The bell rings. Janie finishes up her English homework, gathers up her backpack and coat, and heads over to Mr. Durbin’s room. She already knows why her beaker exploded, and she doesn’t feel like telling him what happened.
She opens the door. Mr. Durbin’s feet are propped up on the desk. His tie hangs loose around his neck, and the top button of his shirt is undone. His hair is standing up a bit, like he’s run his fingers through it. He’s grading papers on a clipboard in his lap. He looks up. “Hi, Janie. I’ll be just a second here.” He scribbles something.
She stands waiting, shifting her weight from one foot to the other. She has cramps. And a headache.
Mr. Durbin scribbles a few more notes, then sets his pen down and looks at Janie. “So. Rough day?”
She grins, despite herself. “How can you tell?”
“Just a hunch,” he says. He looks like he’s trying to decide what to say next, and finally he says, “Why the cake and frosting?”
“I’m sorry?”
“Why did you put back the cake and frosting, out of all the other things you had in your cart?”
“I didn’t have enough cash on me.”
“I understand that. Hate when that happens. But why didn’t you put back the grapes or carrots or something?”
Janie narrows her eyes. “Why?”
“Is it your birthday? Don’t lie, because I checked your records.”
Janie shrugs and looks away. “Who needs a cake, anyway,” she says.
Her voice is thin, and she fights off the tears.
He regards her thoughtfully. She can’t read his expression. And then he changes the subject. “So. Tell me about your little explosion.”
She cringes.
Sighs.
Points at the chalkboard.
“I’m having some trouble reading the board,” she says.
Mr. Durbin taps his chin. “Well, that’ll do it.” He smiles and slides his chair back. “Have you been to the eye doctor yet?”
She hesitates. “Not yet.” She looks down.
“When’s your appointment?” he asks pointedly. He stands up, gathers a beaker and the components for the formula, and sets them at her lab table. Waves her over.
“I don’t have one yet.”
“Do you need some financial help, Janie?” His voice is kind.
“No…,” she says. “I have some money.” She blushes. She’s not a charity case.
Mr. Durbin looks down at the formula. “Sorry, Janie. I’m just trying to help. You’re a terrific student. I want you to be able to see.”
She is silent.
“Shall we try this experiment again?” He pushes the beaker toward her.
Janie puts on her safety glasses, and lights the burner.
Squints at the instructions and measures carefully.
“That’s one quarter, not one half,” he says, pointing.
“Thanks,” she mutters, concentrating.
She’s not going to fuck this up again.
Mixes it up. Stirs evenly for two minutes.
Lets it come to a boil.
Times it perfectly.
Cuts the heat.
Waits.
It turns a glorious purple.
Smells like cough syrup.
It’s perfect.
Mr. Durbin pats her on the shoulder. “Nicely done, Janie.”
She grins. Takes off her safety glasses.
And his hand is still on her shoulder.
Caressing it now.
Janie’s stomach churns. Oh god, she thinks. She wants to get away.
He’s smiling proudly at her. His hand slides down her back just a little, so lightly she can hardly feel it, and then to the small of her back. She’s uncomfortable.
“Happy birthday, Janie,” he says in a low voice, too close to her ear.
Janie fights back a shudder. Tries to breathe normally. Handle it, Hannagan, she tells herself.