Adam speaks, he tosses his head toward the back of the room, but I don’t follow his eyes. I physically can’t. I’m staring at him as if he has two heads. My eyes won’t move. There’s no connection between them and my brain. My heart’s racing and I keep staring at Adam for no apparent reason.

  When my brain finally reconnects, I understand why Phillipa cheered me on and Madeline called me lucky. If you put aside the fact that he’s encroaching on my turf, you’d discover the simple reality that there’s a new guy in town and he’s a babe. Up close, his eyes are even greener than when I first saw them from across the room. It’s hard not to stare into them. A girl could get seriously lost in those eyes.

  The lab begins, and, after muttering “thanks” to Adam for catching me, I force myself to pin my own eyes on Mrs. Wachmeister.

  Since our high school doesn’t offer astronomy, except as an after-school club, chemistry’s my favorite subject, and maintaining my A+ average is essential to snagging that college scholarship. With that in mind, I close off my surroundings and focus every fiber of my being on Mrs. Wachmeister giving the daily instructions:

  “In this experiment, two separate and distinct chemical reactions will be created through the use of an aqueous solution from three different compounds. Changes during each reaction will be obvious. You will note your observations in your notebook, due to me at the end of the period.”

  Happiness, pure and simple. I feel like myself again. Mrs. Wachmeister is speaking my language. Adam? Adam, who?

  Mrs. Wachmeister goes to the blackboard and writes down two balanced chemical equations for the reactions. I diligently copy the equations into my notebook:

  Na2CO3(aq) + CaCl2(aq) = 2NaCl(aq) + CaCO3(s)

  CaCO3(s) + H2SO4(aq) = CaSO4(s) + H2O + CO2(g)

  I wish everything in the universe could be as straightforward as the easy-to-understand law of conservation of mass.

  Since Adam is new, I volunteer to gather our equipment. Two balance corks, an Erlenmeyer flask, a rubber stopper, a graduated cylinder, and two test tubes. I grab my goggles and my coat, then walk to the storage closet at the back of the room to find safety wear for Adam. I do it, but I’m not happy about it.

  I hand a coat and goggles to Adam. With their scratched white plastic cover, the goggles cover his eyes, which is good for me because his eyes seem to hinder my ability to function normally.

  He measures the sodium carbonate solution and pours it into the Erlenmeyer flask. I stopper the flask. And to my amazement, everything goes great. In fact, the rest of the lab time passes in a blur.

  While we’re working Adam says, “So I hear you’re the top student in chem class.”

  First I blush, embarrassed that he’s heard anything at all. Then I tighten my lips, hoping that he isn’t planning to ride my coattails for an easy A.

  “I asked around before class began. Gotta know who the competition is.” He winks one gorgeous eye. “I like to have a dedicated lab partner. Not some dope who just needs a C to pass. I need to do well in chemistry since I’m going to be a doctor—a pediatrician. I’m going back to California for school. I’ve already been admitted to UCLA to study pre-med.” Adam smiles at me. He’s not conceited, like you might think a pre-med guy would be. He’s … well, he’s nice. Very nice.

  I have to admit I was wrong at first about him. Looks can be deceiving (especially really good looks with well-defined arm muscles.) Adam’s not some dumb athlete, come to mooch off my GPA.

  Before I respond to his academic challenge, Adam says, “Forget the competition stuff. I don’t want to have an academic battle with you. As long as we are lab partners, we can be a team.”

  “All right,” I agree. “We can share the top honor.” Being tied really won’t affect my scholarship, as long as my grades don’t slip. And I can immediately tell, with Adam at my side, the scholarship will remain in the bag!

  We’re working together on the experiment when Adam asks me, “Is there an astronomy club at this school? I didn’t see one posted on the club board.”

  Did I just hear what I thought I heard? We get to talking and it turns out he’s almost as interested in the stars as I am. Adam isn’t planning on a career in astronomy, but was the treasurer of his old school’s astronomy club and would love to stay involved. He used to camp a lot with his folks when he was a kid and one night realized he wanted to know more about the stars. He’s been learning about them ever since.

  I know what you’re thinking: Here’s a cute guy who just happens to get placed at my chem lab table. He’s an academic over-achiever, like me. Enjoys astronomy, like me. Also happens to be an only child, like me (he told me while we mixed the solution). And it’s Wednesday.

  All coincidence. Really. Adam was supposed to start school on Monday, but had a cold and his mom suggested he wait until he felt better. He tried to take the first-period chemistry class, but had to change his schedule to fit in AP art history. That, and his parents weren’t even supposed to move to Cincinnati. Until last month, they thought they were headed to Allentown, Pennsylvania, instead. See? Total coincidence.

  Plus, the probability that we are destined for love, after having known each other for, I check my watch, forty-three minutes, is next to nil.

  As class comes to an end, I have to say it was weird sharing my learning environment with another person, but as I got to know Adam better, it wasn’t nearly as uncomfortable as I imagined. He was really meticulous about measurements and even offered to wash the beakers once we’re finished. I, of course, let him. Damn, if you’re forced to have a lab partner, he might as well do the cleaning up part, right?

  When Adam returns from the sink, where he’s carefully rinsed and dried our equipment, he calls me by name for the first time. “I’m sorry, Sylvie,” he says, “I don’t know where everything goes. Would you mind showing me?”

  I can’t really say no since I was the one who got the stuff. Besides, this means he can gather the equipment tomorrow.

  He hands me the test tubes first. They’re warm and still a little damp. I grasp them in my hand and reach for the Erlenmeyer flask. Like a DVD running in slow motion, I see him hand me the flask, I feel the wetness, and realize it’s too slick to hold. I watch, detached from my body, as the flask slips out of my hand and crashes to the floor.

  There’s glass everywhere and I’m horrified. I’ve never broken anything in chem lab before—not that it will affect my grade or anything that traumatic—but I pride myself on a clean record. A record that, with the fall of the Erlenmeyer flask, has just been shattered.

  Mrs. Wachmeister, though alerted to the crashing noise, has made it clear in the past that the lab team is responsible for the cleanup.

&n
bsp; Adam bends down to retrieve some of the bigger pieces of glass. “No big deal. These things happen.” And then he apologizes for not drying the flask more carefully.

  I immediately squat down to help him clean up the mess I made. Adam asks me to move my leg so he can get a piece near my left foot. When I do, he gasps. Next thing I know, he’s swept me off my feet and is holding me firmly against his hard, sculpted chest.

  I know all the science-focused guys at our school and can safely say that not one of them has a chest like Adam’s. I know flab when I see it. Adam, from what I can tell, has none.

  “Mrs. Wachmeister,” Adam calls over his shoulder as he carries me toward the door. “When the flask broke, Sylvie was hurt. May I have permission to take her to the nurse’s office?”

  “I’m not hurt,” I insist as Mrs. Wachmeister comes to where Adam has stopped, near the exit. “Or maybe I am,” I say as I look at the fresh red blood covering my ankle and dripping onto my white tennis shoe. Once I’ve noticed the blood, the pain begins in earnest. I grimace.

  Mrs. Wachmeister pulls some paper towels from the holder near the sink and after careful inspection presses them to the base of my ankle. “Go on.” Mrs. Wachmeister gives me a sympathetic look. “I’ll take care of the mess. Tell Nurse Frankel that he should look for glass fragments.” And with that, she wraps my ankle in a temporary bandage and then turns away to clean up my broken flask.

  “Adam, you can put me down now.” We’re at the end of the hall. Classes are going to be letting out for lunch soon and students will be filling the hallway. No matter how much pain I’m in, the last thing I need is for the entire student body to see Adam carrying me around. “I can walk.”

  “No chance.” He pulls me even tighter against his chest. “You’re hurt, and I’m taking you to the nurse.”

  Arguing seems pointless. Even though I could walk if he’d let me, I give in. I settle back and try not to enjoy the ride. I refuse to think about how nice it feels to be held by him, or how good his neck smells. I will not lose focus. I begin a mental mantra that goes, “Yale scholarship. Yale scholarship. Yale—” Shoot. So much for absolute concentration. I can’t help but notice we are headed the wrong direction.