scientific. Stuff is not a useful descriptor. Stuff is trash.
But that must be it. That must be the whole reason I
can’t focus. Why I feel jumpy and nervous. Why I keep
drifting back to thinking about Adley.
I stare blankly at the pile of tests to my left. At this
rate, I’ll be here until midnight. A frustrated sigh escapes me
at my own ineptitude. I stand up so quickly that I just about
bang my knee on the bottom of the desk. I take more care
gathering up the tests and putting them into my backpack. It’s
a cool one. It has little beakers, test tubes, and microscopes all
over it. It was a gift from a student who graduated last year
and I am absolutely proud to wear it.
My plan is to finish grading the tests at home and to
call Adley to get an update. If I call her, I’ll feel better. At least
that’s what I tell myself. Control the variables. That’s what I’ll
be doing. Isolate the real reason I feel so off so I can deal with
it.
I’m just walking out of the lab when my phone buzzes.
I pull it out, and when I notice Adley’s name on the screen, my
chest tightens and my stomach gets strangely shivery and cold.
It’s not until I hear her say hello that the butterflies start. I’m
nervous. That’s all it is. It’s just nerves about what she’s going
to tell me.
“Hey,” I say in response to Adley’s enthusiastic hello.
“Do you have a minute?”
“Sure.”
I lean my hip against the lab door, then close it tight
and check that it’s locked. It’s one of the only rooms that gets
locked at the end of the day because we don’t want anyone
sneaking in and playing with chemicals, burners, or any