Free While You Were Gone by Amy K. Nichols Page B

don’t work for them.” He zips up his backpack. “I’m an intern.”
    “You know what I mean.”
    He thinks a moment, then says, “Let’s just say I’m doing my part to ensure the promise of our future.” He grins, knowing I’d recognize the line from Dad’s speech. “Seriously, though, it’s the ultimate gig for a science student. Huge opportunity. Security systems are just one aspect of DART. There are lots of programs people don’t know about. Stealth technologies. Microbiological weaponry. You name it.”
    “Do you work on those, too?”
    “If I told you that, I’d have to kill you.” He slings his backpack over his shoulder and we walk together toward the exit.
    He stops at the art wall, in front of a small painting of a rose. “Is this one of yours?”
    “Yes.” I’m still not happy with the way I painted the shadows beneath the petals.
    “You know what you should do? Paint mash-ups of art and science.” He crashes his hands together like an implosion. “That would be cool.”
    “Probably wouldn’t get approved.”
    “Approved shmooved.” He holds open the door and we walk out into warm midday air.
    “Until next time, Eevee Solomon.” He makes an exaggerated bow and saunters down the sidewalk. When he’s almost out of earshot, he turns and yells, “Don’t forget the note!”

The school welding shop roars with dozens of motors and machines running at once. Germ guides a length of metal tubing through the roller. It winds around in a wide arc. When it’s done, he passes it to me and starts on the next one. I measure and mark two and a half feet, then make the cut using the band saw. My brain tells me over and over to pay attention, but the rattle of the machine puts me in a kind of trance. My thoughts spin like the blade, on an endless loop.
    This morning, three more girls stopped to talk to me when I got to school. That’s five so far. Definitely a new record. That never happens to me back home, unless you count them calling me a burnout or a loser. Still, I would trade all the girls I’ve ever talked to in either world for the chance to see the grocery store girl again.
    “Hey!” Germ’s voice snaps me out of my daze. He slides the last piece on the table and measures the tile we’ve chosen for the top. “Earth to Ogden.”
    I switch the machine off and carry the cut pieces over to the worktable.
    “You looked like you were trying to lose a finger,” he says. “You okay?”
    “Zoned out for a sec.”
    The teacher, a wiry guy with a Fu Manchu mustache, gave us an hour to create a stable structure. Other teams are building toolboxes, racks. Looks like one team is making a bench. We chose a table. And so far, so good. I’ve never done this kind of stuff before, and I’m watching Germ for cues, but it seems like I’ve got the hang of it. Like it comes naturally. I pull off my work gloves to wipe the sweat from under my safety goggles. My hands are grimy, but it’s a satisfying grunge. It feels right.
    If Palo Brea were more like this, I probably wouldn’t ditch so much. Less lecturing, more doing. And doing real stuff, especially.
    “We still on for tonight?” Germ grabs his welding helmet. I grab mine, too, and slip the band onto my head, wincing when it rubs the bruise.
    “Yep.” I line up a length of the metal tubing with the upside-down table frame and flip my visor down. Germ leans in and takes the first weld. My visor window reacts to the bright glow, then clears so I can see. The metal sizzles and pops as he weaves the wire through the seam. I watch him closely, studying how he moves. When the leg is secured all around, he flips his helmet up and blows on the welder tip like it’s the barrel of a gun. Then it’s my turn.
    We trade places and I take a deep breath while he lines up the next leg. When he gives me the nod, I set the welder tip in place and flip my helmet down. I press the trigger, but the wire misses the metal and spools out. A total dud. I groan