Touch

13

It's Friday afternoon, and I'm sitting in chemistry class, doing my best to focus, to take Hanna's advice about chalking the whole mysterious photo issue up to some lame-o's idea of a joke.

Since, after all, she's probably right.

It's the first lab session of the year, and Zayn and I have a handful of test tubes set up in front of us, along with a graduated cylinder and a couple of teaspoons.

The goal: to perform, discuss, and record the reactions that occur based on the mixture of a few choice chemicals.

I'm trying my hardest to concentrate, to tell myself that combining distilled water with sodium bicarbonate is the most important thing in the world right now.

Even though Zayn is watching and recording my every move.

My hand shakes slightly as I add in a couple of teaspoons of phenolphthalein, with according to the Sweat-man, was formerly used in over-the-counter laxatives.

I glance over at Missy and Chrissy Tompkin, otherwise known as the Laxative Twins. Wondering if they're going to try and pocket a stash for later.

"Thirsty?" I ask Zay, holding the mixture up like a drink. The addition of the laxative stuff had made the solution resemble fruit punch.

But he doesn't think it's funny. "Add teo grams of calcium chloride," he says with his thick british accent. Keeping things all clinical-like.

"Don't forget," Sweat-man anmounces. "This lab isn't just abour your visual senses here. What does the test-tube glass feel like with each added substance? Does it get heavier in comparison to the other tubes? Does it get cold or heat up? Is there any change in smell? Do you hear anything?"

I look up at Zayn, realizing we've completely omitted the whole touchy-feely aspect of the experiment.

"Do you want to hold it?" I ask, extending the tube out to him.

Zayn looks at it but shakes his head, continuing to read me the directions from his lab book.

"Wait," I say. "We need to record this stuff, our reactions, what we observe."

"Can't you just record it for the both of us?"

I try not to let his slacking bother me, especially since, as far as things look in everybody else's tubes, it appears as though we're doing everything right.

I jot down my observations and then, following the instructions as Zayn reads them aloud.

I add in a couple more ingrediants, finally topping the solution off with nitric acid and bromothymol blue.

The solution in the tube starts to fizzle and heat up, and the color changes from pink to yellow.

"You really should feel this," I say, holding the tube out to him again.

But Zayn has his own idea of fizzle: "I'm all set," he says.

"Not exactly a team player, are you, Mr. Malik?" The Sweat-man is standing right behind him now.

Zayn glances at the tube again, and for five full seconds I think he's going to take it, but instead he says: "I've already felt it."

"Oh, really?" Sweat-man scratches his head, and I step back to avoid the flurry of flakes. "So, how would you describe the temperature of the tube?" he asks.

Zayn shrugs. "Kind of cold."

The Sweat-man makes his infamous game-show-buzzer sound, denoting the wrong answer. "You really should've phoned a friend."

"Why don't you feel it again?" I say, in an effort to play nice. I hand him the tube, just as the Sweat-man walks away.

But Zayn's still being all weird. His fingers linger in the air, just inches from mine. "Take it," I say, all but placing the tube into his hand.

He finally does. And his hand accidentally grazes mine. I feel the skin of his thumb rub against my middle finger.

The next thing you know, Zayn drops the tube. It shatters on the floor. Yellow solution spills out everywhere.

Zayn takes a step back, breathing hard.

"It's no big deal," I tell him.

But he doesn't respond. He just stands there, staring at me. His light/dark brown eyes are wide and insistent.

"Real slick," Sweat-man says. "Clean it up, now."

Zayn doesn't move. So I grab a mop from the corner of the room and start to clean up the mess.

And that's when he touches me.

His hand glides down my forearm and encircles my wrist, hard, making my heart beat fast and my pulse start to race.

I open my mouth to say something, to ask what he's doing, to tell him to let go, but nothing comes out.

"Shhh," Zayn says. He takes a step closer, his eyes fixed on mine. I can feel the heat of his breath on my neck.

"Hey, check it out," I hear someone whisper.

Still, I don't look away. Because I honestly don't want to.

A smattering of giggles erupts in the classroom, catching the attention of Sweat-man at the front of the room. He makes a beeline for our table and butts his sweaty self between us as Zayn releases his grip on my forearm.

"Did he hurt you?" Sweat-man asks.

I shake my head, feeling a slight sting on my wrist from Zayn's grip.

After a few awkward moments, Sweat-man orders me to finish cleaning up, and then he orders Zayn to the office.

"No," I balk. "It's fine. I'm fine. He was only trying to help me." I look down at the mess on the floor.

But Zayn doesn't question the order. He just collects his books, takes one last look at me, and then scurries out of the room.

●●●

ZAYN TOUCH ME

~ Malum