The Opiate, Summer Vol. 18
The Way Things Work Mary Bunten
I
was so excited. At my new school, sixth grade science class met in a real lab equipped with microscopes, Bunsen burners and old-fashioned silver scales, the tiny weights like graduated gold beads. The metric system! Soon I would be fluent in the real language of science. At my old school, the closest we’d come to doing experiments was melting crayons on the radiators. Now, my new teacher handed out mimeographed sheets lined with purple, licorice-smelling instructions. “In order to learn about the spectrum—you know, Roy G Biv—we’ll deprive bean plants of different colors of light.” She assigned partners, put me with the other new girl. We were the only ones wearing our uniform’s regulation long-sleeved white blouse. The others wore shortsleeved polo shirts with little alligators over the left breast. Eyes followed me as I washed my hands beneath the swannecked faucet hooked over the sink. Our hands didn’t need to be sterile to plant bean seeds in potting mix, but I sudsed up with Phisohex anyway, scrubbing each finger like I was prepping for surgery. A tall girl stopped and stared at me. “What are you
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doing?” I froze. She murmured something to her friend, a sloppy-looking girl with ink-stained fingers. Confused, I rinsed off and sat down. My partner’s round, pale face beamed sympathy. “I’m Vivian,” she whispered. “Is this your first day, too?” Compared to me, Vivian was giant. The wide strap of her bra made her back bulge, and she had the fat, pale legs of a baby doll. A few pale blemishes splotched her otherwise porcelain skin; the glossy brown curls cascading down her back showcased a bad case of dandruff. Her smile was as friendly as a dog’s. I liked her immediately. For the next half-hour we taped red and blue gels to the sides of glass aquariums where our bean sprouts would either thrive or die. We were both taking English in the afternoons. We’d both been salutatorian of our fifth grades. Vivian played clarinet and took singing lessons. I played piano. She didn’t know what she wanted to be when she grew up. I wanted to be a doctor. I showed her the
