Imperfect Chemistry// Calum Hood

Chapter Three

A failure is not always a mistake, it may simply be the best one can do under the circumstances. The real mistake is to stop trying.
-B.F. Skinner





By early afternoon the next day, I still haven't heard back from Brendan. I tried calling him a few more times the night before and then sent him texts all morning at various intervals when I knew he would be out of class, but there has been no response. I start to worry that something is wrong with him. The one time we went to dinner, his phone was out on the table or in his hand at all times. I can't imagine what could be preventing him from responding since he appears to be inordinately attached to the piece of technology.

Luckily, I remembered most of his schedule from various conversations. Having a near perfect memory is useful at times.

He normally eats lunch a little later on Wednesdays, due to a lab class from eleven to one thirty, so at two I head to the cafeteria. I find him there, sitting in a booth with three other males that appear vaguely familiar.

"Good afternoon, Brendan," I say, stopping next to their booth.

He's drinking a soda and chokes when I materialize next to him. "Teresa?"

"I apologize for startling you. I would like to speak with you privately."

"What are you doing here?" he asks after he stops coughing.

There is such a thing as a stupid question, but I didn't realize it until I tutored Brendan.
That's okay, though. He's not excessively smart when it comes to logic and math, but he does have a lot of friends and his social experience is superior to mine and that's all I care about at the moment.

"I would like to speak with you privately," I say again, a little bit slower this time.

"Listen, Teresa." Fully recovered from his choking fit, he leans back in the booth and places one arm along the back of the seat behind his friend. "You're a nice girl and I really appreciate you helping me with calculus, but I'm not your boyfriend."

"I never said-"

"You called me ten times last night," he interrupts. He doesn't look at me while he speaks; instead, he concentrates a majority of his focus on his friends who seem to be enjoying the conversation immensely.

"I only called-"

"And you've texted me all morning. This has to stop," he says firmly.

"It's only because-"

"We went on one date. And all you wanted to talk about were things I don't really understand. You gave me statistics on how drinking alcohol affects movement and brain activity or whatever."

"Gross motor skills and neural synapses." I finally get a sentence completed.

"Yeah," he says. "Whatever." He rolls his eyes and looks over at his friends again who are laughing behind their hands and shoving food in their mouths, pretending like they don't know what's happening right in front of them even though it would be impossible to ignore.

Brendan runs a hand through his messy light brown hair, but the motion doesn't disturb the stylish disarray. "Look, it's just not going to work out. I'm sorry." He crosses his arms over his chest, a clear use of body language signaling the conversation is over, at least in his mind.