Imperfect Chemistry// Calum Hood

Chapter Five

Small minds are concerned with the extraordinary, great minds with the ordinary.
–Blaise Pascal

The phone rings four times before there's an answer.

"Hello?" Her voice sounds groggy. Did I dial the right number?

"Jazmine?" I ask.

"Yes? Is this a telemarketer? Because I don't have any money to buy c.rap," she croaks.

"No, this is Teresa. We spoke last night. And we also spoke on Wednesday at approximately 1:35 p.m. in the peer counseling clinic."

"Yeah, sure I remember. What's up Esa?"

"I was wondering if I could ask for your advice."

"Uh, sure, sure." There's a rustling of fabric on the line as if she's sitting up in bed. "Wait, how did you get this number?"

"From your file at the clinic."

"Oh." Pause. "You went through my file?"

"It was necessary before your session. I have a very good memory."

Another pause and then, "Okay, shoot."

"You mentioned last night that I should form a friendly relationship with Calum before propositioning him. I've thought over your advice and I think it's reasonable. What is the most expeditious way to accomplish this?"

"Um. Well, you could do something neighborly, like invite him to a party."

A party. I grimace before answering. "What if that's not an option? What else?"

"Let's see," she says. There's more rustling and movement on the line and then, "You could ask him for a cup of sugar or something. Don't neighbors do that?"

"What would I use the sugar for?"

"Why does that matter? I dunno, to make cookies?"

I consider this. "I could make cookies. Then after I make them, I could bring him some. That's neighborly, correct?"

"Sure."

"And this also affords two separate opportunities for conversation."

"Right," she agrees.

"Thank you for your time," I say, and hang up the phone.

***

I've always enjoyed cooking. It's a bit like science. You mix things together in a certain order in certain quantities to achieve the desired outcome.

I have plenty of sugar on hand, and although I hate being deceitful, it's one harmless white lie and it's the means to an end. I never considered myself particularly Machiavellian, but I'm willing to try nearly anything at this point. At about three o'clock, I head over to the neighbor's door and knock.

No answer. I'm fairly sure he's home because I can see his car, and I heard him entering his side of the building approximately an hour ago.

I knock again a bit harder and the door swings open.

"Hello," I say. This is the first time we've been face to face and not just coming or going. He looks better than the last time I saw him. The gray circles under his eyes are gone and he's slightly flushed, like he's been exerting himself recently. He's wearing a light brown shirt with dark smudges like he's been rubbing dirty hands on it. His fingertips are tinged with some kind of black substance. If his car wasn't sitting pristinely in the driveway, I would think he had been doing something mechanical.