The conversation drifts to other topics: Leo's latest theoretical breakthrough, Lucas’ ongoing battle with his programming assignment, and Max's plans for Edgar 2.0. I listen and jump in when I can, but part of my brain is stuck on tomorrow's tutoring session.
Did I leave my good pens at the library? The ones that don't smudge. Fuck, I need those for anatomy diagrams.
"—and then the whole server crashed," Luca's saying, gesturing with his beer.
I hate needing help. I hate struggling with any academic subject. And most of all, I hate the idea of some smug psychology expert looking at me like I'm a particularly interesting lab specimen because I can't grasp concepts that seem obvious to everyone else.
Should probably wash my jeans. Or just buy new ones. When did I last do laundry? Tuesday? No, that was dishes. Christ, I'm turning into one of those med students who forgets basic hygiene.
"Seb? You good?" Max waves a hand in front of my face.
"Yeah, just thinking about tomorrow."
Wonder if Mom's right about Stanford. Would be close enough to bring laundry home. No. Bad thought. Can not become that guy.
It's getting late when I remember I still have to go get my car. Leo grabs his keys from the hook by the door.
"Come on, I'll drive you back to your parents' place," he says, already heading outside. "Unless you're planning to run another ten miles tonight?"
"Even I'm not that crazy," I say, following him to his ancient Honda, which smells perpetually of coffee and old textbooks.
The drive to my parents' neighborhood is quiet for the first few minutes. Then Leo looks over.
"Statistically speaking, most people who need tutoring end up with a better understanding than if they'd figured it out themselves."
"Is that supposed to make me feel better?"
"Just data." He shrugs, turning onto my parents' street. "But data suggests you're going to be fine. And if this tutor is an ass, we'll work together and destroy them… Systematically."
I bark out a laugh. "Thanks, Leo."
"Besides," he adds with a cryptic smile as he pulls up behind my car, "I have a feeling about tomorrow."
"A feeling?" One eyebrow raises. "That's not very scientific of you."
"Even statisticians occasionally rely on intuition." He puts the car in park. "See you back at the house."
"Night. Thanks for the ride."
As I drive back home, I'm trying to shake off the dread about tomorrow's session. It's just tutoring. One hour of my life. Endure it, pass the class, and move on to things that matter.
The whole thing will probably be painfully awkward, some overeager psychology major who thinks they can decode my "issues" in an hour. They'll probably want to discuss my feelings about learning or some equally ridiculous topic.
But at least it'll be over quickly, one torturous session where I nod politely and pretend their insights are revolutionary. And maybe they will give me tips on how to get through this term and then be done.
Then I can get back to the critical stuff that actually determines my future: finalizing my med school applications, finishing that research paper on cardiovascular anomalies, studying for the MCAT retake I'm considering. Real work that matters, not pseudo-scientific babble about learning styles and emotional barriers.
One psychology tutor armed with textbook theories can't possibly be that bad. Right?
Chapter 7
Tutor Me Doc
Sebastian
Istare at Professor Harrington across his cluttered desk, trying to keep my expression neutral despite the bomb he's just dropped.
"I don't need a tutor for the rest of the semester. This was just going to be once or maybe twice, I thought." I say for the third time, as if repetition might somehow change his mind. "I understand the material."
