In Chemistry, We Call This Insoluble
Pretty sure the new kid can make himself transparent. Literally, as in, vanishing in the middle of our chemistry experiments. I used to think he’d just dip out of class when I wasn’t paying attention but, now assigned as his lab partner, I’ve witnessed his body dematerialize before my very eyes. Poof. Absent as if he wasn’t even there to begin with.
In chemistry, we call this chromism, which I may or may not be pulling out of my ass. Sean makes up the intelligent half of our pair, after all. He handles the incoherent jumble of equation variables while I deal with the hazards. Probably for the best, considering the wavering reliability of his presence.
Last week, I handed him a beaker to add to our hot plate. The moment our fingers brushed, he vanished. Blink. The beaker fell through the space where his hands had been, shattering across my high tops. Gasps rippled through the lab, followed by Mr. Torres’s shrill Christopher! What did you do? He didn’t buy my Sean disappeared excuse. Even the station next to us thought I was full of shit.
I get it. Nobody notices the new kid whether they’re present or not. This is why I’ve taken on the task of befriending the guy. Once we’re close enough, maybe he’ll let me in on his invisibility trick.
“Betcha Mr. Torres owns all the materials to craft a bomb in that closet there,” I say, dumping materials for today’s experiment — the Iodine Clock Reaction — on our counter.
Sean doesn’t look up from his worksheet. “Mustard gas, maybe.”
In chemistry, we call this hypothesizing, a term Mr. Torres beats us over the head with. If the average number of failing grades on this next exam increases, then Mr. T will dish up lethal gas and serve it to us all, I scribble in the margins of his paper.
My partner slides the sheet out of my reach and reads my note with a smirk. For added effect, he underlines the independent and dependent variables. So the guy’s got a sense of humor. I can work with this.
“You’ve got to ease into the funny stuff,” said my best buddy Nora a few days prior. “Tilt your head this way.”
On weekends, she practiced her makeup on me while I played her brother’s PlayStation — a symbiotic friendship. It’s been a while since I’ve extended that social effort toward another person. Humming with sympathy, Nora applied product to my face and dished up advice.
No dick jokes. No causing a scene. No yearning to use the eyewash station. Jokes on her, cause Sean and I already started a bit about jumping under the safety shower and pulling its forbidden lever.
“I’ve really got nothing to lose here.” I paused my game and, to her dismay, rubbed my eye. “Dude’s already ghosted me once.”
“He ghosted you? Aw, Chris, I didn’t know you — ”
“No, not like that. He vanished out of thin air. I’m dead serious.”
Nora’s hand froze, contour brush tickling my temple. Next thing I knew, we’d lugged our backpacks to the public library to scour scholarly articles. Can you believe it? Researching in our free time. Closest thing we found to Sean’s condition is a process called chromism, which induces changes — reversible in most cases — in the colors of compounds. Many elements trigger this result, including heat, pH, light, and electricity.
Seems like a reach to me, but one lead is better than none at all.
My mind, sifting through last weekend’s studies, operates on a different wavelength than the rest of the class. Sean ends up introducing the clear solutions to the beaker himself. Numbly, I start the timer. Anticlimactic experiment, if you ask me. No explosions. No oozing. No smoking.
Blink. The liquid zaps dark, nearly black within a snap.
I suck a breath through my teeth. Similar reactions trickle across the neighboring stations. Mr. Torres paces beside us with that maniacal chem-teacher smile of his. Magic. Makes me wonder if the chemist responsible for the Iodine Clock Reaction was charged with witchcraft.
My gaze swivels to my partner. Hear me out. If this chemical reaction holds the ability to turn a liquid from clear to opaque in an instant, who’s to say introducing an evanescent reactant won’t reverse the outcome? While he bends over to record our observations, I dangle a pipette of extracted solution over his scalp.
Sean straightens. “What are you doing?”
“Nothing.” I drop my arm to my side. “Just screwing around.”
Frowning, my lab partner scoots to the far edge of our counter, side-eye just barely visible through his protection goggles. In chemistry, we call this pissed off. I need to throw a Hail Mary of recoveries to steer this investigation in the right direction.
“Hey, uh, I was just trying to get your attention. Wanna get slushies after school tomorrow?”
Sean stiffens. “Huh?”
“Slushies. There’s a small business just a few blocks from here. Phenomenal flavors. I’m a loyal regular, so there’s a chance they’ll offer us a fat discount.”
“For real?”
I swear, I see it: the faintest flicker of transparency. The equation on the chalkboard peeks through his torso. It’s go-time. Act now or forever ponder this impossibility.
“Yeah, man. Here.” I slide my notebook to him. “Jot down your number and I’ll text you where to meet.”
A smile twitches across his lips as he flips to an empty page. While he’s distracted, I extract a generous portion of our magic compound and aim the pipette in his direction. Quick — fire in the hole! Without looking, I squeeze. Chemicals splash across the counter. Across my chemistry notebook. Across a flinching body.
“What the — Christopher, what in God’s name!”
I peel my goggles from my face and gasp. Sean’s stool is vacant. In his place, Mr. Torres gapes at the asshole who just splattered him in solution. In chemistry, we call this screwed.
Bethany Cutkomp is a writer from St. Louis, Missouri. She enjoys catching chaotic vibes and bees with her bare hands. Her work appears in Alternative Milk Magazine, The Hooghly Review, Exposed Bone, Wireworm Magazine, Bullshit Lit, and more. Find her on social media at @bdcutkomp.
