Chapter Eight Max #2
He shut it down. Poured all his frustration and anger at the unfairness of life into his strides, his breathing.
And wouldn’t you know it.
It still wasn’t enough.
Coach looked up from his iPad. “Distracted today?” he monotoned, because he already knew Max knew why he’d screwed up.
Max didn’t bother commenting, just jogged back to his starting position.
Forty minutes later, Max’s times weren’t improving. He would have screamed, if he were alone. Instead, he took another scalding shower to thaw his frozen body, scrubbing hard enough to turn his skin pink.
To his surprise, his relay squad was still in the locker room when he finished. Normally if they had a Saturday practice with no meet, they’d scatter off to enjoy the rest of their weekend before being dragged back bright and early Monday morning.
Even Jazz, who wasn’t supposed to be in here, straddled one of the benches, laughing at a joke Max wasn’t in on. Which didn’t bother him. He was used to it.
“We’re grabbing breakfast,” Alex said, patting his stomach. “Wanna come?”
Max shouldered his bag. “I was going to head to the library.” Waz had taken mercy on him for the fake email and allowed him to make up the quiz he missed. Hopefully it would help.
“Grab some fuel for the road, then.” Jazz popped up, bouncing on her heels. While Max had changed into his favorite joggers, she was still wearing shorts. She was constantly moving, burning energy, so it made sense.
Max didn’t really want to be around people, though, and would have cooked breakfast at home if Yoon’s dishes weren’t still fermenting in the sink.
Maybe he’d grab a protein shake after all.
“Whatever, yeah.” He tugged his headphones over his ears. He’d walk to breakfast with them. He didn’t have to participate in their conversation.
Max followed his teammates out of Athletics and onto campus, winding their way to the Q. The walk would take a normal person seven minutes or so; it took their group only four.
Campus was usually a dead zone on the weekends, but Davidson Hall, the STEM building Max hadn’t entered since freshman year for a required math elective, was abuzz with activity.
Bright banners in AMU’s emerald and gold flapped in the breeze, but he couldn’t read them from this angle.
Students milled around outside, laughing and smiling despite the February chill. There was still frost on the ground.
He pulled his headphones down and jerked his chin. “What’s going on over there?”
“Oh, I heard about that,” Jazz said, switching her bouncing stride to deep, knee-to-ground lunges. “A science bowl type thing. Some kind of competition.”
Max raised his eyebrows. “Huh. No kidding.”
An idea formed in his head too quickly to be a good one. This couldn’t possibly work.
A shrill laugh bounced off the cobblestone and ash trees, and even though he didn’t see the source, he could have sworn it was her. She’d probably laughed like that when she sent the fake email.
Just one little stroll around the building. . .
“You know what?” Max patted his pockets. “I forgot my keys in the locker room.”
“We can go back after we eat,” Alex offered.
Max put on a wince. “My ID’s attached.”
“I’ll get your breakfast,” Nolan said.
But Max was already shaking his head, jogging backward. “I’ll catch up on Monday at practice.”
“Bright and early!” Jazz redirected her lunge into Alex’s path. He wasn’t paying attention and stumbled, catching himself in a full-on plank position. They all laughed, momentarily drowning out the sounds from Davidson.
Max would just peek inside the building, switch Keely’s room assignment or something and make her a few minutes late. That was a fair trade for missing two full classes and a pop quiz. She deserved worse, to be honest.
Once his team was out of view, he headed straight for the conference.
Mid-Atlantic Science Olympiad Spring Scrimmage, the banner read.
“She has her own Olympics,” Max muttered, rolling his eyes. “Cute.”
With one more quiet breath, he pulled the door open.
He didn’t get very far; there was a table directly inside the entrance. A girl with kinked black hair and dusky-tan skin gave him a bright smile. Her name tag read Zoey. “Can I help you?”
He obviously didn’t belong here, but it stung a bit that she could tell by looking at him. For all Zoey knew, he was in the Science Olympiad too.
“I’m in the Science Olympiad,” Max blurted, then cursed mentally. Why didn’t he say he was here for a study group or something?
One of Zoey’s brows twitched toward her hairline, but she still sat forward in her chair, pulling the stapled packet of paper closer to her. “Perfect. Name?”
“Sim—” He coughed. “Smith.” That was generic enough.
Zoey nodded slowly, giving him a blank look. “School name.”
“Oh.” Think, Max. “Rutherford.” It was their biggest rival for track; hopefully it was the same for their science programs.
From the way Zoey’s gaze now dripped with undisguised contempt, he’d guessed right. With a heavy sigh, she flipped through the packet. “Zane Smith?”
“That’s me.” Max smiled at her. Or grimaced.
Zoey, pointedly, did not smile back this time.
She grabbed a highlighter, pulled the cap off with her teeth—sort of aggressively, actually—and slashed a bright orange line through Zane Smith.
She pointed at a pile of name tags and Sharpies.
“We ask that you add your pronouns in addition to your name and school.”
“Sure thing,” he said, moving to the corner of the table to scribble his new identity. Sorry, Zane Smith from Rutherford (he/him). Bet you would have killed it today.
He slapped the badge on his plain black sweatshirt and made sure to spin so Zoey wouldn’t see his AMU bag. Then he pulled open the stairwell door to his left and bolted.
It took him a few tries to find what he thought was the right place, but he still wasn’t sure.
Students with goggle lines on their faces wore lab coats, but others were dressed in regular clothes like him.
He passed a guy wearing flip-flops. He didn’t remember a lot from high school biology lab other than almost throwing up on dissection day, but he was pretty sure that was a giant red flag.
He had no idea how this event worked or what the goal was. Were there medals? Prizes? Was it even a competition? Maybe all these amateur scientists got together to trade formulas on index cards or something.
Studying was a better use of his time, but his mind was snagged on Keely, how she’d looked so innocent at the shelter Sunday afternoon and stabbed him in the back by dinnertime. So he’d mess with her in return. She couldn’t list this on her scholarship application if it blew up in her face.
Just when he was about to give up, head to the Q with another lie about finding his keys in his backpack, he saw a flash of gold ahead. Keely, coming out of a room. He shrunk back behind a corner, poking out just enough to track her.
He hadn’t thought she’d be wearing a lab coat, but there it was, every button done, the lower hem hitting above her knees. She, at least, was wearing closed-toe shoes. Her hair had been clipped back the few times he’d seen her, but she wore a perfect low bun now, not a strand out of place.
When she ducked through a doorway, Max took the only chance he’d get. He sprinted for the room she’d come out of.
It wasn’t empty.
A girl with severe black eyeliner, blunt bangs, and a hoop through her septum sat on a stool, staring at the worktable. Lori, according to her name tag. She looked him up and down, disgust pulling at her mouth. “Can I help you?”
“Um,” he said, blanking. “Keely. . . asked. . . for you?”
She frowned harder. “Why?”
“Something about—” He looked around and skimmed the poster on the wall. “Newtonian physics.” That wasn’t going to work. There was no way she would believe—
She cursed under her breath. “Did Jeremy fall down the stairs again? It’s those stupid flip-flops.”
And Lori left the room, leaving Max all alone.
Two beakers on individual hot plates housed bubbling liquid, steam rising from the mouths.
In a stand on the right, three vials of dry white powder.
A notebook lay open to the left side. Complicated chemical equations, timestamps with observations scribbled next to them in thick black ink. No wonder she has ink smears.
“Enough with the ink smears,” he mumbled.
He had no idea how much time he had. Lori or Keely could come back any minute.
Max dove for the glass-walled cabinet with stoppered vials inside. He dug around for something that looked like what was on the station, barely reading the names—he couldn’t pronounce them anyway. He wrapped his fingers around what looked the most similar to the powder in the vials.
This was harmless, right? The way her email had been “harmless.”
Still, he searched the chemicals on his phone quickly. He didn’t want it to actually blow up in her face. Beyond that, he didn’t really care. She’d look fine with one eyebrow.
When he confirmed none of the chemicals on the table or in his hand were toxic, he swapped the vial on the right with the one he pulled from the cabinet, carefully peeling the labels away and pressing them down again on the other tube.
At the door, he hesitated, but only for a second.
What was done was done, and if he lingered, he’d get caught for sure, whether by Keely or Lori or the real Zane Smith, who could still show up and cause a mess for Max.
He hurried away, taking a turn and then another to distance himself from the scene of the crime.
He ducked into a back stairwell as a scream sounded from down the hall.