Bad Taste in Boys (9 page)

“Why wait? Let’s talk to him now.”

I snorted. “You really think he’s going to listen when we start spouting off conspiracy theories about some drug that makes people’s fingers fall off? I need proof.”

“I’m sorry?” he said. “You lost me at the finger part. Aren’t we talking like hepatitis or something? That seems like the most logical explanation, doesn’t it?”

“I don’t know.” I didn’t want to get into the finger-related details, not now. We were getting along so well, and I wanted to enjoy it while it lasted. “We need those vials if we’re going to find out for sure.”

“Well,” he said slowly, “I am the team captain.”

“Do you have a key?”

He didn’t answer, just released my hand, reached into his backpack, and produced a key ring. It wasn’t the size of a steering wheel, which was a nice change.

“Let’s steal some drugs,” he said.

*   *   *

Coach’s office had never been the neatest place in the world. Today it had been ransacked. The filing cabinets stood open, papers dumped all over the floor. The shelving unit hung cockeyed from one bracket, trophies shattered underneath. There was a vaguely head-shaped indentation in the wall behind the desk.

“What do you think happened?” I asked in a hushed voice, closing the door behind us.

“Dunno.” Aaron nudged a pile of papers out of the way with his foot. “Nothing good.”

I made my way past the overturned Gatorade cart and the sticky floor underneath. The medical cabinet was badly dented. It looked like someone had taken a sledgehammer to it. Too bad the lock was intact.

“I think we should be able to pry that open if we find something strong enough,” I said, pointing at a bent corner.

Aaron nodded. “I’m on it.”

I went through the desk while Aaron took the floor. Coach had three Little Mermaid DVDs in the middle drawer. I tried to shake the mental images of his secret life as a closet mermaid lover, but they were tough to get out of my head.

I paused midsearch. Inspiration struck; I felt the rush that always came with solving a problem or acing a test. It felt kind of like I imagined a runner’s high must feel, except in my case it was a thinker’s high. I grabbed the first-aid kit and rummaged through a small mountain of gauze and eight rolls of unopened medical tape. And there they were.

“Scissors?” Aaron asked when I held them up. “What’re you going to do, cut the door open?”

“They’re heavy-duty bandage scissors. They’re about as sturdy as a crowbar. If you can break them, I’ll eat my shoe.”

“You’re brilliant,” he said, and when the door popped open, I had to agree.

The tray of vials was still on the shelf. A lot of the slots were empty now, which horrified me. I stooped to pick it up, but my hands shook from the heady combination of mystery illness plus breaking and entering multiplied by close proximity to Aaron. Thinking about this made me shake so hard that one of the vials leapt out of the tray and rolled under the desk.

“Aw, man.” I smacked my forehead.

We reached for it at the same time, and our heads collided. Now my skull hurt like blazes, but at least it took my mind off my lip—the scab was ginormous, which reduced my attractiveness level from minuscule to nonexistent.

“I’m sorry. Are you okay? I didn’t mean to do that,” I babbled. I hated babblers, and I was turning into one. Then Aaron put his hand on my arm, which only intensified my need to spew nonsense. “I’m such a klutz. My brother hit me on the head with a fake sword the other night and actually knocked me unconscious, which you’d think wouldn’t be possible given the tensile strength of plastic pipe, only with my luck it’s all too possible. I mean, between that and when I ran my car off the road and totally smashed this guy’s bushes into—”

He kissed me.

I couldn’t concentrate enough to worry. His mouth was warm, and he tasted like mint, and he did this thing with his tongue that was absolutely divine. His arms slid around my shoulders and held me, tight but not too tight. I made one little sound of submission and that was it. All rational thought went out the window.

I didn’t know how long we kissed. It was even better than I’d imagined.

I heard a sound from the hallway, but I was busy. I’d get back to my usual hypervigilance later. But then I became aware of a familiar, fetid scent. It smelled like toasted poop, but with a new undertone of corruption, like the poop had been left to rot in the sun for a couple of days and got all slimy and putrid.

The doorknob rattled and we froze, staring into each other’s eyes. Aaron held a finger to his mouth. As if I needed the instructions. If we got caught in here, we’d be in trouble. I was having a hard enough time dealing with the shame of my demerit; detention might kill me outright.

Besides, I knew what that smell meant, and I had no desire to see any more regurgitory displays.

The smell finally got to Aaron. He started to retch; he hadn’t been exposed to the stink before and wasn’t used to it like I was. I clapped a hand over his mouth in an attempt to muffle the sound. I knew he might puke on me, but I decided I’d rather deal with that than risk getting mauled by my ex-fling.

The knob stopped rattling. There was a halfhearted knock at
the door, and then nothing else. I heard the sound of feet shuffling slowly away down the hall. The smell didn’t diminish, but breathing through my mouth made it almost bearable.

I removed my hand from Aaron’s mouth. I really wanted to wipe his germs off, but I remembered how loud the towel dispenser was and didn’t want to risk it until I was sure we were in the clear.

We stood there a long time, or at least it felt long. My hand started to dry. I pulled two paper towels from the dispenser. The screech was loud enough to wake Tutankhamen, but no one came to investigate. I handed Aaron a towel to clean his face and used the other one to wipe my hand.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “What’s that smell? It’s horrible.”

“I think someone puked out in the hall. Like, um … maybe Mike. When he threw up on my car, it pretty much smelled the same. I told you about that, didn’t I?”

“Yeah, you did. I should go out to help him,” he said. I waited, but he didn’t move. I realized he was really freaked out, which made me feel better for some reason. “I have to admit—I thought you were exaggerating. I know you’re wicked smart; it just sounded a little over-the-top.”

“Well, I wasn’t. Exaggerating, I mean.”

Then he said, “Hey, I think you’re bleeding.”

My hand flew up to my mouth. He was right, and Coach wasn’t a Kleenex-on-the-desk kind of guy. I kept checking my pockets, as if persistence might make a tissue miraculously materialize in one
of them. Aaron gave me another paper towel instead. And then I felt stupid.

I pressed it to my mouth and mumbled, “Thanks.”

“What happened?” he asked. “To your mouth, I mean.”

“Mike bit me at Kiki’s party. And I’m really not exaggerating this time.”

“Bit you?” His voice dropped into a growl. “I think Mike and I are going to have a little talk.”

“Why?” I squeaked. “I really didn’t intend to kiss him. Again, I mean. I know it’s kind of weird, since I had that fling with him a couple of months ago, and now there’s … you and … us. Oh god. I don’t know what I mean, and now I’m babbling. I just don’t want you to think I’m—”

“I think you’re cool,” he said firmly. “And I know how Mike gets when he drinks.” I blushed. “I’ve got to go find him.”

I’d just taken a deep breath, preparing to say the Z‑word, when what he’d said finally registered.

“Uh … why?”

“He needs to apologize to you. I don’t know what his problem is, but some things you just don’t do. Know what I mean?”

Aaron flung the door open before I could answer. It was probably for the best. If he’d had a hard time believing me when I told him about the puke, I wasn’t sure how to convince him that this virus made people’s fingers fall off and turned them into cannibals.

He stepped over the puddle of puke, holding his hand over his
mouth and nose. “I’ll text you later, okay? You can take care of the vials from here, right?”

“Yeah. Sure. Later.”

My verbal skills were astounding.

The door closed behind him. I was in a complete emotional tizzy, or I would have been if I’d had the time. But now I had even more motivation to take action. I had to identify the disease vector I might have accidentally transmitted to the only decent guy who would ever like me despite the fact that I had snarly hair, bad glasses, and the social aptitude of the average chimpanzee. If this virus was transmitted by bodily fluid, I had probably contracted it when Mike bit me.

I snatched three vials, pulled a Ziploc bag out of my backpack, and sealed them carefully inside. I might not have been great with the romance thing, but no one was going to outscience me. Especially when there was a hot boy at stake.

took the vials straight to the chem lab. I had about an hour before I was supposed to volunteer at the pancake supper, and I was feeling the pressure. That was the worst thing about being friends with Kiki: she inflicted her do-goodery on people. No way would I have volunteered for this stupid thing if she hadn’t begged. A lot of the football team would be there since it was an official homecoming week event, though, so it was good for me to be there too.

I turned the corner to the science wing, and Swannie came out of the lab with a cardboard box precariously balanced on one shoulder. It was so big she could have fit inside with room to spare. She’d just finished a project on muscular responses in mice and was probably packing it up to make way for something new. I
couldn’t wait to hear what we were doing next, but I didn’t have time to listen to a whole research plan.

“Let me help you with that,” I offered.

She snatched the box away before I could touch it.

“I’ve got it,” she said. “You working on something fun?”

“Um … that’s not exactly the word I’d use.” I sighed. “You don’t mind, do you?”

“Of course not. My lab is your lab. I owe you for sectioning all those mice. I wouldn’t have been able to finish that project without you, you know.”

I beamed. “It was my pleasure. Seriously.”

She shifted the box. “I’ve got to go before my shoulder falls off. But you’ll have to tell me what you’re working on later. Maybe I can give you some advice. Not like you need any, but it makes me feel important.”

“Thanks,” I said. “I’ll definitely take you up on it.”

She left the door open for me. It was too bad; I got a little thrill every time I used my key. Swannie had made me one when I was helping her with the mice. Being a suck-up really did have its advantages.

Technically, the room was supposed to be a storage area, but Swannie had converted it to her own personal lab. It was crammed with centrifuges and pipettes, and it was all Swannie’s. She’d paid for it using her government funding. If I hadn’t wanted to be a doctor so badly, I’d have wanted to be her when I grew up.

Unfortunately, I wasn’t sure what to do now that I was here. I
stared down at the vials. After a minute or so, I realized that the most important thing was to isolate the virus or bacteria. It didn’t really matter if Coach thought he was shooting the players up with a steroid, B12, or lighter fluid. The most pressing danger to my players was the virus. All I needed to do was prove it existed, and then I could go to the authorities.

That meant it was time for some cell cultures.

About an hour later, I finished setting up the incubators and took off my gloves. I was surprised to actually be done on time; I always got lost in my work way too easily. I used to set an alarm when I worked on mice for Swannie, because otherwise I’d sit down at the bench for a couple of minutes, and then I’d look up and it would be four in the morning already. I was lucky my parents understood my workaholic tendencies.

The cultures needed to sit overnight. I’d check them in the morning. If they grew, I’d picture-mail the evidence over to the Ho and ask him for advice. He’d know what to do.

Now … time for pancakes.

Kiki and I were supposed to meet in the cafeteria. I opened the doors right on time, feeling pretty proud of myself. But then I started wondering if maybe I’d made a mistake. The cafeteria lights were off; the only illumination came from the red glow of the exit sign. The portable griddle sat in pieces at the end of the room. The caf was a sea of empty putty-colored tables, conspicuously devoid of volunteers.