The chemistry class always had that particular atmosphere: the smell of chemicals floating in the air, students focused on their notebooks or iPads, and the constant sound of Professor Thompson writing equations on the board with almost obsessive precision. It was one of those days when I felt like my brain was about to collapse under the weight of formulas and molecular reactions.
Today's topic was stoichiometry, something we had partially covered before, but Professor Thompson seemed determined to make sure no one would ever forget it.
"Remember," he said, pointing to a long equation on the board with his blue marker, "the key to solving stoichiometry problems is balancing the chemical equation correctly before attempting to calculate molar relationships. If you don't, the entire exercise will be wrong from the start."
Olivia, sitting in front of me, pretended to take notes on her iPad while doodling something that clearly had nothing to do with chemistry. Lindsay, next to me, took notes with her usual precision, though I could see her lips curling slightly every time Olivia made a comment under her breath.
"Why don't they invent an app that solves this for us?" Olivia murmured loud enough for me to hear, but not the professor. "Something like a 'chemistry translator.' You type in the equation, and it says, 'Here you go, genius, your answer.'"
I rolled my eyes, though I couldn't help but smile.
"Because that would be too easy," I replied softly. "Besides, if it existed, you'd probably be the first to hack it to give you wrong answers just for fun."
Olivia shot me a fake offended look.
"How little you trust me! I just want to make the world a better place… or more chaotic. I haven't decided yet."
Lindsay let out a soft giggle but quickly refocused on her iPad when Professor Thompson turned toward us.
"Mr. Steele," he said, looking directly at me, "could you give us an example of how we would apply this concept in a practical case? For instance, if we had a complete combustion reaction of methane, how many moles of carbon dioxide would be produced if we started with two moles of methane?"
I straightened up in my seat, trying to ignore Olivia's expectant glance. I knew she enjoyed watching me sweat a little under pressure.
"Well," I began, looking at the equation on the board, "first we balance the equation. The complete combustion of methane produces carbon dioxide and water. So, starting with two moles of methane, according to the molar relationship, we'd get exactly two moles of carbon dioxide."
Professor Thompson nodded, satisfied.
"Correct, Mr. Steele. Well done."
Before I could relax, Olivia muttered something under her breath while typing quickly on her iPad. I didn't catch all of it, but I heard a fragment:
"Yeah, sure, Sack the savior... let's hope he doesn't blow us up in the lab next week."
I rolled my eyes, but I couldn't help noticing that, despite her joke, she had carefully written down what I had just said. It was something I'd noticed before: although Olivia often joked about my answers in class, she always took notes on them. After all, she knew as well as I did that what I said in class almost always appeared on exams. And though she pretended to be disinterested, Lindsay and I had learned that Olivia wasn't dumb; she simply preferred to study the bare minimum to pass and relied on our group study sessions to help her achieve that.
"Miss Hart," Professor Thompson suddenly said, surprising all of us, "do you have anything to add?"
Olivia looked up from her iPad, feigning innocence.
"Me? No, professor, I was just taking notes. You know, to make sure I understand everything Sack said. We don't want anyone to fall behind, do we?"
Professor Thompson looked at her for a moment, as if deciding whether to believe her or not, but eventually nodded.
"Good. I'm glad to see you're paying attention."
Lindsay glanced at me with a small smile, and I simply shook my head. Olivia always found a way to get away with things.
---------------------------------
When the bell finally rang, signaling the end of class, everyone began packing up quickly. Olivia was the first to stand up, with an energy that seemed completely disproportionate for someone who had just spent an hour listening to chemical reactions.
"Well, now that we've survived the mental torture known as chemistry," she said, adjusting her backpack on her shoulder, "it's time to talk about important things. Like our band."
Lindsay raised an eyebrow as she put her iPad into her bag.
"Our band? I think we're still in the 'we don't even know what song we're going to play' phase."
"Details, details," Olivia responded, waving her hand as if it were a minor issue. "The important thing is that we need to practice. And for that, we need a proper place. So I propose we go to the music club and borrow the rehearsal room for a few hours."
"And you think they'll just give us the room without asking questions?" I asked, crossing my arms.
"Of course," Olivia said confidently. "I'm charming. Besides, I can convince them it's for an experimental art project. No one can say no to that."
Lindsay smiled, though she seemed a bit skeptical.
"I don't know, Olivia. I don't want us getting into trouble."
"Relax, Lindsay," Olivia replied, patting her on the shoulder. "We're not going to burn the place down or anything. We're just going to play a song. Well, try to, at least. It'll be fun."
I looked at Lindsay, who gave me a look that clearly said, "You know we can't stop her, right?"
I sighed, resigned.
"Fine. But if we end up getting kicked out for trespassing on university property, don't say I didn't warn you this was a bad idea."
"Exactly!" Olivia exclaimed triumphantly. "That's the spirit. Now, let's go. The music club closes in an hour, and we need to make sure no one else is using the room."
As we walked toward the music club building, I couldn't help but feel a mix of skepticism and curiosity.
Although we still had no idea what song we were going to play, there was something contagious about Olivia's excitement. Even Lindsay seemed more animated than usual, and I… well, maybe it wasn't so bad to set aside the sarcasm for a while and just go with the flow.
After all, how bad could it really go?