Chapter 7
The second I saunter through the door, Nox snaps his head up.
I swear I hear his annoyed groan from across the room.
It takes everything within me not to laugh outright as his neon face falls into a positively dour expression.
If there’s an extra pep in my step, sue me.
It’s just too good. Unlike the deep evergreen paint I saw on the jumbotron, this is a sickly-looking chartreuse sheen that—judging by the rough pink scratches on his cheeks—he tried like hell to wash off.
My luck must finally be turning.
“Not a word, Clara,” he mutters as I cheerfully approach.
It’s a small class and instead of desks or auditorium seating, there’s just a big round makeshift table with sixteen chairs. I drop slowly into the seat to his left and prop my elbow on the wood. Balancing my chin on my palm, I turn to him and innocently ask, “Whatever do you mean?”
“Cut the shit.”
“Aww. Did Popeye have too much spinach this morning?”
He rolls his eyes and slouches in his seat. “Logan forgot to mention that we were supposed to use a primer first.”
“Did I tell you he’s my new favorite person?”
If looks could kill, I would still die a happy woman.
“Cheer up,” I taunt. “I hear the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles are looking for a fifth member.”
He grabs the bridge of his nose. “Just stop.”
“Ooh!” I gasp excitedly. “Maybe now the wizard will see you.”
“Clara—”
The professor chooses that moment to sweep into the room.
I know I should let it go, but while he sorts through his papers, I quietly sing the opening lyrics to “One Short Day” from Wicked.
Nox not-so-subtly elbows all my carefully color-coordinated pens on the floor to get me to stop.
While I pick them up, I start humming “No One Mourns the Wicked” instead.
Professor Milton, as he comes to introduce himself, spends the first half of class reviewing the four major types of nonfiction—expository, narrative, descriptive, and persuasive.
I diligently write down everything he says.
Yes, I’m only taking this class to fulfill my English credit.
And no, I don’t really care about his lesson.
But it’s not in my nature to slack off. Because the class is so small, he asks us not to use our computers.
By the time he wraps up his lecture, my hand is cramping and I’m shaking it every five seconds to keep up.
“Are you having a seizure?” Nox whispers when the professor finally pauses to hand out our first assignment.
“Cramp,” I mutter back, still focused on finishing my thought. When I’m done, I sneak a peek at his notebook. It’s only got about five sentences written down. Before I can think of a gibe, a slip of paper lands in front of my face.
Nonfiction Assignment #1: The Profile.
I scan the page with a sinking feeling in my gut.
“Our first assignment,” Professor Milton explains, “is a type of article we would typically call a profile or a feature story about one subject. It’s a form of narrative or creative nonfiction.
And the subjects will be you. Everyone, pair off.
For the rest of class, I want you to conduct a mini-interview of your subject.
Find an angle. Make it interesting. We’ll present the articles during class next week with a roundtable discussion. Good luck.”
Every female in the class turns to Nox. His stare burns a hole in my cheek. I study the assignment as if my life depends on it.
Do not look up.
Do not look up.
The guy to my left shifts, turning toward me. “Do you—”
My chair suddenly swings as if on a swivel, screeching over the linoleum floor. I glare at Nox as I come to a stop facing him.
“She’s taken,” he states.
I cross my arms. “That was rude.”
“You’re not denying it.”
Damn. I wrinkle my nose. “That’s because I do have a question for you.”
He arches a brow.
“What is life like on Mars?”
He frowns. “Are you going to be doing this the whole time?”
“It’s just too easy.” I grin as I grab my notebook and a pen. “It’s almost not even fun. Almost. Now, tell me, was Kermit right? How hard is it being green?”
“It’s harder when certain people won’t shut up about it.”
“Hmm. I see.” I nod consolingly and pretend to jot down a note. “And did you always aspire to be the color of a highlighter?”
He scoffs and grabs his own notebook. “I’ve got a question for you. Do you have to work at being such a pain in the ass or does it just come naturally?”
“I’m gifted that way, I guess.”
“Can we please just move on to the assignment?”
“That eager to uncover my deep, dark secrets?”
“Why don’t you like the water?”
All the mirth drains from me like liquid through a sieve, leaving only my broken bits behind.
I’m back in the reservoir, sinking through endless night.
The pressure builds in my chest as I comb through darkness, too disoriented by the blinding flashes in my brain to find true light.
It’s just pain and fear, the need to scream, the awareness that doing so will probably kill me.
I squeeze my eyes shut and force the memory away. Nox stares at me intently beneath his hooded brow, as if he can see the joy seeping from my eyes.
“I don’t want to talk about that,” I whisper, unable to quite find my voice.
That little groove in his forehead deepens as he considers my answer. Then he leans back into his chair with a sigh. “Fine. What’s your major?”
I wince. He’ll find out eventually. It’s not as though I can lie about this or really even want to. It’s just that the timing is such shit. If he was searching for an angle for his article, I’m about to give him one on a silver platter.
“Marine biology,” I mutter.
He leans closer. “What?”
“Marine. Biology,” I repeat, my tone crisp.
He starts to roll his eyes, but then something about my expression must click, because midway through it turns to a disbelieving laugh instead. “You’re serious?”
“Is something funny about that?” I ask, daring him to say it.
“Not at all.” He raises his brows with a shrug. “So what is it exactly about the study of life underwater that interests you so much?”
“Everything,” I answer honestly.
He stares at me expectantly.
I sigh. “Have you ever heard of the Mariana Trench?”
He shakes his head.
“It’s the deepest part of the ocean. You could put Mount Everest inside of it and still be six thousand feet from reaching the surface.
We’re talking deep. So deep not a speck of light can touch it.
The pressure is so immense it would pop us in a nanosecond if we could teleport there.
And you know what? It’s teeming with life.
There’s an entire ecosystem down there surviving off the heat coming from vents to the Earth’s core.
Or what about this? There’s an estimated sixty to one hundred billion dollars—that’s billion with a b—in lost treasure just waiting to be found in the deep sea.
And I’m not just talking about money, but ancient artifacts, pieces lost for hundreds if not thousands of years, a real historical gold mine.
And that’s not even getting into the animals.
Giant squids over forty feet long. A tiny little mantis shrimp whose punch packs the same force as a .
22 caliber bullet. A sea slug who not only ingests algae but can actually absorb the chloroplasts to become photosynthetic on its own.
A snail with one of the deadliest venoms in the world.
I mean, have you ever seen the way an octopus can camouflage itself?
It’s so cool. How can you not be amazed by the ocean? ”
A soft smile lines his lips. “I guess I never thought about it.”
“Well you should,” I add in a slightly haughty tone, my hackles completely raised.
“The ocean generates fifty percent of the world’s oxygen, absorbs thirty percent of its carbon dioxide, and is the only thing standing between us and complete annihilation.
And there are companies out there right now chomping at the bit to mine it for ores and completely fuck everything up. ”
“How do you know all this?”
“I read, I guess. Too much probably.” I shrug, suddenly self-conscious.
My enthusiasm quickly takes over. “Oh, like there was this article I saw the other day about how the ocean is becoming the newest, hottest source for antibiotics. With the rainforests shrinking on a daily basis and humans becoming more resistant to current medicines, there’s this huge new field erupting in marine research focused on studying bacteria-resistant microbes. It’s really fascinating.”
“And that’s what you want to study?”
“I don’t know yet.” I sigh. “I love it all so much. I have no idea how I’m going to narrow down the options. But I will, eventually, I guess…”
“So you want to study the ocean?” he asks, as if for confirmation.
“Yup.”
“Just not swim in it?”
I frown at him and grab my notebook. “What about you? And don’t tell me about all your gold medals or whatever. Give me something real. Nova said your mom practically blackmailed you into coming to this school. What did she mean?”
Nox snorts out a laugh. “She said that?”
“Yeah, the first day we met.”