Chemistry D

She had a candle in her bag, one of those monster pillar ones, with a three-inch diameter. After that, she pulled out matches and lit the candle between us on the first try. Together, we sat on the floor of the janitor's room at midnight.

This was, hands down, the most daring thing I'd ever done.

This was, hands down, the most thrilling thing I'd ever done.

She had a navy eyelet-lace dress, and sat cross-legged and wore little white sneakers. Her dark brown curls were held back by a headband and slung in low pigtails. Every single detail--every single one--spoke of innocence, of purity of intention. I'd known from the beginning that she wasn't innocent, but it wasn't until she'd lured me to a dark part of the school in the middle of the night that I'd begun to suspect anything of her intentions.

"Now," she murmured seductively, "isn't this fun?" I didn't think she was trying to seduce me, precisely, but she was doing a damn good job, anyway.

I shrugged. Compared to her, I looked absurdly sloppy. My jeans were my nicest ones, and my t-shirt at least had long sleeves, which made me something less of a slob, maybe. But compared to her, I was slovenly. Boys didn't care half as much.



Reaching out, she touched my hand gently and then pulled back. This was delicate care. She wasn't pushing things. "I don't usually do this, you know." She wrinkled her freckled nose and laughed gently, but still heartily. "Assignations in the dark? Whispered conference by candlelight?" Now she shook her head; her curls bounced playfully. "More subterfuge than I usually employ."

Well, that was a relief. I'd worried that my inexperience would ruin this. And it sort of surprised me that I wanted this to stay perfect, even though she sort of scared me. There was just a mystery about her that was intimidating.

"I'm not into girls." It was the only thing I could think of, the only words that came to mind. I hated myself for them immediately. Just because I didn't typically like girls didn't mean anything. It meant nothing in this case.

She smiled and shrugged her delicate shoulders. "Doesn't matter," she said with absolute security. I blinked, not following. "It doesn't matter if you like girls," she clarified, reading my confusion correctly. "It matters if you like me."

That she wasn't put-off by my thoughtless, brainless blunder was a relief, but she still confused me. I didn't care. I would take it. Male or female, straight or no, she was something like intoxicating. I was something like hooked. It was a weird, crack-cocaine brand of chemistry.

I thought about it. Carefully. Something about me should be as careful as everything about her was, and this decision seemed a good place to start.

"You like me?" I asked. Better to make her commit to something before I did. That was a key step in careful.

I felt positively dazzled when she smiled. "I like you."

"Good to hear."

My care could never match hers; she didn't push me, and her waiting didn't seem impatient. It was quite soothing, actually, to watch her and think. She kept a contemplative little smile on her face, watching the tiny little flame flicker. The dim light pooled shadows in the contours of her face.

"I think," I began. Immediately, she looked up, absolute interest in every twist of her expression, in every angle of her posture. I had to clear my throat slightly and begin again. "I think I like you, too."

Her return smile was beatific. Quickly, but with all the marked hesitance of someone apprehensive, she ran her fingers through the lame strands of my ponytail. I was unquestionably thankful that she didn't catch on a snarl. In retreat, her finger skimmed my cheek, just enough to make me shiver.

She cast her eyes down, perhaps so I wouldn't know quite how excited she was, as if that would frighten me away. Maybe it was to hide a blush I couldn't see in the candlelight. I wasn't sure; I was too busy hiding my own blush. I was pleased.

"You know," she murmured, sounding nearly sheepish, "I don't like girls, either."