The Brothers' Lot - Kevin Holohan [64]
Finbar was also convinced that the tiny microscope his parents had given him was a complete last-minute purchase. Never in his life had he expressed the slightest interest in science. He directed all his anger at them into this defiant act of buying cigarettes on this, the first day back at school after the break.
“Two loosies and two matches,” muttered the ragged third year.
“Are ye sure ye can do it with two matches? It’s a windy day out there. Five for a penny?”
Malachy was on a marketing drive. He had been told to up profitability. The dream of Irish reunification could not be realized if he kept selling only one match per loose cigarette.
Malachy turned and suddenly it was Finbar’s turn. He took a deep breath and let it out as casually and confidently as he could: “Two loosies and two matches, please.”
Malachy flipped the loose cigarettes onto the counter and two matches on top of them. Finbar dropped four pennies into the expectant palm. Malachy raised his eyebrows in derision: “What d’you think? Matches grow on trees?”
Finbar handed over another ha’penny. Malachy’s hand snapped shut like a trap and he fired the change into the little drawer under the counter. The boy stuffed his smokes and matches into the top pocket of his shirt and bolted for the door.
“It’s all right. You can light up in here before you go out,” called Malachy.
Finbar ignored him. He was not going to attempt to light a cigarette in full view of anyone.
“Now, before you all go running at this thing like a bull at a gate, take a couple of minutes to make sure you have ever ything. Each group… Ah, good morning, Mr. Sullivan, nice of you to finally join us. Sit down there with Scully and Ferrara. Each group should have a beaker, a pipette, copper oxide crystals, a piece of turnip, and some blotting paper,” explained Mr. Devlin, the Biology teacher.
Finbar squeezed in at the bench beside Ferrara. Beads of now cold sweat sat on his forehead. He was chilled and his face felt like it was pulled too tight across his skull. Notwithstanding, it was a vast improvement on how he had felt five minutes before as he threw his guts up in the lane behind Baker’s Pride with the smell of fresh-baked bread mocking his upheaving stomach. He tried to not even think of the second cigarette that still nestled in his shirt pocket, filled with the promise of new experiences of nausea, dizziness, and puking.
“Sir! Sir!”
“Yes, Mr. McDonagh?”
“We don’t have a pipette.”
Mr. Devlin walked down to the bench where McDonagh was sitting. He picked up the pipette that was lying on the bench and held it up: “And what do you think this is? Blotting paper?”
“No sir,” muttered McDonagh. He was not going to admit that he thought a pipette was one of those really sharp little knives.
The boys watched bemused as Mr. Devlin demonstrated the experiment. He put some copper sulfate crystals in the bottom of a beaker, added some water using the pipette, then laid the slice of turnip on the solution and placed the blotting paper on top. The experiment would show how the turnip would conduct the solution up into itself; the blotting paper would then turn bright blue. It was a boring experiment and Mr. Devlin knew it.
“Now, each group should repeat the experiment a second time to verify, but be very sure that you only get eighty milliliters of water in the pipette; no more, no less.” That should slow them down, he thought with satisfaction.
There was a momentary lull as the boys tried to figure out exactly what to do. Then there was a slight shift in the silence. To a more experienced ear than Mr. Devlin’s it would have signaled danger, but he noticed nothing. It was that crystalline moment when the boys understood, intuitively as a unit, that Devlin did not know what he was doing and had not really prepared the class. Lack of total control was like a gasoline smell in the air and the boys could sense