The Truth About You & Me by Amanda Grace Page A

grade, with the other half being the labs.
    â€œWho can tell me which part of the cell is known as the ‘powerhouse’?” you asked, using air quotes. You glanced over at a tall, lanky guy who sat at the farthest end of the horseshoe, the one who had two dozen football jerseys if his daily wardrobe was any indication. “Mr. Johnson?”
    Mr. Johnson sat up, the desk creaking. “Uh, the mitochondria?”
    â€œRight. And where are the chromosomes found?” you asked, turning to look around the room, waiting for someone to chime in.
    â€œThe nucleus,” someone called out.
    You smiled then. In the glow of it, I forgot my panic. You liked teaching, enjoyed seeing the progress we made, like a proud dad or something. It wasn’t about proving yourself or being competitive. It was a simple sort of joy in what you did, and I had to admire it. For my dad, mom, brother, it was all about being the best at something, about showing off. With you, it was a simple pleasure.
    â€œGood. And the ribosomes?”
    Your eyes roamed the room, waiting for someone to call it out, but there was only the rustling of paper, the scraping of chairs. And then your eyes landed on me and I smiled at you, remembering High Rock, remembering the feel of the sun on our cheeks even as the crisp air stole our heat away.
    And then suddenly my cheeks warmed as I pushed the memory away, realizing the entire class was staring at me, including you.
    â€œUh, what?” I said, coughing to clear my throat. I had no idea what you’d asked me.
    â€œThe ribosomes. What are they for?”
    My mouth went dry in an instant. I knew this. It was the basics. Stuff you’d talked about on the first day. So why couldn’t I think of the answer? Why could I only picture the intense look in your eyes as our foreheads touched, moments after our almost-kiss? “Oh, um, is that the one that stores food and pigment?” I finally said.
    Your lips curled up a little at the edges and I smiled back, knowing I wasn’t quite right but unable to find the desire to panic. “Perhaps someone should have spent her weekend studying instead of sitting in a salon chair,” you said, turning away.
    I don’t know how a heart can be in two places at once, but in that instant mine was in my throat and my stomach. My cheeks flamed so hot I thought I might burst.
    God did I hurt in that moment. I’d spent hours picturing your look when you saw my new hair. Hours imagining your sweet smile, imagining you tugging on a lock of it as you complimented me.
    And instead, you slung it back at me like I was some kind of airhead. I couldn’t believe you’d done that, Bennett. And I couldn’t figure out why. Why you would humiliate me like that, why you had to call me out in such an unfair way. I would never do that to you.
    You meant too much.
    The review was over then anyway, so why did you make such a point with me? You returned to the front of the class and picked up the stack of tests. Since the desks were in a horseshoe, which I’d loved so much that first day, you either had to walk around or you had to split the stack in half and start it at each end.
    That’s what you did, and at first I was annoyed—so annoyed, because I wanted you to hand me that test yourself so I could glare at you, feeling more than a little bit juvenile but unable to control my emotions—until I realized I was essentially in the middle of the horseshoe and the extra stack of tests came to me from both sides.
    So I held them out and stared at you with a flat gaze, a gaze empty of the emotion I felt for you, steeling myself. Your eyes were soft and maybe a little regretful, but you said nothing as you took the tests and turned away.
    And then I sat there, scribbling my name on the top of the page, still angry and hurt that you’d purposely embarrass me in front of the whole class.
    The first question was the first thing