Read Perfect Chemistry 1 for Free Online Page B

underwear on her and slide her legs into a
    fresh pair of sweats, Baghda watches from the sidelines. I try
    explaining while doing the task, but one glance at Baghda and I can tell
    she's not listening.
    "Your mother said I can leave when you got home," Baghda says.
    "That's fine," I say as I wash my hands, and before I know it
    Baghda has Houdini'd on me.
    I wheel Shelley into the kitchen. Our usually pristine kitchen is a
    disaster. Baghda hasn't cleaned up the dishes, which are now piled in
    the sink, and she didn't do such a hot job of wiping the floor after
    Shelley's earlier mess.
    I prepare Shelley's dinner and wipe up the mess.
    Shelley drawls out the word ‘school,’ which really sounds like ‘cool,’
    but I know what she means.
    "Yeah, it was my first day back," I tell her as I blend her food and
    set it on the table. I spoon soupy food into her mouth while I keep
    talking. "And my new chemistry teacher, Mrs. Peterson, should be a
    boot camp instructor. I scanned the syllabus. The woman can't go a
    week without scheduling a test or a quiz. This year isn't going to be
    easy."
    My sister looks at me, decoding what I've told her. Her intense
    expression says she's giving me support and understanding without
    having to say the words. Because every word that comes out of her
    mouth is a struggle. Sometimes I want to say the words for her
    because I feel her frustration as if it's my own.
    "You didn't like Baghda?" I ask quietly.
    My sister shakes her head. And she doesn't want to talk about it; I
    can tell by the way she tenses her mouth.
    "Be patient with her," I tell her. "It's not easy coming into a new
    house and not knowing what to do."
    When Shelley finishes eating, I bring her magazines so she can
    scan them. My sister loves magazines. While she's busy flipping pages,
    I stick some cheese between two slices of bread for my own dinner
    then sit at the table to start my homework while I eat.
    I hear the garage door open just as I pull out the notebook paper
    Mrs. Peterson gave me to write my ‘respect’ paper.
    "Brit, where are you?" my mom yells from the foyer.
    "In the kitchen," I call out.
    My mom saunters into the kitchen with a Neiman Marcus bag on her
    arm. "Here, this is for you."
    I reach in the bag and pull out a light blue Geren Ford designer top.
    "Thanks," I say, not making a big deal about it in front of Shelley, who
    didn't get anything from my mom. Not that my sister cares. She's too
    focused on the best- and worst-dressed pictures of celebrities and all
    their shiny jewelry.
    "It'll go with those dark denims I bought you last week," she says
    as she pulls out frozen steaks from the freezer and starts defrosting
    them in the microwave. "So . . . how was everything with Baghda when
    you got home?"
    "Not the best," I tell her. "You really need to train her." I'm not
    surprised she doesn't respond.
    My dad walks through the door a minute later, grumbling about
    work. He owns a computer chip manufacturing company and has prepped
    us that this is a lean year, but my mom still goes out and buys stuff and
    my dad still bought me a BMW for my birthday.
    "What's for dinner?" my dad asks as he loosens his tie. He looks
    tired and worn, as usual.
    My mom glances at the microwave. "Steak."
    "I'm not in the mood for heavy food," he says. "Just something
    light."
    My mom turns off the microwave in a huff. "Eggs? Spaghetti?" she
    says, listing suggestions to deaf ears.
    My dad walks out of the kitchen. Even when he's physically here,
    his mind is still on the job. "Whatever. Just something light," he calls
    out.
    It's times like these I feel sorry for my mom. She doesn't get
    much attention from my dad. He's either working or on a business trip
    or just plain doesn't want to deal with us. "I'll make a salad," I tell her
    as I pull lettuce out of the fridge.
    She seems thankful, if her small smile is any indication, for the
    help. We work side-by-side in silence. I set the table while my mom
    brings the salad,