Touch

9

In chemistry, I loiter toward the back of the room, waiting for everybody to file in. Mr. Swenson (nicknamed Mr. Sweat-man, for obvious reasons ), has this rule that, whoever you choose to sit with on the first day of class becomes your lab partner for the entire year.

Needless to say, seat selection is definitely critical.

Since the sciences, collectively it seems, aren't really my strong suit, I search around for someone who I think might do well with things like beakers, test tubes, and Bunsen burners.

Until I finally see her, Shelby Fren, the girl who helped get me through bio. "Hey," I say, waving her over. I gesture to a table in the back and sit down. "We can be lab partners again this year."

But Shelby appears less than delighted to see me, despite my stellar organization skills. She may not want to admit it, but thanks to me, we always handed in the neatest, most orderly lab reports.

"It won't be so bad," I say, trying to assure her. "At least this year we won't have to dissect anything, right?"

I know she must still blame me for accidentally spilling my Gatorade on that poor dead frog. Not only did it score us a big fat goose egg on our lab report, but I also got detention for having an open drink container in class.

Shelby scans the room to see who's left, but it seems people have quickly paired off. She lets out a sigh and finally sits down, stacking her books between us to mark her personal science-loving territory.

But after a few moments, when everybody has pretty much settled into their places, she switches seats, spotting an open chair at the front of the room, right beside tree-hugging, save-the-planet George Williams.

Just perfect. I look up at the Sweat-man , waiting for him to announce the inevitable: that I'll have the unequivocal pleasure (not ) of pairing up with him this year for my labs, of having to smell his sweaty self and be subjected to the flyaway dandruff in his hair.

(Note to self: wear lab smock.) But then Zayn walks in. He hands a slip of paper to the Sweat-man, probably denoting his enrollment in our class. A couple of snickers come from the corner of the room.

Mr . Swenson checks and rechecks the slip of paper, comparing it to his attendance list, as if maybe there's some mistake. "Take a seat," Sweat-man finally says. He scratches his head, releasing at least a tablespoon of dandruff over his shoulders. Zayn searches the room, and so do I, but the only remaining chair is the one beside mine.

He sees it and our eyes lock. "Is there a problem, Mr. Malik?" The Sweat-man is glaring at him.

Zayn just stands there at the front of the room. Staring at me. Making my face go hot and my palms clammy. "No problem," he says, finally. He joins me at my table, but he doesn't look at me again for the entire block. Not once.

Even though I want him to.

Even though I know I shouldn't.

•••

Who doesn't want Zayn to stare at them tf.

~ Malum