Perfect Chemistry

I’ve been waiting at the library for an hour. Okay, so it’s been an hour and a half. Before ten, I sat outside on the cement benches. At ten I came inside and stood looking at the display case, pretending to be interested in upcoming library events. I didn’t want to look overly eager to see Brittany. At ten forty-five I sat on the couches in the teen section, reading my chem book. Okay, so my eyes skimmed the pages even if no words registered.

Now it’s eleven. Where is she?

I could just go hang with my friends. Hell, I should go hang with my friends. But I have a stupid urge to know why Brittany blew me off. I tell myself it’s an ego thing, but in the back of my mind I’m worried about her.

She’d hinted, during her freakout in front of the nurse’s office, that her mom isn’t a candidate for a Mother of the Year award. Doesn’t Brittany realize that she’s eighteen now and can leave home if she wanted? If it’s that bad, why stay?

Because her parents are rich.

If I left home, my new life wouldn’t be so different from my old one. With a girl who lives on the north side, a life lacking designer towels and a maid to pick up after you is probably worse than death.

I’ve had enough of standing here waiting for Brittany. I’m going to her house, to confront her on why she ditched me. Without thinking it through, I get on my motorcycle and head to the north side. I know where she lives . . . in the big honkin’ white house with pillars flanking the front.

I park my bike in her driveway and ring her doorbell. I clear my throat so I don’t choke on my words. Mierda, what am I gonna say to her? And why am I feeling all insecure, like I need to impress her because she’ll judge me?

Nobody answers. I ring again.

Where’s a servant or butler to answer the door when you need one? Just as I’m about to give up and slap myself with a big dose of what-the-fuck-do-I-think-I’m-doing, the door opens. Standing before me is an older version of Brittany. Obviously her mom. When she takes one look at me, her disappointing sneer is obvious.

“Can I help you?” she asks with an attitude. I sense either she expects me to be part of the gardening crew or someone going door-to-door harassing people. “We have a ‘no soliciting policy’ in this neighborhood.”

“I’m, uh, not here to solicit anythin’. My name’s Alex. I just wanted to know if Brittany was, uh, at home?” Oh, great. Now I’m mumbling uh’s every two seconds.

“No.” Her steely answer matches her steely glare.

“Do you know where she went?”

Mrs. Ellis closes the door halfway, probably hoping I won’t peek inside and see her valuables and be tempted to steal them. “I don’t give out information on the whereabouts of my daughter. Now if you’ll excuse me,” she says, then closes the door in my face.

I’m left standing in front of the door like a complete pendejo. For all I know, Brittany was behind the door instructing her mom to get rid of me. I wouldn’t put it past her to play games with me.

I hate games I can’t win.

I walk back to my bike with my tail between my legs, wondering if I should feel like a kicked dog or an angry pit bull.