So, this room holds a lifetime of memories for me-windy nights with snow piling outside in drifts as Dylan and I drank hot chocolate and Mom wrote at her desk. Hot summer days when the air conditioner went on the fritz and we'd sit on the cool cement floor in our swimsuits and play Simu-Jacks while Mom ran through her trials. I have memories of Dad flitting in and out, seeing how we were doing, bringing us snacks, calling Dylan out to throw the Scooze ball around. Most families had a den or family room; we had Mom's lab.
So, today, as I take out the polymer containers of sample crystals from the cardboard box Dad retrieved from my mom's office and spread them out on the side bench in a neat row, I'm struck with this unnerving feeling that my Mom will walk in at any moment. This is the first time I've been down here since the accident. There's a laser experiment set up. I look at the oscilloscope setting, take note of the photodetector, the polarizer, the ferrite magnets set up to produce a transverse magnetic field. I don't recognize the laser; it's not one from our arsenal. As I finish unpacking all the crystals, I hear a yell from upstairs.
"Hey, Bria, you here?"
Ryan Mitchell. Great.
By the time I turn around and head for the door, Ryan bounds down the stairs. "I knew you'd be down here," he says with a casual flip of his head. His short-cropped reddish hair splays out in all directions. He could use some gel. He flashes me his killer smile, which works on 90 percent of the girls at school, but I can resist it. I force myself to. There's a bit of that Johnny Flash twinkle in his eye, but it's a well-practiced act. I know he's only in the Chemistry Club because his dad threatened to take him off the team if he didn't get more serious about school.
Mostly at lunch, instead of working on ideas with the rest of us, he'd listen to music on his NeuroPad and rock out in his chair. The core group of students practically ignored him during the school year, but he did show up at our events, help set up the booth, and go get sandwiches at lunch time. The go-to guy-always ready to leap over chairs and sprint out the door like he's making for the end zone with a football tucked under his arm. Lauren and I shared a few uncontrollable giggles at his bravado, especially when the chairs went flying in his wake. But who we were to judge? People drifted in and out of Mrs. Darby's room at lunchtime, checking out what we were doing, especially when things were boiling on the burners and steaming up the classroom with noxious odors. Not many lasted the whole year, let alone a semester. But Ryan Mitchell spent every Tuesday and Thursday lunch period in that room without fail, so I'll concede him some Brownie points. Although, Lauren says it's because of me. The last blonde on Earth Ryan Mitchell has yet to woo with his charms.