POWER BACK

Chapter 26: Delicate

Delicate

January

I trudge into fifth period more pissed-off than ever. I mean, okay, so she has no idea how I feel about her.

Probably.

But still. It pisses me off anyway. Why can't I just make a move? Why? I feel like such a fucking coward.

But it's a bit of a delicate situation. It's one thing to be rejected by a girl you kind of like. But if you're rejected by this girl you've been infatuated with for months? Where does a guy go from there once she rejects him? At least when I fantasize about her now, I still don't know, for sure, that she doesn't want me. But once I know, for sure, then it ruins the whole damn fantasy. I don't think I'm at the point where I'm willing to sacrifice the dream for the reality.

What if the reality doesn't live up to the dream?

I'm standing at our station with my back to the door. She'll be here any minute.

I know it instantly when she walks in the room. The electricity crackles in the air, just like before a violent storm. I feel her energy pulsing towards mine.

I turn to her, giving a curt nod.

"Okay, everyone, I want to say some things before we start the lab." Ms. Pickle sniffs.

Ms. Pickle is wearing a chef's apron that has a screen print of a giant 3-D pug in sunglasses and gold chains hovering above the lines I didn't choose the pug life. The pug life chose me.

Peyton nudges me, probably to snark about the apron, but I'm really not in the mood.

"Today, we're finishing our first food preparation unit. I'll be coming around to evaluate you on your cold prep—the organization of your workstation, ability to follow instructions, and cleanliness. This is a quiz grade. I suggest you take it seriously."

Okay, focus on the task at hand. Resist the urge to turn to her and yell "why the hell were you hugging Marshall?"

First come the frozen strawberries—I count out fifteen, just like it says in the recipe, then slowly place them in the bottom of the blender on top of the blades. Then I cut the banana in ten uniform chunks.

Precision.

I'm boxing her out. I don't want her damn help. I don't even want to be near her right now. I straddle in front of the cutting board, ingredients, and blender, and carefully add the banana chunks to the strawberries.

I still can't look at her.

Peyton clears her throat. "Seems like you could just throw all that stuff in there together. I mean it's not an exact science."

Pickle waltzes over. "Nice job, Chaplin. Very meticulous. I like how you've kept your work area clean and clutter free. And Thomas, this is an exact science. You must place the frozen fruit first, focusing on layering the fruit by degrees of density, or your blender will jam," Pickle says this with a big sniff.

I glance over at Peyton, feeling slightly vindicated. Then I measure out a cup of vanilla yogurt, scraping out every last dollop on top of the fruit.

Ms. Pickle ambles away.

"Degrees of density," Peyton says, sarcastically.

I don't respond.

"Jack, are you mad at me? You haven't said one word to me the whole class."

"Nope."

"You seem mad."

"I'm trying to concentrate," I say through gritted teeth.