Call It Chemistry

Chapter 1

The fluorescent light above my desk sizzles, threatening a slow, spectacular death, and I think: there is nothing more bleakly appropriate than being stranded mid-homework by a dying bulb.

Maybe it’s the universe’s way of warning me.

Or maybe it’s just another Monday in Halide Hall—where the air tastes like old pizza and desperation and the hallways reek faintly of weed no matter how often they repaint.

Eyes tired and burning, I adjust the blue light filter of my digital chemistry textbook on my iPad. Pressing the bridge of my nose hard enough to ghost a thumbprint on the inside of my wire-rimmed glasses, I squint at the endless row of resonance structures I’m supposed to draw.

The chemical world is a set of perfect rules, all charge and consequence. The social world is not, which is why I try not to take part in it. Which is why, for the past two hours, I’ve been parked at my battered desk, surrounded by an ever-expanding field of empty coffee cups.

I sit back and let my mind go slack for a second, trying to imagine anyone from my old high school—my parents, even—believing that me, Spencer Montgomery, would ever become a functioning organism at a party school like Wilcox University. It’s the most far-fetched hypothesis I’ve ever considered.

Yet here I am.

A staccato knock rattles my door. I flinch so hard my mechanical pencil skitters off the page, gouging a mark across an otherwise perfect sigma bond.

There’s only one person who knocks with that much enthusiasm at this hour. I sigh, bracing for impact. “It’s unlocked.”

The door swings open, smacking into the cinderblock wall, and Hunter Caldwell pours himself into my room like he’s headlining a stadium.

His hair, a mess of gold waves, frames his sharp jaw and carnivorous smile.

He wears a black tank and jeans that are more tear than denim, and his energy—always abundant—now seems turbocharged, dangerous.

“Montgomery!” Hunter crows. “Tell me you’re not still doing orgo.”

I tap the iPad screen to page forward my Organic Chemistry text. “I’m not still doing orgo.”

He flops backwards onto my unmade bed. Hands pillowing behind his head, he pushes his shoes off with his toes, but not before leaving two dirty prints on my navy comforter. “You’re such a liar. I can smell the hydrocarbons from here.”

“Funny,” I mutter, retrieving my pencil. “Because all I smell is Axe body spray and Mountain Dew.”

He laughs, unbothered, and rolls onto his side to prop himself up on one elbow. “Let’s cut to the chase, Spence. Did you check your email?”

I stiffen. “Why would I—”

“Because,” Hunter says, and he's using his Camp Counselor voice now, the one that means I'm about to be in deep shit, “Professor McHugh posted the quiz scores.”

My pencil freezes mid-calculation. Last Thursday after class, Hunter had goaded me into that stupid wager.

“You said there was no way McHugh would give us a pop quiz this week,” I say, glowering at him. “You practically guaranteed it. ‘Vector Calc is safe,’ you said. ‘He loves us too much to sandbag his golden children.’”

“Yeah, well, that’s why it’s called gambling,” Hunter drawls, stretching luxuriously, “who would have thought old McHugh was a sadist after all.” He pulls out his phone, showing me the scores. “Ninety-three to eighty-six, amigo. I win.”

The horror dawns slow, a chemical reaction with no catalyst. My stomach lurches, and I feel like I've inhaled hydrogen sulfide—that rotten egg stench that makes lab partners evacuate the room.

“Shit,” I breathe.

Hunter’s smile widens, exposing teeth. “Oh, yes.” He sits up, swinging his legs off the bed, and in the cramped space between us, the air thickens. “I hope you’ve been practicing your shimmy, because you, my friend, are going to the Pi Omega party as Jessica Rabbit.”

There are moments in life when you understand, viscerally, that you are not in control of your own narrative. This is one of those moments.

“No way.” My voice comes out as a high, unconvincing squeak. “That wasn’t the deal.”

Hunter clucks his tongue. “A bet’s a bet, Montgomery. I even got you the dress. And the gloves. You’re gonna be a legend.”

He pulls his phone from his pocket and swipes to a photo. The screen glows hellish red: a dress so sequined it looks like a disco ball threw up on it.

“Do you know what happens to sodium in water, Hunter? It explodes. That’s going to be my brain at this party.”

“Exactly!” Hunter crows, either missing or deliberately ignoring my panic. “You show up in this, and no one will ever forget it. Instant meme status.”

My fingers tighten around the edge of the desk, whitening at the knuckles. “Can’t I just—I don’t know—wear a bedsheet toga? Or the banana suit from last year?”

“Montgomery,” he says, grave and condescending, “what’s the point of a wager if there’s no risk? This is college. You gotta put yourself out there. Embrace the cringe.”

He stands, pacing the two steps it takes to reach the far wall, and peers into my mini-fridge. “Got any beers?”

“Fridge is dead. Just like what little social life I have is gonna be after you ruin it.”

He straightens, holding aloft a forlorn can of La Croix. “Can I shotgun a sparkling water in your honor?”

I ignore him, returning to my textbook, but my focus is gone. All I can see are the mocking red pixels of that dress. All I can hear is the blood pounding behind my ears.

He plops back onto my bed and props one foot up on my chair. “Look,” he says, and his voice dips low, almost gentle, which is how I know I’m about to be manipulated. “You’re always the smart guy. The invisible man. For once, why not do something memorable?”

I open my mouth to deliver a scathing retort, but the words tangle in my throat.

I want to tell him that being invisible is a feature, not a bug.

That in every group project, every family photo, every high school party, I perfected the art of disappearing.

I want to tell him that Jessica Rabbit is a nuclear option, and I have no idea how to handle the fallout.

Instead, I say, “What if someone recognizes me?”

“So what?” Hunter shrugs. “Besides, done right, you’ll be unrecognizable.”

“And if anyone finds out—”

“Spence.” Hunter leans forward, his face suddenly earnest. “You trust me, right?”

I level a glare. “Last time I trusted you, I lost a bet.”

“Touché.” He grins, knowing he’s won. “But trust me anyway. This is going to be epic.”

I press my fingers into my eyes and rub, my glasses shifting upward from the motion, and take a slow breath. “Fine. But only if I don’t have to do the voice.”

“Oh, but you do!” he says, triumphant. “And the strut. And you gotta stay until midnight.”

I groan, but my resistance is dissolving, the way sodium acetate does in warm water—swift and complete.

Hunter pulls out his phone again, thumbing through contacts. “Let’s call in the cavalry. Sara can help with the makeup.”

“Wait,” I protest, but he’s already typing, tongue between his teeth in concentration.

The light above me pops, plunging the room into sallow half-darkness.

Hunter slaps my shoulder and laughs. “See? Even the universe wants you to be a bombshell.”

As he fires off a text, I close my eyes and imagine myself—Spencer Montgomery, human nonentity—trapped inside a red dress in a room full of strangers. My hands start to sweat.

How do I let Hunter always talk me into stuff like this?

Outside, somewhere down the hall, a raucous yell signals another dorm room conquest. Inside, I sit in silence, waiting for Sara’s inevitable reply, and count the seconds before my life is ruined.

“Hey, Spence,” Hunter says quietly.

I look up. His smile is softer now, a little less predatory.

“You’re gonna kill it,” he says.

I swallow and nod. “If you say so.”

—ΠΩ—

The smell of burnt popcorn and incense wafts in the hallway outside Sara’s apartment, but inside, it’s all lavender and acetone.

With a sheet tacked up in front of the window to block out the blue campus light, a collection of ring lamps lights the room, every bulb pointed at the vanity like a crime scene.

Sara’s “studio” is her actual bedroom, but she’s transformed it into a cosmetics command center: brushes fanned out in size order, jars and palettes ranked by frequency of use, sponges floating in a Tupperware like mutant embryos.

The chair in front of the mirror is already pulled out. I sit in it, because that’s what’s expected, and try to ignore the fact that my knees are shaking.

Hunter surveys the room, hands in his jacket pockets. “Damn, Martinez, you ever sleep in here?”

Sara doesn’t look up from the bottle she’s decanting. “I take power naps. Like a shark.” She glances at me, catching my expression in the mirror. “You ready, Spence?”

My mouth opens. No sound comes out. Sara’s wearing her Sephora uniform shirt and paint-flecked leggings, and somehow her own makeup is both impeccable and undetectable, which feels like a magic trick. “I, uh—”

She sees the tremor in my hands and softens her voice. “Don’t worry. This is just practice. And when I’m done, you’ll be unrecognizable.”

Hunter drops onto Sara’s bed, stretching out with a showy yawn, scrolling through his phone. “Spence is worried he’ll look too hot and get kidnapped by frat guys.”

Sara snorts. “Not with those cuticles.”

“Hey,” I mutter. “I’ve been busy.”

She tilts my chin up with a finger, her touch gentle but precise. “If you want this to look real, you have to trust me. Okay?”

I nod. I do not trust her. Or rather, I trust her artistry. I do not trust my friends to leave my soul intact.

“And I know it’s not much on you, but make sure you shave right before next time.”

Pinching near my temples, Sara removes my glasses, and the world blurs a little.