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Lost…
“Marshmallows, pretzels, peanut butter, kettle corn,” I list off some snacks, not mentioning the twist inside my stomach.
“Got it. See you later. Kick college’s ass.”
“Be safe, water sprite,” I sing-song in farewell and then hang up. Hallow Friends Eve has had a rocky history. First year ended with a brick through the townhouse window. Second year ended with my little brother in a fistfight that he kinda started. Third year was a wash since Jane was getting married two days later, but after Sulli’s Jeep broke down out west, we consider that one the most cursed year.
Hallow Friends Eve IV is returning to its roots as a horror movie night. Chill. I’m still excited to see Donnelly, but our friendship status hurts a lot. Mostly because I can’t see us ever climbing out of it.
Once my science lab begins, I try focusing on my lab station and work, but I catch myself daydreaming about the Halloween Hellfire Gala tomorrow.
Beakers. Liquids.
Concentrate.
I shake out my thoughts. “Are you sure you don’t need my help?” I ask my lab partner.
Chopped and uneven blonde bangs, darker brows, big blue eyes, and a soft-cheeked, pale face, she looks young—even younger than I do and some people think I’m fifteen just because I’m gangly. Her ears stick out a bit, and with combat boots and plaid red pants, she seems like she’d be considered edgy and cool among our peers.
But more than a few people eye her wardrobe and whisper things like “try hard.” A guy noticed the Pink Floyd shirt she always wears and asked her if she even listens to the band. She stared him straight in the face and said, “No, I just like the shirt.”
He huffed and said “poser” before walking off.
I caught her humming “Another Brick in the Wall” last week.
When the professor said we could pick our own lab partners, I recognized Harriet Fisher in the crowd. Even Frog pointed her out. She’s the same seventeen-year-old who auditioned for Tom’s band, rejected only because of her age.
Today, she hovers over the lab bench with a pipet, skillfully filling each test tube with solution. “You are helping,” Harriet says without looking over. She bites on a blue Jolly Rancher, breaking the no food rule in the lab. “You’re taking notes.”
Yep, true.
I have the notebook open, and I jot down any numbers or observations Harriet has, but I’m not exactly helping with the experiment. I don’t really blame Harriet for dubbing me the secretary. I fucked up our first lab by mixing up the reagents. It ruined our numbers and we both got zeroes on it.
I had to go to the professor and explain it was my fault, and that was enough to get us a redo.
But ever since then, I’ve been stuck with note-taking.
I’m okay with it. Harriet is here on an academic scholarship, and I don’t want to mess it up for her.
“Can you write down that the substance is clear in color?” Harriet asks, her face etched in an unapproachable scowl.
One day, Eliot saw her coming out of the lab when he met up with me, and she shot him a withering glare that would’ve made Kinney jealous. “What was that?” he asked me.
“My lab partner.”
“Your lab partner might be possessed.”
“No, that’s just her.” Now, in the lab, I’m scribbling the note, and then I adjust the goggles over my eyes.
She checks her watch. “And now we wait.”
“How long?”
“Fifteen minutes.” She leans back against the lab bench. “I didn’t mean to be a dick, earlier. If you’re sick of note-taking, you can do some of the pipet stuff.”
I shake my head. “You’ve got it.”
“Harriet?” A girl on the other side of our lab bench peeks over. “Um…” She’s scared of Harriet and Harriet’s monster scowl, but she licks her lips and quietly asks, “…could you help us, possibly, please? We’re so lost.”
“Yeah, sure.” Harriet leaves our bench.
Did I mention that she’s a genius? She skipped fifth grade, making her the youngest in the lab. Plus, she’s trying to be a doctor. She belongs here in a way that I don’t. I’m not exactly sure where I’m supposed to be yet.
A notification pings my phone.
A new Fanaticon DM.
My heart races as I pop it open. SB is still kind of a mystery, but it’s nice to have someone to talk to about the things I like. Someone who isn’t Donnelly.
StaleBread89: saw you followed We Are Calloway on Fanaticon. You a fan?
My palms go clammy. Stomach sinking.
I’m so dumb. Of course he’d notice I recently followed We Are Calloway. Why does he even care? I bite the inside of my lip, confused and uncertain. On the flip side, maybe this is good? I can also pry deeper into his feelings about my family.
I type out my message and hit send.
Illyana_Dallas222: I don’t watch the show that much. But I think the families are pretty cool. No hate. Are you a fan?
