Free The Science of Second Chances by Nicky Penttila Page B

psychedelic color collected in one place since her school days. She smiled in spite of herself. Little Littletown High was still flying its freak flag, even after the rest of the world had moved on. That must have been what he meant: Matt must be a teacher now, or a chaperone. She did the math—the timing was right.
    Sam made her way through ricocheting kids toward the group. She couldn’t tell which were the counselors, so many of the boys were so tall, until one stepped in front of her, gray in his sideburns. “Matt?” she said.
    “Sam.”
    He hadn’t changed. Everything about him had changed. His hair, such a fair brown, was now a little lighter. He’d filled out, not fat but solid. His wrists weren’t the girly ones they used to tease him about. His smile was small, and tentative.
    She stared. She couldn’t help it. Something about him fed her, nourished some part of her that she’d thought had withered and died long ago. Surprised she was still breathing, Sam struggled for something to say. “Still with the tie-dye.”
    “We’re so behind the times we’re retro, the kids say.” He hadn’t moved, hadn’t stopped staring at her. Then he stepped forward, quickly kissing her at the top of her cheek. She barely had time to blink ; her lashes touched his lips. Not only did she not move away, her hips rocked forward. Stupid pheromones . Before she could properly react, he took her hand and turned away from her.
    “These are this year’s seniors. Well, half of them. The other half are at American History.”
    “Wouldn’t you rather be there?”
    He turned back, that shy smile still on his too-wide, too-rich lips. “You remember.”
    She’d have to be an idiot not to. She tried to huff impatiently, but what came out sounded more like Marilyn Monroe in Some Like it Hot . She bit her lip to stop herself from rolling her eyes. Reverting to high school, in the space of thirty seconds. He didn’t seem to hear in all the cacophony, thank heavens.
    “No, I’m just a chaperone. My boy, there, wanted to see this.” He gestured toward a gawky tow-headed teenager who could have been Matt if Sam had traveled through a time machine. Her heart lurched, but quickly settled. Something was wrong. This kid didn’t attract her.
    W hat if he had? She shook the thought out of her head. “We never had iPods blaring in our ears and phone screens in front of our faces on a field trip. How can they learn anything like that?”
    Matt chuckled, which drew his son’s attention. Now she could see the differences : the boy’s tight mouth, his half-lidded eyes, the tenseness in his back. He belonged to the new breed, the young. “They’re not here to learn science. I mean, did you, on our trip?”
    She frowned. Didn’t I?
    He shook his head. “They’re here to learn how to be on their own, without parents, without structure.”
    “Seems to me they have plenty of structure. And more than a few parents.”
    “But even we managed to sneak beer into our hotel rooms, do you remember?”
    “We were idiots.”
    “All teenagers are. From time to time.”
    The son had heard that, she saw from his grimace. She also heard Matt’s resulting sigh. He looked at her, and she saw a new weariness in his eyes. “Where should we start? Dinosaurs?”
    She shook her head. “Skip it . It’s way out-of-date. Do Human Origins first.” Matt rounded up three tie-dyed girls and three boys, all with bangs hanging into their eyes, and shepherded them across the hall toward that exhibit.
    The boy who belonged to Matt bumped him on the side and glared at her. Matt didn’t see the glare , and Sam shook it off. She understood the possessive impulse among the young of the species; she’d seen it enough in the oceans. At least the mother isn’t here .
    Matt parked his crew in front of the first video kiosk, an overview of gene sequencing. She’d hung back, and he stepped back to join her. “Is it safe to take your eyes off them?” she