The only woman in A-level Physics is the teacher, Ms Zhu. Meaning whenever I walk in, I'm immediately suffocated by the stench of twenty-something incredibly horny, incredibly stressed out 17/18-year-old guys.
Seats are assigned, and I sit at the end of the classroom next to some guy called Nicu, who has a patchy goatee and is never not wearing a striped polo shirt. Every lesson, he turns to me and asks in his heavy Romanian accent if he can borrow a pen. It's the only interaction we ever have, which I don't mind. He always gives the pen back.
I don't speak to anyone else in this class if I can help it. I put my Bluetooth earphones back in and turn my music up to drown out everyone else's humdrum conversations until Ms Zhu enters and starts lecturing us on transit photometry.
I'm easily captivated by our Astrophysics module. Fantasising about space travel, exoplanets and binary stars is probably the one thing keeping me alive. There are infinite other galaxies out there, untainted by the shittiness of the human race. I'd give anything to explore one of them.
After class, Ms Zhu ends up keeping me another half hour to recommend books and documentaries she thinks I'll like. She's one of the most satirical, misanthropic people I've ever met (myself included), and I'm pretty sure she hates her job. But she has a soft spot for me. She knows I appreciate this subject more than the rest of these idiots — her words, not mine. Plus doing extra research will look good on my personal statement. I promise her I'll look at all of them before hurrying to Sociology.
The smell of Madelyn's perfume is a welcome contrast to the odour of sweat and broken dreams I just spent the last two and a half hours trying not to choke on. As she parks her chair next to me, I'm enveloped by a delicate fragrance of tropical fruits. I wait for her bubbly greeting, as per our routine, but she doesn't say anything or look at me.
It stings a little. Last time we saw each other, she'd called me her friend, although she did say it in passing. To the biggest "puppy" I've ever seen in my life.
I can't believe she petted that monster. She's a lot braver than she looks.
I steal a quick side-glance at her. Her thinly plucked eyebrows are knitted together in agitation.
Maybe she's still embarrassed about the whole piercing joke, I think, and then I wish I could unthink it. I don't need those images in my head right now.
"Hey," I say after what feels like a lifetime.
"Hi," comes the strained reply.
I look at her again, and this time I notice her fists are clenched so tightly that her knuckles have turned white. On her left pointer is a silver ring with purple beads, and she repeatedly slides them back and forth across the band with her thumb. There's something bigger getting under her skin.
I'm debating whether I should ask about it, but then the lesson starts. I can't pay attention though, because Madelyn's nervous habits only get exponentially more distracting.
One: she switches hands while she writes. This is more fascinating than annoying. I've never met an ambidextrous person before. I thought they were a myth.
Two: she flips through this really thick booklet entitled 'VOCABULAIRE: L'IMMIGRATION ET LA SOCIÉTÉ MULTICULTERELLE' every five minutes. You wouldn't think the sound of pages turning in a classroom would be that bothersome, but you'd be wrong.
Three (here comes the real piss-taker): she hums to herself. And apparently I'm the only person who can hear it.
"Madelyn."
She stops humming. The tips of her ears turn pink. "Sorry. I'm nervous."
No shit. "What about?"
YOU ARE READING
Against the Universe
JugendliteraturGrover Simmings sometimes wishes he were dead. Still in rehabilitation from a disfiguring suicide attempt, he's determined to reclaim his autonomy and hide his literal and metaphorical scars from everyone, but struggles to battle the darkness that a...
