“No, it’s all good,” he says, laughing. “I’m sorry. I just ...I don’t think I’ve ever heard you ask for help before. Let alone from me.”
“I ask for help sometimes!” I say. “Like, um...” I search my memory.
“See?” he says, then puts his hands up when I glare at him. “OK, OK. Meet at lunch today?”
“I guess,” I say. “If you really want to.”
“Hey, you asked me,” he says, backing away as the bell rings. “Remember that! You asked me!”
I wave my hand at him like I’m swatting a mosquito, and he turns, booking it down the hall to wherever his next class is.
“Jerk,” I mutter, but I’m smiling.
When I walk into the library at lunch, Forrest waves from our usual table. I sit across from him and pull out my laptop, trying to ignore the anxious fluttering in my chest that’s been there since yesterday.
“So, are you really doing all right with this essay?” I ask. My laptop comes out of sleep mode, the document still open on the screen. Seeing it there makes my stomach swoop. I’m so behind. If Mom finds out—she’s working so hard right now and this will just add to her burden, I’ll add to her burden, I’m such a burden, the laptop goes fuzzy and she’s there, in my head, or I’m there, in the living room, and she’s glaring at me. “I never should have let you do Queer Alliance this year,” she says, voice raised. “It’s just a distraction, a waste of time. You’ll need to drop it and let Forrest take over. God, I’m so tired of your bullshit, I—”
“Hey,” a voice says. “You OK?”
I look up, blinking. Forrest is watching me. I nod. “Sorry. Spaced out.”
“Yeah, seemed like it.”
“Oh god.” I cover my face.
“Hey, it’s all good,” he says. “What do you have so far?”
“Exactly one page,” I say, clutching my face tighter.
“Wow,” he says. “You really are behind. You know it’s due at the end of next week, right?”
“Hey!” I drop my hands, glaring at him. I know he’s joking, but it stings.I never should have let you do Queer Alliance this y—NO.“Are you offering me help or brutal honesty?”
“Both?” He grins.
I snort. “Fine.” I show him the lists Anna and I brainstormed, and we start picking out elements that support what my thesis is trying to argue. As we do that, the thesis sharpens in my mind, and I revise it, deleting one phrase and typing another, finessing the words until we both exclaim and high-five.
Once I have the thesis and the supporting arguments, we match each one to the right section of the essay format Lundahl wants us to use. Forrest is patient, asking me questions about where things fit without rushing me for the answer, and when I get frustrated, he’s ready with a joke.
“You are weirdly good at this,” I say, sitting back in my chair.
He shrugs. “I’ve had alotof tutoring. I’m just doing what they did with me.”
“Did it work for you?”
“Kind of? Sometimes? Not always. Once I got diagnosed with ADHD, my mom found a tutor who specializes in it, and that’s been great. She’s super cool, never judges me or anything, and she has it too.”
“When did you get diagnosed?” I ask without thinking, and grimace. “Sorry, that’s rude.”
“You’re good. I don’t mind talking about it.” He waves a hand. “Freshman year. I wanted to go on meds, but my parents weren’t into the idea at first. They thought I’d have to go on a stimulant and they were concerned about it affecting my brain. But there are more options now and my tutor talked to them about it. She takes a non-stimulant, so I think that helped them get over it.”
“Nice.”
“What about you?” he asks.
“Oh, um, I’m not diagnosed with anything.”
“But you’ve got something, right?”
