So maybe I do have a bit of a God complex.
Noah writes his quotes list while I browse through the practice prompts our English teacher gave us. I want to plan for as many topics as possible so that we’re prepared when we step into the classroom tomorrow.
Earlier today, Noah called me. I thought it would be about our usual walk/run in the evening (we’ve compromised and decided to jog together every third day. Noah still runs daily, before our walks). Instead, Noah said, “we have an English thing on Monday, don’t we?”
By agreeing to help him study, I got out of today’s run, which was a bonus. But as soon as I arrived at Noah’s and read his notes and practice essays, I realised we had to start from the very beginning.
We’ve decided to complete blocks of studying, and when my phone timer rings, we stand up and stretch our limbs. I pick up our empty water bottles and take them to the connected kitchen.
At the sink, I fill up a water bottle. “Hey, I have a question.”
“Should I be scared?”
“No, but it’s something I’ve been wondering for a while. Why are you older than everyone else in the year level?”
Noah chuckles. “I haven’t been kept down a year level, if that’s what you’re thinking. I went to kindergarten late, so then I went to primary school late.”
“Ah,” I say. “I’m surprised.”
“What, that I haven’t been kept down?” Noah asks with a yawn. It’s not ten o’clock yet, but I guess studying exhausts him.
How to say this nicely? “No. That … that you care about this English essay. Before I knew you, I thought you didn’t care about school at all.”
I watch Noah’s face for hints that I hurt him, but he nods. “Well. That’s true. It’s hard to make me care.”
The words come out before I can stop them. “But how can you not care? The purpose of school is education, and you go to a private school.”
“Trust me, Eve, I know.” He sighs. “When I was a kid, I didn’t care about school because I was a kid. So then I wasn’t good at it. I think I’ve been catching up ever since, and I can’t. I suck at school because I’ve always sucked.”
I fill up the second water bottle. “I don’t think you suck. I think it’s about effort. By trying, I bet you’ll do way better than usual on this English essay.”
“You reckon?”
“Sure,” I say, turning off the faucet and screwing on the lids of the water bottles. “Besides, you have my help.”
“My parents want me to be a doctor,” he says.
I pause, before walking over to the table. Instead of my usual seat across from him, I sit on the head of the table so I’m closer. “I thought you wanted to be an athlete.”
“A professional footballer. But how likely is that?” he scoffs, his finger traces the woof grains of the dining table.
“Hey. It’s not that unrealistic. And apart from playing football, there are heaps of other jobs associated with the AFL.”
“Yeah. Well. My brothers are going to be doctors.”
It makes sense. Many kids go to Easton Grammar to get into certain courses at university. In Year 9, a teacher asked my class to say what they wanted to be when they grew up and there was an overwhelming number of wannabe doctors, lawyers and engineers.
“I think they have some hope that I will too, but I can’t. I know I won’t turn into a genius and get into the course,” Noah continues. “It’s ages away, but I’m dreading the day I get my Year 12 results.”
“If you become a professional footballer, you’ll earn more than a doctor,” I say. “I think.”
“Maybe.”
“Look. Doyouwant to be a doctor?” I say, nudging Noah so he’ll meet my eyes. The sentence startles him. “Because if you want to, you can. There are pathways and everything,” I add. “Besides, you have one of the most employable skills, anyway.”
“What?”
“Charisma. Gregariousness.”
