Kissing Ezra Holtz (and Other Things I Did for Science) Page 2

Lord.

  This is going to be a long semester.

  My adjusted schedule stares back at me from my inbox: AP. AP. AP. Gym. Because I have limits. Panic crawls up my throat in an unfamiliar way and I hate it. Just looking at all of this is like one of those dreams where you show up to school and realize you’ve been ditching for two months and now OH NO, it’s the final!

  This is. A lot.

  I guess I’m doing it though.

  On purpose.

  I sigh and move to open the syllabi for a bunch of brand new classes I’m going to have to actually work to survive, and my phone buzzes.

  Sasha: I’m bored

  Amalia: Have a nap.

  Sasha: Fix it.

  I smirk.

  Amalia: I’m not a WIZARD, Sash.

  Sasha: Help us, Amalia, you’re our only hope.

  I’m still smiling, already grabbing my jacket and hunting for my keys when I type back:

  Amalia: Honestly where would ANY of your lives be without me. I’m coming to save you.

  Sasha: BLESS YOU.

  Sasha: We’re at Keegan’s.

  I have no clue what “we” means, but it doesn’t really matter. Sasha means Brent, and Keegan for sure, and anyone involved in that group means a good time.

  I head for my bedroom door and catch the syllabi in my periphery.

  I should be looking over them, just to see what I’ve missed in the last week and a half. Overachieving, showing Ilyas how invested I am or whatever.

  Eh. I haven’t even started these classes yet. It’ll be fine.

  I head out the door.

  “Cards?” Sasha wrinkles her nose and side-eyes the deck in my hand.

  “No complaining,” I say. “You invited me here.”

  “To make it a party,” Brent mumbles.

  “It’s a Thursday night, you cretins.”

  There are eleven of us here, just enough to call it a party if you wanted. Not enough to really tip into rager territory. The ideal mid-week hangout.

  Sasha’s best friend, Asia, raises both hands in the air and says, “Everyone hush your mouths.” She tips her chin at me. “Go.”

  “Deck of cards,” I say. “Brent, go grab some spoons out of the silverware drawer and bring down some liquor.”

  Brent—Letter Jacket Brent if I’m feeling mean; he never takes the thing off. I sometimes wonder if he wears it while he and Sasha are hooking up—says, “Nope. If my dad wouldn’t kill me for getting into the tequila, we wouldn’t have required your services.”

  I draw my hand to my chest. “I’m wounded.”

  “Wouldn’t have required,” says Sasha. “But would have invited.”

  Some girl I don’t know says, “Tequila. Gross.”

  “So Brent’s afraid of Dad. Okay. You afraid to borrow some spoons, sport?”

  He scowls at me but heads upstairs to the kitchen.

  Brent’s basement is familiar. It’s huge and tricked out. Big screen TV, pool table, couple of guest bedrooms that I have never seen used for sleeping. All the finishes are shiny and new, too, kind of like basically everyone’s clothes—preppy rich friends. Sports, student council, that crowd.

  I recline on Brent’s fancy Italian leather sofa (for a teen basement, seriously) and ignore the twinge of disappointment in my stomach that says, No, you are not getting top shelf liquor this evening.

  Brent stomps down the stairs, still looking a little peeved, and hands me a fistful of spoons.

  “So?” says Asia.

  “The game is Spoons.” I explain the rules, which basically consist of throwing a bunch of spoons in the middle of a circle, then passing cards around in various ways until someone gets four of a kind. First one to get it grabs a spoon. Last one left without one drinks.

  “We can’t drink,” says Sasha, elbowing Brent, who groans and bites her neck. She shrieks.

  “What a shame,” I say.

  Pasty Travis, whom I don’t love, honestly, but there’s always one in a group, says, “What does that mean?”

  My mouth curls. “Well. We all have clothes, don’t we?”

  Brent slowly raises an eyebrow and Sasha says, “Strip Spoons? Strip Spoons.”

  “Strip Spoons. Grab your cards.”

  It takes a minute, but eventually, everyone acquiesces.

  Asia, who has a weave that falls down to her waist and legs for actual days, bumps my shoulder and says, “Strip Spoons. You slut.”

  I grin. It’s a word I’ve heard . . . a number of times, directed at me. It doesn’t hurt coming from her. Because 1) she’s my friend, 2) she’s a girl (who gets my pulse spiking every time she sits this close), and 3) she has a reputation, too.

  Some guy a couple seats down from Asia says, under his breath, “So I’ve heard.”

  And that feels a hell of a lot different.

  Asia cuts a glance at me and I give her one terse head shake. Not worth it.

  She purses her lips and scoots just a little closer, and the game starts. It’s a racket of cards and shrieks and body parts bumping into body parts and by the end of it, we’re all in various stages of undress, I’ve wound up with my tongue down Asia’s throat like twice, Brent and Sasha are making out, someone’s turned on some music, and it may as well be a real party.

  Who knows where Brent’s parents are when the clock hits 1 a.m., but they’re not here, and I’m getting sleepy but I’m alive. Wired on all of my friends and the adrenaline that comes from this many people in this small room, all just happily coexisting.

  I love this.

  Everyone is extremely welcome that I left my studying at home and showed up.

  CHAPTER THREE

  Fight or Flight Response (n.): The instinctive response aroused in the human brain when presented with acute terror or stress that causes either the instinct to flee or to fight for one’s survival via the release of epinephrine and/or norepinephrine.

  Synonyms:

  › Hyperarousal

  › Acute Stress Response

  › Existence in Mr. Thompson’s Military Barracks of an AP Chemistry Classroom

  I stumble into AP chemistry like I’m hung over. I’m not, not from alcohol anyway. But from lack of sleep? Well. It turns out that’s a thing.

  The teacher, who is former military and has the haircut and attitude to match, raises his eyebrow. “Amalia Yaabez.”

  I shrug off my backpack into a chair in the farthest corner of the room.

  “Why don’t you sit up front?” he says.

  I purse my lips. “A/C is up there. I don’t want to get cold.”

  He smiles sweetly. “The cold will keep you awake.”

  My nostrils flare and I wrap my fingers around the strap of my bag. I say through clenched teeth, “In chemistry? Why would I need something to keep me up?”

  Mr. Thompson’s mouth curls up and he says, “Yaabez?”

  “Mmhmm.”

  “Have a seat.”

  He kicks the seat in the front and center of the classroom and it physically hurts not to roll my eyes. I would like to note, for the record, that despite my no-sleep-party-night hangover, I am the first kid here.

  That should count for something.

  Guess it doesn’t.

  The only nice thing about this morning is that one of the girls I smoke with sometimes shows up (she, too, was assigned to sit up front) and parks beside me.

  She waggles her eyebrows. “Ready for some fun?”

  “Oh,” I say, deadpan, “I was born ready.”

  She laughs and then turns forward when Thompson starts lecturing. I’m surprised to see Marisol here, I guess. Not that kids who smoke weed can’t be smart—I mean, I’m in here. But—well, there’s really no explanation that doesn’t make me seem like a weirdly hypocritical asshole so I don’t think too much about it.

  People contain multitudes.

  I don’t think about Marisol and worlds colliding.

  I think—I try to think—about chemistry. About the things that make up the entir
e universe. I lean back in my chair so no one thinks I’m panicking. Throw my arm over the plastic so I look like I belong here, like I’m comfortable.

  Like always.

  But I am not comfortable.

  I am panicking.

  AP chemistry, what was I thinking?

  I’ve only missed like a week of the class and I already feel like I have no idea what the hell he’s saying. Maybe this was a mistake. Maybe it was all a mistake.

  I’m blinking at the white board, focusing so hard on not knowing shit that I miss it when he calls on me the first time. I must miss several, because when he finally gets my attention, it seems like he’s been trying for a while. The classroom is that specific kind of quiet that seems like they’re waiting for something.

  Hushed.

  “I’m sorry. What?”

  Thompson, fucking sadist, says, “You heard me.”

  I scoff. Like it doesn’t matter. I say, “Sorry, I didn’t.”

  “Guess.”

  “Two.”

  A wave of snickers. I lean back farther. Put my foot up on the desk. All of my resolve to fix everything this semester is crumbling under scrutiny. Under this sudden humiliating pressure.

  He says, “Guess again.”

  I say, “I don’t know what the fuck you said.”

  Thompson smiles. “I said detention. Hope you don’t have plans after school for the next week.”

  I narrow my eyes.

  And pull out my pencil. “So. Two? Was that the answer?”

  He grinds his teeth. It’s like he’s forgotten we’re not the only ones in here. That’s fine. I haven’t.

  “The answer. Was carbon. Unless the question was how many extra days of detention you’re landing yourself every time you open your mouth.”

  I stand.

  I glance over his shoulder at the white board and I don’t get any of it, I don’t care about any of it, who the hell cares.

  I stick my headphone in one of my ears.

  I leave.

  My parents get a call from Mr. Thompson after school when I don’t show for detention, and I hear my mom sigh from across the house. It’s not like they’re surprised. They can’t be.

  But I’m . . . god, I’m embarrassed by it. I’m actually embarrassed by my own behavior. And now I get to tell Ezra that I earned myself two weeks of detention because I couldn’t be quiet. Lord. Turning over a new leaf is exhausting and impossible and I don’t know how people do it.

  Maybe they don’t.

  Maybe no one actually does.

  I head to my room. I want to have this inevitable confrontation on my own turf.

  “Amalia.” Mom’s voice rings up the stairs.

  I run my hand over my nose. “Mmhmm?”

  My mom walks up the stairs, quiet enough I can’t hear her steps. She always walks on her tiptoes up the stairs; I don’t know why. I run my hand through my hair.

  “That was Mr. Thompson.”

  She appears in my doorway, crossed arms and graying hair and an eyebrow cocked.

  I fling myself back on my bed and groan. “Mom, listen.”

  “Oh, I’m listening.”

  “He’s—I’m sorry, I don’t know how else to say this; Mr. Thompson is a dick.”

  I feel my mom’s weight when she sits on the bed beside me. “I don’t know what the fuck you said? Amalia, come on.”

  “You can’t say that word in front of me. I’m your child.” I sit up and look at her. She’s trying not to smile.

  “I can say whatever I want. I’m a grown-up.”

  The corner of my mouth tips. “A grown-up.”

  Now we’re both laughing, but she reins it in pretty fast. “You can’t say that kind of stuff in class.”

  “I know.”

  “I thought you were getting it together.”

  “I—” It catches in my throat. “I am.”

  She looks directly at me, gold-auburn eyebrow quirking up again. “Is this what getting it together looks like to you?”

  I shrug. “I’m sorry. He was pushing me so hard, everyone knows he’s horrible. I overreacted in class; it was disrespectful.” I’m saying what she wants to hear and she knows it.

  “I know. Listen, I spent five minutes on the phone with the man, and I get it. But you can’t.”

  I sigh. Run my nails over my navy bedspread. “I know. I’m really sorry.”

  She runs her hand over my head in a generous display of mercy. “You’ve got to get this under control.”

  She means my hair, I think. I think. “I can’t.”

  She smiles when I do. “I know.”

  “Don’t tell Dad?”

  She rolls her eyes and gets up. “We’ll see.”

  “Hey,” I say before she leaves my room, happy not to be saddled with a punishment. I guess she thinks two weeks’ detention with that man is enough. I’m not gonna argue.

  “Hmm?”

  “Give me a ride to shul tonight?”

  “I think we can make that happen.”

  She gives me this half-exasperated, half-affectionate look and leaves. I remind her of her, I think, and that gets me out of just . . . so much shit I should not get out of.

  Like I said, I’m not gonna argue.

  I’m . . . well. I’m gonna get dressed and go to temple.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Dependent Variables: My ability to fix my shitstorm of an academic career—My senior GPA

  My senior GPA—My grade in this AP Psychology class

  My grade in this AP Psychology class—

  My grade on this project

  My grade on this project—My ability to refrain from murdering Ezra Holtz

  About forty-five minutes into shul, the venti Frappuccino I had my parents run me through the coffee shop to get finally kicks in and I feel good about faking being awake. At least until I can kick Ezra out of my house and then immediately pass out on my bedroom floor.

  After service, in which our rabbi looks just the slightest touch relieved that neither of us has any questions related to dietary laws and mythological creatures and just throws us both a half-confused “Good Shabbos,” when we walk out together, intentionally, Ezra offers to drive me home.

  I nod and say, “Yeah. That would be cool. Why don’t you just . . . just stay at my place for a little bit until we can figure something out.”

  “Okay,” he says.

  We don’t really say much the whole way to my house, and that’s fine, because for knowing the dude almost my whole life, this is surprisingly awkward. I’m not actually sure if we’ve ever hung out completely alone, even in a driving-you-home capacity.

  I don’t have to give him directions to my place; he lives super close to me—it’s right on his way—and he’s been over enough times with his parents that he can figure it out up until the last couple streets. So it’s legitimately silent.

  I don’t turn on the radio, even, because Ezra has got to be the literal most observant Reform Jew I have ever met. More than anyone in my family, way more than his parents, even. And I’m just assuming breaking a rule like no-radio-on-Shabbat in his car would irritate him. So I pull a few songs to the front of my mind and plunk my head against the window, until all the songs melt slowly into “Go the Distance” from Hercules—like almost every song always does eventually in my brain—and wait it out.

  We pull up to my house and he follows me inside, hand on the back of his neck. Like he’s nervous. Which is kind of funny, since I’ve basically only ever seen Ezra looking self-assured and borderline arrogant.

  Ben cocks an eyebrow when Ezra comes in and shuts the door. Kaylee smiles at him way too brightly and says, “Hey, Ezra!” with an exclamation point in her voice. Like the small, adorable freshman she is. She’s enthusiastic enough that even Ezra, who I assumed would be nothing but logical and analytical when it came to matters of the heart, half-smiles to himself. His ears get a little red.

  Kaylee is as subtle as a Michael Bay movie.

  He sa
ys, “Hey, Kaylee,” and I pop into the kitchen to get us a couple Cokes before we crest the stairs to my room.

  “So,” I say when we get in there and shut the door, “any bright ideas?”

  “Not that you haven’t already shut down.”

  I shrug and pull out the notebook we were using in class and a pencil.

  He glances at it, reaches for his own backpack, then freezes at the zipper. “Dammit.”

  “Guess I’m taking point on the project tonight then,” I say, and I know my grin is a little more wicked than it should be. It’s just that his lips purse so perfectly. His brow furrows so immediately and beautifully. I highly doubt he’ll write on Shabbat unless he has to.

  “This is already exhausting,” he says.

  I shrug. “I’ll write legibly,” I say.

  “Sure.”

  He shifts so his knees press into his palms—literally sitting on his hands as I open my notebook to write. I’m not actually trying to be an asshole. Like I’m not doing some kind of “Haha, look at you, choosing to abide by rules that I do not” thing. I respect the guy. It’s just that his face makes it impossible not to take just a little pleasure in knowing I get to be in charge of all of this tonight.

  “Would you rather do this tomorrow night?” I offer, sincerely. “Or Sunday?”

  He sighs. I am beginning to wonder if that’s just the way he breathes. “No. It’s fine.”

  “You sure you’re cool with doing the work to brainstorm this on Shabbos? Or is that . . . a gray enough area for you?”

  I’m going out of my way to be considerate, to make sure he doesn’t feel pressured because I am a GOOD AND NICE PERSON, but his lips just tick. He says, dodging the question, “Let’s just get this started. I’d like the weekend to start gathering research.”

  What that means is: I would rather not, Amalia, but I absolutely cannot stand slacking off for another twenty-four hours and I’m not going to engage with it.

  “Of course you would.” I kind of laugh, and I think maybe that will annoy him, but he just runs a hand back through his straight, dark hair, and laughs a little with me.

  I raise an eyebrow.

  “I’m capable of laughter, Yaabez.”

  I’m so shocked at the playful inflection in his voice, it takes me a half-second to gather myself enough to laugh. But then I do. “Don’t do that,” I say, cracking up.