Chapter 3: El laboratorio y la bata
The chemistry lab had its own particular rhythm—the hiss of Bunsen burners, the clink of glass against glass, the low murmur of students who were supposed to be paying attention to Dr. Okafor's lecture on titration curves but were instead texting under their desks or staring blankly at the periodic table posters peeling at the corners. The room was hot, the kind of heat that came from too many bodies in too small a space, and the air was thick with the smell of ethanol and something acrid that had been bubbling in a flask since Tuesday.
I was at my assigned station, third row from the window, trying to measure exactly fifty milliliters of sodium hydroxide into a volumetric flask. The meniscus was being stubborn, hovering just above the calibration line, and I was focused on the tiny curve of liquid with the kind of intensity that usually reserved itself for final exams.
Marta was next to me. Of course she was. We'd been partners since the semester started, assigned by alphabetical order and cemented by a professor who never changed anything.
She was wearing the lab coat—the one that was technically required by the safety regulations posted on the wall—but she'd left it completely open. Underneath, she had on a tight white t-shirt, the kind that looked like it had been washed a hundred times until it clung to every contour of her body like a second skin. Her breasts pressed against the fabric, round and full, and I could see the outline of her bra through the thin cotton. It was pink. I noticed that against my will.
I looked back at my flask.
"Martín," she said, her voice carrying that particular sing-song quality that meant she was about to do something annoying. "Can you pass me that matraz? The Erlenmeyer one."
She was pointing at the rack of glassware on the other side of the bench. Which was, conveniently, directly behind me. Which meant she would have to reach across me to get it.
"Just lean over," I said. "It's right there."
"I can't reach. You know my arms are short."
Your arms are normal length, I wanted to say. But she was already moving, already stepping closer, and her body pressed against mine as she reached across the bench, her chest brushing against my arm with calculated precision. The fabric of her shirt was soft against my skin, and underneath it, I could feel the curve of her breast, firm and warm.
She grabbed the flask, held it up triumphantly. "Got it."
"Great. Now can you back up?"
She didn't back up. Instead, she turned to face me, the flask held against her chest like some kind of offering, and she smiled that smile that I'd started to recognize as her "I'm up to something" smile.
"You know," she said, "it's really hot in here. Don't you think?"
"It's fine."
"I'm sweating." She fanned herself with her hand, and then, with deliberate slowness, she unbuttoned the lab coat one button further. It fell open, revealing more of the white shirt, more of the curve of her cleavage. "There. Better."
I forced my eyes back to my flask. The meniscus hadn't moved. Neither had the sodium hydroxide. But the measurements were suddenly a lot harder to focus on.
"Do you need help with that?" she asked, nodding at my equipment.
"No. I'm fine."
"You look like you're struggling."
"I'm not struggling."
She stepped closer. Behind me. I heard the soft scrape of her stool being pulled out, and then I felt the heat of her body as she pressed up against my back, reaching around me with her arms.
"Here," she said, her voice right next to my ear. "Let me hold the tube steady while you pour. I'll be your extra set of hands."
"That doesn't make any sense. I need both hands."
"But I'm helping."
Her arms came around my waist, reaching forward to grip the test tube I'd been about to use. Her chest pressed against my back, and I felt the unmistakable pressure of her breasts through the fabric of her shirt, soft and yielding against my shoulder blades. She stayed there, holding the tube, her breath warm against my neck.
"There," she said. "Now pour."
I poured. The liquid went into the tube, and my hand was remarkably steady considering the fact that Marta's body was plastered against mine, her hips brushing against the small of my back.
After an eternity, she stepped away. I let out a breath I didn't realize I'd been holding.
"See?" she said, all innocence. "That was easy."
I didn't respond. I was too busy trying to remember how to function like a normal human being.
The experiment continued. We measured, we mixed, we recorded. Marta was surprisingly good at the actual chemistry part when she wasn't trying to make me lose my mind. She had a steady hand with the pipette and a good eye for color changes, and there were moments when I forgot she was being deliberately insufferable and just appreciated having a competent lab partner.
Then she dropped her pen.
It clattered to the floor, rolling under the bench, and she bent down to retrieve it.
I watched her go. I couldn't help it. The lab coat fell forward as she leaned over, and the tight white shirt pulled across her back, revealing the curve of her waist and the swell of her hips. Her leggings stretched taut over her ass, and I could see the outline of her underwear beneath the fabric, a thin line of darker color pressing against the black.
She stayed down there for what felt like an inordinate amount of time.
"Got it," she said finally, straightening up. She had the pen in her hand, and she was smiling that smile again. "Hey, Martín. Do you think Dr. Okafor saw anything?"
"Saw what?"
She adjusted her lab coat, pulling it closed with a theatrical shiver. "You know. When I bent over. The good stuff."
"I don't know what you're talking about."
"Sure you don't." She looked at me, head tilted, and then she reached under her shirt, adjusting her bra with practiced ease. The motion made her breasts shift beneath the fabric, the outline of her nipples visible for just a second before the cotton settled back into place. "This stupid bra," she said. "It's always riding up. Do you have that problem? With your bras?"
"I don't wear bras."
"That's a shame. You'd look great in one."
I was not going to engage. I was not going to respond. I looked at my notebook, where I'd been recording our results, and realized I'd been writing the same number over and over again in a neat little row. Five milliliters. Five milliliters. Five milliliters.
Marta leaned over to look at the page. Her hair brushed against my shoulder, and I caught that scent again—floral and sweet, out of place in a room full of chemicals.
"Are you okay?" she asked. "You seem distracted."
"I'm fine."
"You keep writing five milliliters. We're on the second trial now."
I looked at the notebook. She was right. I'd been writing the same damn number for the past ten minutes, lost in a haze of pink bras and warm bodies and the persistent, uncomfortable awareness that she knew exactly what she was doing to me.
"Just making sure the data's consistent," I said.
"Consistent." She laughed, and it was a light, bubbly sound that didn't belong in a chemistry lab. "That's a good way to put it."
I cleared my throat and started writing the correct numbers. Marta watched me for a moment, then turned back to her own notebook, and for a blessed few minutes, there was silence between us.
But I could feel her still. The weight of her gaze when she thought I wasn't looking. The way she shifted in her seat, the fabric of her leggings whispering against the stool. The subtle, constant awareness of her body in my peripheral vision, like a flame you can't help but glance at even when you're trying to focus on something else.
The lab period was winding down. Dr. Okafor was making her rounds, checking data and signing off on procedures. She stopped at our table, glanced at our notebook, nodded.
"Good work, you two. Clean up your station."
She walked away, and Marta turned to me with a grin.
"See? Good work. We're a good team."
"We're adequate."
"Ouch. That hurts." She clutched her chest, her hand pressing against her sternum, and the motion pushed her breasts together just slightly, creating a shadow of cleavage beneath the white shirt. "You know, if you really thought we were a good team, you'd hang out with me after class."
"I have practice."
"With the weights? I can come watch. I'm a great cheerleader."
"No."
"Come on, Martín." She stepped closer, and then her hand was on my arm, her fingers tracing the line of my bicep through my hoodie. "You work out so hard. You deserve someone to appreciate the results."
I pulled my arm away. "I'm fine. I don't need—"
"The gym's empty in the afternoons. I've checked. It'll just be us."
There it was. The offer, laid out plain as day. I looked at her, at the way the fluorescent lights played across her face, and I thought about all the reasons I should say no. The obvious ones. The logical ones.
"Fine," I said.
Marta's face lit up like I'd offered her the moon.
"Really?"
"Really. But you have to actually let me work out. No interruptions."
"I promise." She was practically bouncing on her heels, her smile so wide it crinkled the corners of her eyes. "I'll be the best gym buddy you've ever had."
"You've never been to the gym."
"I have. Once. I did ten minutes on the treadmill and then sat on the stairs for a while."
"That doesn't count."
"It counts," she said, gathering her notebook into her bag. "I'm counting it. I'll meet you there. Four o'clock. Don't be late."
She was already heading for the door, her lab coat billowing behind her like a cape, and she called back over her shoulder:
"And Martín? Wear something that shows off your arms. I like your arms."
She was gone before I could come up with a response. I stood there in the empty lab, the smell of ethanol still hanging in the air, and I found myself thinking about her smile, the way it had lit up when I'd said yes.
I didn't know if it was a good idea.
But I was starting to think I didn't care.