Page 1 of Best I Never Had

1

Natalia

past - senior year

I fidgetin my seat as the hard stool underneath me grows uncomfortable. The classroom, decorated with various atomic models and a poster of a sad animated cell holding a phone with the words “no cell phones” in block letters, starts to slowly fill with students. One by one, they take their spots as our teacher, Mr. Khan, points to the assigned places on his seating chart.

“Okay, class. You’re going to grab your microscopes from the cabinets. The slides for the cells are sitting on each of your tables for you and your assigned lab partners.” Mr. Khan’s voice rings through the classroom now that everyone has settled into their seats. I notice Hayden Marshall to my right eyeing the slides sitting between us as we play a silent game of who’s-going-to-get-our-microscope before I start to stand.

“I’ll get it.” His low voice rings calmly.

I tilt my head up, meeting his eyes while making sure to smile, not wanting to come off as rude or unfriendly. His eyes, light with the tie-dye effect of olive and copper, look down at me as the wavy locks of his hair curl along his forehead and earlobes. His hands are tucked into the kangaroo pockets of his black hoodie, slightly faded, showing its comfort and use, with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows. I swivel back onto my rusty stool, turning to face the black surface of our lab table.

Why did I decide to take AP Bio? A class that I have no use for, will probably pass with a mediocre B, and will cause me unnecessary stress the entirety of my senior year. And now, I’ve been officially assigned Hayden as my lab partner.

Hayden Marshall. The jock whose interest in science shouldn’t have extended beyond learning which starch source was most efficient in fermenting beer or exactly what about the female anatomy attracts their sexual counterparts. Yet here he was, ready to differentiate squamous cells and basal cells.

I watch from my periphery as Hayden stalks back with one hand gripping the arm of the microscope and the other supporting the base. He slides the microscope across the counter, the rounded tip of his thumb brushing against the tabletop, before unraveling the thick cord and plugging it in.

“I’m Hayden, by the way,” he offers, his voice cool and collected as he steps half a step back, enough room for me to fill the space he was occupying in front of the microscope. Almost as if his plan is to follow my lead, his unfamiliarity in a lab setting showing through the cautious hesitance in his body language.

I don’t offer my name. Instead, I nod as I flick on the light source and position the first of our slides over the mechanical stage.

“You’re Natalia?”

“Nat,” I answer too quickly, pulling away from the eyepiece long enough to correct him.

“Nat,” he repeats.

Consideringwe’ve been going to the same schools since we were in eighth grade, it’s unbelievable that this is the first real interaction we’ve ever had. Maybe it’s the fact that our social circles run differently or that it’s obvious even to us that we would get along as well as oiland water. But the reasoning behind why we’re lab partners isn’t some cosmic alignment or a sudden realization that we’ll make the best of friends. It’s simply the most original order of sequence known to mankind: the alphabet. When our last names come right after the other, Marquez and Marshall, it was only a matter of time before we were brought together in a way that wasn’t our yearbook pictures sitting side by side.

I flick my pencil against the eyepiece, a hollowclink-clinkfilling the awkward silence between us. “That’s simple squamous.”

He steps in front of the microscope. His tan arm brushes against my shoulder as I lean away. I start filling out the worksheet that was passed around at the start of class while I wait for his observation of the slide. He nods as he pulls away and removes the slide for the next one with a scowl on his face that lingers between frustration and determination.

The rest of the class continues. I correct Hayden when he mistakenly identifies a pseudostratified columnar epithelium as a simple columnar, something Mr. Khan warned us of. He asks multiple times where in our text these epithelial cells can be found after finding that he had been going over the wrong chapter in our reading assignment.

After we’ve placed our equipment back to the correct spots, with Mr. Khan hovering over us like a hawk to make sure we handle everything with care, we hook our backpacks onto our shoulders and watch as the rest of class files out of the room.

Hayden turns to face me with his index finger scratching the small plane of smooth skin in front of his ear. “I swear, I’m not some dumb jock that’s hoping to skate along on my lab partner’s good graces,” he says apologetically. I look up at him, his heightstretching toward the porous tile ceiling, as he waits for me to say something, anything.

“It’s fine,” I say, sounding too timid.

“Yeah,” he answers. “I’ll be more prepared for the next class.”

I give a sympathetic nod while realizing maybe this perception of Hayden Marshall that I’ve had over the years is completely wrong. Maybe those superficial titles like “jock” or “flirt” I mentally assigned to him are inaccurate in describing the Hayden Marshall standing in front of me now.

“I really don’t mind until you catch up to the current chapter.”

He smiles at me. “Thanks.”

present – eight years later

I’ve always wanted a puppy. Growing up, my sisters, Carmen and Lucy, and I begged our parents for a dog, but they never budged. Responsibilities and whatnot. So whenever I see one, their furry tails wagging side to side and ears perked up in overzealous excitement, I find it hard to ignore them. As a result, I always give in, even if the owner is a stranger. Just a light scratch behind the ears, allowing a warm lick into the palm of my hand, or sometimes, if the moment allows, reducing myself to baby talk.

But right now, as the fluffy ball of eagerness begs for my attention, I’m left dumbfounded. Gobsmacked, befuddled, flabbergasted. All of the adjectives I can scour from my brain to define the effect of this bombshellthat’s been dropped in front of me. So instead, I watch blankly as the owner, an elderly woman with a full head of silver hair, tugs at the dog’s bright-yellow collar as she gently coaxes it to follow along. Both dog and owner scurry off into the busy sidewalk, oblivious to the numbing shock coursing through my limbs.

“Sorry, Nat.” Lucy’s voice rings through the dull city sounds. “I probably should have waited till we got back to your place to tell you.”

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