"What makes you say that?"
"Because you smell like it."
How nice.
He didn't say what "it" was, but I knew exactly what he meant. I smelled like a freaking bar fly. Silently, I added up the aromas – cheap perfume, even cheaper booze, and lots of smoke.
I'd be naïve to think it was only cigarettes.
Last night, within hours of her arrival, my mom had found her way to the nearest dive bar, where she'd apparently had a lovely time, until she'd been kicked out for fighting in the ladies room.Again.
I glanced down at my jacket and felt my own nose wrinkle in disgust. Last night, it had rained, and the jacket was still damp.
But at least she hadn't gotten any blood on it, so hey, it was an improvement over thelasttime, right?
When I made no reply, Brody said, "If you need a light, let me know."
I wasn't following. "What?"
He reached into the front pocket of his jeans and pulled out a green disposable lighter. He flicked it to life and held it out near my face.
I gave the flame an annoyed look. "In case you didn't notice, I don't actuallyhavea cigarette." Under my breath, I added, "Or anything else, for that matter."
"So?"
"So I don't need a light."
"Eh, your loss," he said, flicking off the lighter and lowering it to his side.
With growing irritation, I said, "Youdoknow, I had to get special permission to use the lab today."
This wasn't even a good thing.
All of our classmates had completed the experiment on Thursday. But not us.And why?It was because my so-called partner had decided to skip class, and Mr. Chesterfield had refused to let me do the experiment on my own.
"So?" Brody said again.
I sighed. "So let's just get it done already." I glanced toward the locked door of the lab. "And we need to be quick. I'm making cookies with my grandma at two-thirty."
My grandma loved to bake, even in spite of her arthritis. And although I wasn't in the mood for cookies, I'd promised to bake them with her anyway – something to cheer her up after my mom had blown out of town just as quickly as she'd arrived.
Ididn't need any cheering. The truth was, I'd been shamefully glad to see her go. But my grandparents – well, they were softies when it came to my mom, probably because she was their only surviving child – and the youngest, too.
In the school hallway, Brody's lips formed a sneer. "Sorry, I didn't know 'cookies' were on the line." He said "cookies" like it was a four-letter word.
I tried for a scoff. "Oh? So you've got something against cookies?"
"Me? Nah." He gave me a rude look. "Just people who make them."
My gaze narrowed. "I hope you're talking about me, because if you mean my grandma—"
Once again, the lighter appeared in my face. Without flicking it on, he asked, "You sure you don't need a light?"
I glared at the lighter and then at him. "Trust me. I'm sure."
With cold defiance, he flicked it on, anyway. The flame wasn'tterribly close, not even within cigarette-lighting distance, but itwasannoying. No doubt, it was meant to be.
He was trying to goad me. That much was obvious.
