WITH IRVIN BY my side, I found my stride once more. Sure, Belle and Claire protested against our reunion, but hey, whatever, right?

At first, Belle refused to talk to me because of it. But what could she do?

To my surprise, it was Claire who didn't put up such a fight. I guess it had something to do with her date, which she claimed was a success, even though it was Luke Morales who had asked her out.

Luke is from a different class. He's this friendly, soft-spoken kid who never really lost his middle-school chubby cheeks and rounded belly. Other than that, I don't know much about him, but if Claire's happy, then I guess there's not much to say.

But still. I would've preferred if she dated someone who could actually hang out with us without getting picked on by Irvin.

Speaking of Irvin, I didn't really realize how much difference he could cause in my current state. I'm considerably happier than ever. In fact, having him back made me forget about Joseph until the next day came.

But of course, as soon as I saw Joseph during first period, I was instantly reminded of the fiasco at the restaurant. The images just came swirling around in my head like the contents of a clogged toilet. And judging by his pinched up face, he seemed to remember it pretty clearly too.

Actually, I've been planning to drop a casual apology, but right now I couldn't execute it. My pride was tying my vocal cords into knots, so I decided to forget about it. I figure out that if I want Joseph to stay mum about what happened in Mirage, I have to act like I'm his friend. Someone who's worth protecting.

And I have the rest of the afternoon to show him just that.

Our class after lunch is Advance Chemistry, which is perfect since we're having pair work today. Based on the materials prepared on our stations, we'll be doing salt analysis. I should be scared, considering I don't get anything from the process and I'm supposed to work with Joseph the Chemistry wiz, but I find myself looking forward to doing the experiment with him.

And no, it's not because he always steers the ship and merits us full marks as he does. That's just a part of it.

This is only the third time we're working as lab partners. During the past activities, we basically communicated with a series of nods and gestures and the occasional one-word responses. I think that if we both knew Morse code, we'd use it, if it means not talking to each other. In other words, we know that both of us have no fucks to spare.

But today that's going to change.

Joseph is already at our station when I get in, copying the instructions on his trusty big-ass notebook. He looks up at me as I take my seat, so I give him my brightest smile, a cutesy gesture that I put on lipstick for.

Surprisingly, he returns it. Shyly and without teeth, yeah, but unmistakably a smile.

I decide to push my luck and say in a playful tone, "The activity looks complicated. Sorry you might have to carry my weight again."

"Uh, no worries," he replies awkwardly.

Hmm. Not what I hoped for, but I'll take it.

Miss McLaughlin is writing instructions on the board, discussing the procedure we're going to follow today. I watch as he writes importany details, noting the way his handwriting slopes to the left and stealing glances at his face a few times.

When he catches me looking, I treat him with another grin, one that says, I'm a good person, please don't tell anyone about what happened at Mirage. Strangely, however, he responds to this with a rather baffled frown.

Wait. That's not the right response. Usually dudes wink at me or smile or beg for my number when I stare at them one second too long. I have to soften Joseph further.

"I know you hear this from me all the time, but class, be careful with the chemicals and the equipment," Miss McLaughlin warns as a wrap up for her discussion. "I've prepared an activity sheet for you to answer some questions and to write your observations. One paper for one pair."

Since I'll be pretty useless in the analysis myself, I make a move to get the activity sheet. It's the least I can do. But then Joseph stops me and says, "I'll get it."

And he does. He even gives me a slightly better attempt at a smile as he makes his way back to our table. "Is it okay if you write? Your handwriting's better than mine."

Okay, if think that's not progress, I don't know what is.

"Sure." I take the paper from him and whip my pen out with a flourish. "I don't know what to write, though."

"It's okay." He begins to set up the equipment for our analysis. "I'll tell you what to write."

"You're so smart," I say to butter him up further, but I only manage to get an uncomfortable glance from him. I hastily change the subject. "So, what to do?"

"See this substance?" He gestures at the little dish in front of him. "We're going to determine what salt it is."

"Okay. How are we going to do that?"

"Well, we're going to perform some tests, determine what radicals are absent or present."

I nod vigorously. "Oh, yes. Of course. Radicals are rather significant. To salts, that is."

"Salts?" He looks baffled. "Um, maybe—"

"Not salts as in cocaine," I quickly amend. "But this salt kind of salt with the radicals and all. . . ."

Okay, Savannah. Shut your damn mouth. You don't even know what a radical is.

I clear my throat. "So, uh, let's begin."

Joseph gives me one last uneasy look before starting to tinker with the materials and substances on our table. As eager as I am to understand the process, I'm much too preoccupied by how my plan is falling apart. Let's be honest here. With how I'm acting, he's not going to think of me as a friend he should protect. He'll see me as a hopeless bimbo who dragged cocaine into a school experiment.

Should I try to help out to show him I'm not that dumb? Or should I—?

Joseph suddenly stops and turns to me. "What's for question one?"

I peer at our paper quickly. "'What is a radical?"

"Okay." He pauses to think for a moment. "Write this down: A radical may be defined as an atom or group of atoms which carry charge and behaves like a single unit in chemical reactions."

Nodding, I scribble his words on our paper, making sure that my handwriting is neat enough to make uo for the fact that he's doing all the work. "Done."

"Great." He takes a quick look at our paper before putting something on one of our samples of the white substance. I'm about to ask what he's trying to achieve when he sharply turns to me. "Um, Savannah, if you don't mind, can I ask you something?"

"Sure," I reply eagerly. Too eagerly. I sound like I'm ready to scrub his toilet if he asked me to do it. "What is it?"

"Why did you run away at Mirage?"

The little atoms in my body decided to freeze as one. Just like radicals.

The million-dollar question? Already? Jesus Christ. I thought he'd ask me something along the lines of what shade of lipstick I'm wearing or why my handwriting is so pretty. I didn't expect to be attacked like that.

I'm racking my brains for something that will make us veer away from the subject at hand, but then he leans closer and I just lose my concentration. And it doesn't help that I'm suddenly struck by how pretty the color of his eyes are.

Okay, I know it's my knack of noticing unimportant details at an unfortunate timing, but goddamn. Those eyes. His irises are a light shade of brown, and the lights from the ceiling are making them look almost yellow. There's also the fact that his eyelashes are thick and long and perfectly curled. I almost want to pluck them out and stick them on my own eye.

Why do guys get lashes like that? They don't need it. Women, on the other hand, would kill for anything that will save them from buying tubes of mascara every few months.

Joseph blinks and retracts himself away from me, probably because I'm gaping at him like an idiot. However, this doesn't distract him in any way. "Why did you leave so abruptly?"

The conversation is taking a direction I don't want to venture, and I'm nervous. I swallow hard, playing for time. He's still staring at me expectantly. Horror seizes my heart, and I just hear myself saying, "I didn't realize you'd be there."

"Oh." Genuine surprise registers in his face. "I didn't mean to unnerve you."

Oh, no. Wrong answer. I should've said I got period cramps or something.

"It's not that," I say hurriedly. "I just realized that it would be quite awkward to work for you. I mean, I'm only working so my parents could see that I can handle responsibilities and be. . . er, responsible."

"Oh," he says again. "Right. And where are they?

"Who?"

"Your parents. Where are they?"

Hmm. That's kind of odd, isn't it? I mean, I don't remember mentioning that my parents are away. Maybe I implied it?

Either way, I'm going to have to make stuff up.

"They're in. . . Mauritius. As of the moment," I blurt out, an almost deranged-sounding giggle escaping me. "It's their anniversary yesterday. They've been there for two days now. I think they're going to stay longer. Enjoy the sun."

"That's awesome." Joseph remarks as he adds another component to our second sample. "I hope they're safe, though."

I blink. "What do you mean?"

"There's a storm there right now." His words take a serious tone. "Over twenty people have died. The place hasn't been allowing flights for nearly two weeks. Your parents must've booked a very early flight going there."

Okay, I totally screwed up. Why didn't I just say that my parents are at home watching Netflix and chilling? Why did I mention their anniversary, which by the way, they stopped celebrating since I was fifteen?

Also, screw you, stupid storm in Mauritius.

Joseph stops whatever he's doing, focusing on my face. I feel like I'm trying to have a stare-down with a particularly pushy feline, especially when he asks, "So, are they okay?"

Smile and nod, I instruct myself sternly. Just smile and nod. Say nothing, show nothing.

I do the exact thing, and he just requests, "Can you hand me that rack?"

Relief washes over me, but my hands start shaking really badly. Turns out I was clenching them the whole time, so I unfurl my fists to get the blue rack in front of me. But hell, it's a magnitude nine earthquake in there. I have to lift the rack very slowly to avoid swishing it around. It's very light, which doesn't make the shaking worse, but it's not reducing it either.

I push it further to Joseph's side of the table, hoping he'll support the rack, but he doesn't seem to notice. Determined not to look shaken, I try to set it on the table. But before the bottom of the rack reaches the flat, stable surface, my grip goes slack.

The next events seem to happen in slow motion. The rack starts to get pulled by gravity. The tube inside tilts sideways and springs loose, spilling its contents on the table.

The most torturous part is watching the chemical drip onto Joseph himself.