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comparison to the other tubes? Does it get cold or heat up? Is there any change in smell? Do you hear anything?”
    I look up at Ben, realizing we’ve completely omitted the whole touchy-feely aspect of the experiment.
    “Do you want to hold it?” I ask, extending the tube out to him.
    Ben looks at it but shakes his head, continuing to read me the directions from his lab book.
    “Wait,” I say. “We need to record this stuff—our reactions, what we observe.”
    “Can’t you just record it for the both of us?”
    I try not to let his slacking bother me, especially since, as far as things look in everybody else’s tubes, it appears as though we’re doing everything right. I jot down my observations and then, following the instructions as Ben reads them aloud, I add in a couple more ingredients, finally topping the solution off with nitric acid and bromothymol blue.
    The solution in the tube starts to fizzle and heat up, and the color changes from pink to yellow.
    “You really should feel this,” I say, holding the tube out to him again.
    But Ben has his own idea of fizzle: “I’m all set,” he says.
    “Not exactly a team player, are you, Mr. Carter?” The Sweat-man is standing right behind him now.
    Ben glances at the tube again, and for five full seconds I think he’s going to take it, but instead he says: “I’ve already felt it.”
    “Oh, really?” Sweat-man scratches his head, and I step back to avoid the flurry of flakes. “So, how would you describe the temperature of the tube?” he asks.
    Ben shrugs. “Kind of cold.”
    The Sweat-man makes his infamous game-show-buzzer sound, denoting the wrong answer. “You really should have phoned a friend.”
    “Why don’t you feel it again?” I say, in an effort to play nice. I hand him the tube, just as the Sweat-man walks away. But Ben’s still being all weird. His fingers linger in the air, just inches from mine. “Take it,” I say, all but placing the tube into his hand.
    He finally does. And his hand accidentally grazes mine. I feel the skin of his thumb rub against my middle finger.
    The next thing I know, Ben drops the tube. It shatters on the floor. Yellow solution spills out everywhere.
    Ben takes a step back, breathing hard.
    “It’s no big deal,” I tell him.
    But he doesn’t respond. He just stands there, staring at me. His dark gray eyes are wide and insistent.
    “Real slick,” Sweat-man says. “Clean it up— now .”
    Ben doesn’t move. So I grab a mop from the corner of the room and start to clean up the mess.
    And that’s when he touches me.
    His hand glides down my forearm and encircles my wrist, hard, making my heart beat fast and my pulse start to race. I open my mouth to say something—to ask what he’s doing, to tell him to let go—but nothing comes out.
    “Shhh,” Ben says. He takes a step closer, his eyes fixed on mine. I can feel the heat of his breath on my neck.
    “Hey, check it out,” I hear someone whisper.
    Still, I don’t look away. Because I honestly don’t want to.
    A smattering of giggles erupts in the classroom, catching the attention of Sweat-man at the front of the room. He makes a beeline for our table and butts his sweaty self between us as Ben releases his grip on my forearm.
    “Did he hurt you?” Sweat-man asks.
    I shake my head, feeling a slight sting in my wrist from Ben’s grip. After a few awkward moments, Sweat-man orders me to finish cleaning up, and then he orders Ben to the office.
    “No,” I balk. “It’s fine. I’m fine. He was only trying to help me.” I look down at the mess on the floor.
    But Ben doesn’t question the order. He just collects his books, takes one last look at me, and then scurries out of the room.

14

    Even though I’m not scheduled to work at Knead today, I end up going there right after school.
    I just have to get away.
    Spencer, my boss, can sense my moodiness as soon as the doorbells announce my arrival.
    “Here,” he says, handing me a mound of