Day three of sophomore year is turning into a blessing from the anti-social gods. I slide into my assigned seat in Chemistry Lab, feeling something dangerously close to contentment when Professor Tivski announces that we have an odd number of students.
“Mr. Hayes,” he says, gesturing toward my empty lab station, “looks like you’ll be working independently this semester.”
I nod, trying not to look too thrilled as relief washes over me. No awkward small talk. No carrying someone else’s academic deadweight. No one depending on me to be competent or social or whatever the hell normal people are. Just me, my beakers, and blessed silence.
“Perfect,” I mumble, already arranging my station exactly how I want it.
This class is my sanctuary. No Caroline to make my heart do that painful squeeze thing. No Ashley to remind me of all the ways I’m just a stepping stone to Dante. Just me, science, and the comforting predictability of chemical reactions.
I line up three test tubes with methodical precision, already mapping out how I’ll organize myself for the semester. This is freedom. This is…
The door swings open with a dramatic whoosh that immediately draws everyone’s attention.
Standing in the doorway is the purple-haired girl from yesterday, the one driving the BMW with Caroline and Dante in the back. Portia. She’s even more striking up close, her asymmetrical violet hair framing a face that seems designed to make people stare. She’s wearing what looks like a designer outfit that probably costs more than my entire wardrobe.
My stomach drops as she walks over to Professor Tivski, her movements so confident it’s like she’s performing for an audience. They exchange a few words I can’t hear, and then, with growing horror, I watch Tivski’s eyes slide in my direction.
No. No, no, no.
“Good news, Mr. Hayes!” Tivski calls out. “It seems we have even number of students after all. Miss Royce has transferred in just in time.”
The universe is clearly punishing me for something. Maybe for all the things Ashley and I have been doing. Or maybe just because the universe hates me personally.
Portia approaches my station with the easy confidence of someone who’s never worried about taking up space. Her amber eyes scan me from head to toe, and I immediately feel like I’m being assessed, categorized, and probably found wanting.
“Hayes?” she asks, her voice smooth and cultured, like she grew up somewhere people drink tea with their pinkies out.
I can’t bring myself to look directly at her. “Vincent.”
“I’m Portia,” she says with a smile that reminds me of a cat who’s spotted something interesting to play with.
I nod, keeping my eyes fixed on the lab equipment I’ve been meticulously arranging. Maybe if I look busy enough, she’ll lose interest in me.
No such luck. She stands there, just... staring. The silence stretches between us like a physical thing, making my skin crawl. I can feel her eyes on me, studying me like I’m some fascinating specimen under a microscope.
Suddenly, her perfectly manicured fingers are under my chin, tilting my face upward. The unexpected contact makes me flinch, but her grip is surprisingly firm.
“Oh my...” she breathes, her amber eyes widening as they lock with mine. A smile spreads across her face, transforming her features into something almost predatory. “You have the most profoundly sad eyes I’ve ever seen in my life.”
I swallow hard, my throat suddenly dry. “Okay...”
I back away from her touch, putting much-needed space between us. My heart hammers against my ribs like it’s trying to escape. Who just says something like that to someone they’ve just met?
“No, sorry...” She shakes her head, that unsettling smile softening slightly. “You just remind me of a friend I have.”
I say nothing, focusing intently on reorganizing my already perfectly organized test tubes. My hands are trembling slightly, and I hope she doesn’t notice.
“So,” she continues, apparently unbothered by my silence, “what experiment are we running today?”
I clear my throat, trying to sound normal and probably failing spectacularly. “Today is just about familiarizing ourselves with the syllabus, the tools and the safety stuff.”
“That’s so boring,” Portia says, waving her hand dismissively. “I thought we’d be blowing something up at least.”
I don’t respond, just keep arranging the test tubes with mechanical precision. Maybe if I stay quiet enough, she’ll lose interest and ask to switch partners.
Portia leans against the counter, invading my carefully measured personal space bubble. “Is this your thing?” she asks, tilting her head so her purple hair falls dramatically across one eye. “The whole dark and brooding routine? The silent treatment?”
My shoulders tense.
“No.”
She straightens up and picks up a pair of safety goggles, twirling them around her finger.
“Good,” she says with a decisive nod. “Because I can’t stand the broody types. They’re always hiding some deeply mediocre personality behind all that mystery.” She slides the goggles onto her face, somehow making even the bulky plastic look fashionable. “Hopefully we’ll get along well for lab then.”