The First Time I Kissed

# Chapter 1: Chemical Reactions

The first time I kissed a boy, I tasted salt and Winterfresh gum and possibility.

But that came later.

First came the mortifying moment in chemistry class when Mr. Peterson announced we'd be working with assigned lab partners for the semester project. First came the collective groan from twenty-three juniors who'd rather choose their own partners. First came the flutter of panic in my chest because group projects were basically an invitation for someone else to mess up my GPA.

"When I call your names, find each other and pick a station," Mr. Peterson said, adjusting his glasses as he consulted his clipboard. "Abernathy and Wilson. Chen and Gonzalez. Delaney and Foster."

I tuned out, mentally reviewing the periodic table—my go-to calming technique since freshman year. Hydrogen, helium, lithium, beryllium...

"Morgan and Reynolds."

My head snapped up. Morgan—that was me, Eliza Morgan. Reynolds meant Jake Reynolds, who sat two rows over, his dark blond hair perpetually falling across his forehead, his uniform somehow looking casually rumpled in a way that never got him dress-coded.

Jake Reynolds, who'd moved to Bayridge last year and immediately became friends with everyone. Jake Reynolds, who was currently captain of the baseball team despite being a junior. Jake Reynolds, who always had a group of people around him in the cafeteria, laughing at something he'd said.

Jake Reynolds, who was now looking directly at me with a half-smile that made my stomach do a weird flip.

"Looks like we're partners," he said, sliding into the empty seat beside me. He smelled like laundry detergent and something citrusy. "I'm Jake."

"I know," I said, then immediately wanted to disappear into the floor. "I mean, I'm Eliza."

"I know," he echoed, his smile widening to reveal a slightly crooked front tooth that somehow made him more appealing, not less. "You're the swim team girl who destroyed St. Margaret's last month. That was impressive."

I blinked, surprised he'd noticed. Swimming was my thing—the one place where I felt completely in control, where the chaos of my life disappeared into the rhythm of strokes and breaths. But it wasn't exactly a high-profile sport at Bayridge.

"Thanks," I managed, tucking a damp strand of hair behind my ear. Morning practice meant my hair never fully dried before first period. "It was a good meet."

"Good? Coach Bennett was practically doing cartwheels. Pretty sure I heard him say you broke some record."

I felt heat creep into my cheeks. The 200-meter freestyle record had stood for twelve years before I'd broken it by two-tenths of a second. It was the accomplishment I was most proud of, but I hadn't realized anyone outside the swim team had paid attention.

"School record," I admitted. "Not by much, though."

"Still counts." Jake pulled out his notebook—surprisingly neat, I noticed—and flipped to a clean page. "So, chemistry partners. Full disclosure: I'm decent at this stuff but not amazing. You're probably going to have to stop me from accidentally creating some toxic gas that evacuates the building."

I found myself smiling despite my initial reservations. "As long as you don't mess with my grade point average, we'll be fine."

"Ah, so you're one of those." He said it without judgment, just observation.

"One of what?"

"The perfect GPA crowd. The 'my future depends on every single test score' people."

I stiffened slightly. "Is there something wrong with caring about grades?"

"Not at all," Jake said easily. "Just making an observation. My sister's the same way. She's at UCLA now, pre-med. Calls me every week having a breakdown about organic chemistry."

Before I could respond, Mr. Peterson called the class to attention and began explaining our semester project: analyzing household products to identify their chemical compositions, then creating our own versions with modifications to improve environmental impact.

"You'll work in your assigned pairs," he said, "meeting both during class time and outside of school as needed. Final presentations will be the week before winter break."

Outside of school. The words echoed in my head as I glanced sideways at Jake, who was actually taking notes, his handwriting surprisingly neat. Outside of school meant coordinating schedules. Outside of school meant possibly having him over to my house, where Mom might be having one of her "gray days" as she called them, where the evidence of our family falling apart was still scattered through rooms with missing furniture and blank spaces on walls where Dad's photos used to hang.

"So," Jake said as Mr. Peterson finished and the class began to buzz with conversation again, "when are you free to work on this? I have baseball practice Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays after school."

"I have swim practice every morning and Tuesday, Thursday afternoons," I said automatically. "And I work at the library on Saturday mornings."

"Sunday?" he suggested. "Or maybe evenings after practice? My house is kind of chaotic right now—my mom's in the middle of some massive redecorating project and there's furniture everywhere. But we could meet at the library or something."

The library was safe. Public. No chance of him seeing the current state of my home life.

"Library works," I agreed. "Thursday evening? I'm done with practice by five."

"Perfect." He grinned, and I noticed a small dimple in his right cheek that I hadn't seen before. "I'll bring snacks. What's your poison—sweet or salty?"

The question caught me off guard. In my experience, study sessions were serious business, not social events with snacks.

"Um, salty, I guess? Pretzels or something."

"Noted." Jake scribbled something in the margin of his notebook. "And what household products should we analyze? I was thinking maybe different brands of laundry detergent? Or is that too boring?"

For the next twenty minutes, we brainstormed ideas, eventually settling on comparing different types of sunscreen—relevant to our beach town and environmentally significant given the recent studies about certain chemicals damaging coral reefs.

As the bell rang, Jake tore a page from his notebook and scribbled something on it.

"My number," he said, handing it to me. "In case you need to change plans or whatever."

I took the paper, oddly conscious of my fingers brushing against his.

"Thanks. I'll text you so you have mine."

"Cool." He shouldered his backpack, that easy smile returning. "See you Thursday, lab partner."

I watched him walk away, immediately surrounded by friends as he entered the hallway. The paper with his number felt strangely significant in my hand, though I couldn't have explained why.

It was just a chemistry project. Just a random lab partner assignment. Just a boy who happened to notice my swimming record and had a sister at UCLA and a dimple in his right cheek.

Nothing to make my heart beat faster. Nothing to make me suddenly conscious of my chlorine-scented hair and the ink stain on my uniform sleeve. Nothing to make me wonder what it might be like to be one of those people in the hallway who seemed to effortlessly exist in Jake Reynolds' orbit.

I carefully folded the paper and tucked it into my chemistry textbook, then gathered my things and headed to calculus, pushing away the strange flutter in my chest.

After all, it was just chemistry.

The academic kind.

Nothing more.