Alex sighs. “You’re not stupid.”
I don’t let up. “Then why?”
Alex unfolds his arms. Picks up his pencil. Taps it on his desk. Then he looks at me again. “I was in your algebra class. Freshman year, remember?” I do. We didn’t have seat assignments, so I sat in the back, whispering back and forth with Whitney most of the time. “And no offense or anything, but you weren’t very good at those races then, either.”
So he does think I’m stupid. Shame eats away at me. Why couldn’t I come back from Portland smarter and more sophisticated?
“And I hate how Mrs. D puts us on the spot with those races. She never asks if anyone needs clarification or if we want to run through more examples.” Alex leans over and grabs his beanie from his backpack. He places it on his head. It tames his mass of curls, making his brown eyes seem a little rounder. Softer. “So yeah, maybe I wanted to prove a point. I knew I could deflect the attention away from you if I did.”
I let out a hot breath of air. Howdarehe think of me as charity. I don’t need anyone’s help, especially not in frigging algebra class.
Alex studies me. “You’re mad.”
“You’re observant,” I snap.
He holds his hands up in defense. “I was just trying to help.”
“Well look where your help landed us.”
“No.” Alex’s tone is harsh now. “This is whereyourdecision landedyou.” He leans over in the seat. “You never even saw my answer. You ran out too quickly.”
Dammit. He’s right, and he knows it. This would be so much easier if I could just blame him. Instead I say nothing.
We go back to our work. I can’t help but run his words back through my mind.I just wanted to help. Why? Especially after I ignored his text message all those months ago.
Unless those feelings never went away?
I keep my head down, peering at him through my peripheral vision. He has a pencil in one hand. The other is propped up on his chin as he studies his packet. He’s distant, not exactly the eager freshman who’d find any excuse to talk to me during classes and text me after each newSupernaturalepisode.
I’m overthinking this. Of course he’s moved on.
“Thank you,” I say.
Alex looks over at me.
I take a breath. “You’re right. I didn’t know what I was doing up there, so… thanks.”
The corner of his mouth lifts.
I turn to my packet. A moment later, I hear him riffling through his backpack. When I look over he goes, “You hungry?”
I give him a confused stare.
Alex sits up in his seat. “Go long.”
He tosses a ball of foil toward me. I catch it.
“Oh,”I say. “Is this—?”
He stands up and moves a few desks closer to mine. As he sets his bag down, I peel away the foil. Inside is pan dulce—a sweet bread his mom always had ready at the restaurant.
“I haven’t had this since—”
I stop myself. I was about to say since Grams bought some from Rosita’s Place for my birthday two years ago, but I don’t want to bring her up. I don’t want Alex to think that I’m giving him an opening to talk about her. It’s still sometimes hard to talk about her without getting emotional.
Luckily Alex doesn’t mind my unfinished thought. “My mom and I made them this morning.”
Alex’s family owns Rosita’s Place—an authentic Mexican restaurant right off Main Street. The recipes are from his great-great-grandmother and have been a huge success in Cedarville.
