Drive-In Hearts

Chemistry

Ellie stooped inside her locker to obtain her chemistry textbook and notebook for class. She observed herself in the mirror on her locker door, and as she did so, the metal frame slammed her forehead, leaving a red mark and a burst of pain from that spot.

"What the hell?" Ellie muttered, rubbing her forehead in confusion. She fixed the black-rimmed glasses on her nose and closed the locker door. Suddenly, a pretty blond girl wearing a leather jacket emerged, shoving her in the shoulder and causing her to drop her textbook, her notebook, and all her papers.

"A bummer that he chose her," the greaser spat, scoffing. She kicked the chemistry textbook like a soccer ball, scattering papers and snickering as if she scored a goal. A pink-haired greaser stomped and dragged his foot across the open pages, defacing and ripping the periodic table with old mud and grass.

She and the pink haired greaser high-fived and abandoned her in the mess, both of them giggling obnoxiously as they pushed other lowly students in their path.

Ellie grimaced at the pain on her forehead and shoulder, glaring at the mean girl walking away. She was Lorraine, Number XII, and the pink-haired guy was Marty, Number XI.

The school bullies. Of course they were in the gang too.

Ellie sighed in exasperation, picking up the mess that they made. She reached for her textbook, only to find a hand resting atop of hers.

"Oh, I'm sorry," he muttered.

She looked up, and she saw a freshman, a dreamy boy with freckles and azure eyes. His dirty blond hair was surprisingly well-kept for a greaser, with the strands locked in place and combed to impeccably fine rows. He too was wearing a jacket.

"Hello," she said, smiling.

"L-Let me help you. I'm sorry about her," he muttered demurely.

"Oh no, don't be. It's not your fault," she replied, picking up papers with him.

When they stood up, he returned the textbook and nodded shyly before leaving. The number on his back was XIII.

~~

Ellie sat at the lab bench and waited for her partner, taping the pages and rubbing off the dirt in her textbook with paper towels. She managed to remove some of it, but the transition elements were permanently frayed and defaced with brown and black lines, as if they were beaten up by the bullies themselves.

"Who did that?" came a voice.

Speak of the devil. It was him: Number II: Blaine. Otherwise known as B.

Ever since they started the chemistry section of the science class, he was assigned to be her lab partner and she was infatuated by how smart and handsome he was. He looked perfect at every angle; he had the fittest physique, the softest and finest cheekbones that matched a hypnotizing grin, and hair so black that it put the night to shame. He was the definition of a bad boy, almost a leader of sorts in a notorious gang. Tough and witty, fast and sneaky.

He was hip and slick and so smart...

...Well, for a greaser, that is.

She glared at him. "Your lackeys did this to me. Now I can't read what the atomic number of iron is," she seethed as she scrubbed the periodic table

He chuckled. "You don't know? It's 26," he said, sitting down and taking off his jacket. "Heh, even a hood like me would know that."

She noticed that his gray T-shirt sleeves were rolled up, and she blushed at the sight of his lean muscles. She rolled her eyes to hide. "Anyway, you're late," she spat.