In biology class we’re dissecting a frog. Or at least Melody, my lab partner, is. I’m not so good with a scalpel, so I’m just observing. With my hand resting steady on the page, I can draw the frog’s innards and label the parts. I try not to breathe in the smell of formaldehyde.
Luke is over at the next table with his partner, Jason Tran. He’s obviously the designated drawer. Jason is bent over the frog in fierce concentration, while Luke keeps looking over at me. Which is odd. I’ve never really been on his radar before, at least not as far as I can tell. Once, when I catch him looking at me, he smiles and gives a little wave.
I look behind me, but there’s nothing but a wall-length poster of a flayed human body, veins and arteries running throughout like rivers and creeks.
I nod back, but I don’t smile.
When he’s busy drawing, I check him out. He looks different today somehow. Although he’s wearing the same nondescript khakis as usual, along with a T-shirt emblazoned with the name of some obscure punk rock band. It must be the hair. Yeah, definitely the hair. Until now, he’s worn it all shaggy, but now it’s actually cut so that his ears and a strip of his neck show. It looks like he’s even fluffed it up with gel. I have a hard time picturing Luke primping in front of a mirror. I can’t help but wonder what the deal is.
Finally, at the end of class, when we’re packing the frog back into formaldehyde, Luke sidles over.
“Hey, Aiko,” he says.
I’m almost surprised he knows my name.
“So,” he says, cracking his knuckles. “Do you know if, uh, Whitney is going out with anyone?”
I take a long look at him. He’s no Sal Mineo, that’s for sure. The hair is an improvement, I’ll admit, but a zit is about to explode on his forehead. Plus, he’s totally lacking in mystery. He doesn’t brood or curl his lip. He doesn’t wear tight black T-shirts that show off well-defined muscles. He’s not handsome or dead or gay—definitely not Whitney’s type.
“Actually,” I say, drawing out the words, “she’s got a thing for someone else. He doesn’t go to this school.”
He fakes a goofy grin. A blush rises to his cheeks. “That’s cool. I figured, y’know, that she was probably going out with someone already.”
He turns away, and I almost feel sorry for him. But then I imagine Whitney and Luke huddled together at lunch at the geek table every day while I sit across the cafeteria, forgotten among the invisibles. Or Whitney and Luke sharing a tub of popcorn in a dark movie theater while I’m home alone, staring at the ceiling.
It’s for the best, I tell myself. It would never work out. But another part of me knows that I’m lying. The thing is, I don’t want anyone to take Whitney away from me.
I watch Luke scoop up his biology book and shuffle out of the room, head down, shoulders slouched. And then I put him out of my head. I grab my own books and make my way to my next class.