Then, after taking a deep breath, I enter the library.
I’m looming over his table when he looks up at me, pen paused mid-sentence. He yanks his headphones from his ears and lets them fall around his neck, confusion settling in his pinched brows.
“Uh,” he starts. “You’re Sara?”
“Mm-hmm!” The sound comes out muffled from behind my scarf.
He sets his headphones on the desk beside him as I slip into the chair, tugging my shoulder bag to my chest like it’s a safety blanket. This is clearly odd behavior—I can see it on his face—but he doesn’t bring it up. Instead, he draws his calculus book closer.
“All right, then.” His gaze flicks to me. “What chapters are on your next test?”
Instead of answering like a normal person, I hold up my two pointer fingers.
He stares at me, unamused. “Eleven?”
I nod vigorously. See? This wasn’t my worst idea!
“Okay, so, sequences and series.” Oliver flips to the correct page. “I want you to explain what you already understand.”
Uh-oh. This is a problem. First, because I understand very little. And second, I did not expect to do much talking here. He’s the tutor, after all. I’m supposed to soak in the information in silent concentration. He speaks, I listen. Isn’t that the point?
Oliver’s mouth flattens, eyes narrowing as he waits for me to answer. I’ve got to give himsomething.
“Mm, mmfh fuhm? Mm fuhum mh—”
Is my scarf limiting my enunciation? Sure. Do I care? Absolutely not.
But whatiscrystal clear is the fact he’s annoyed.
“What?” He sighs, aggravated, and uses his pointer fingers to pinch the bridge of his nose. His glasses rise like an elevator as he does this, tangling with his floppy bangs. When he lowers his hands, he’s fully glaring at me. “Will you pull that down? I can’t understand a word you’re saying.”
Before I can stop him, he reaches over and tugs down my scarf.
Heat blooms in my face as my jaw slackens in shock—did he figure me out?!—but he just stares into my soul with what I’m now realizing is his signature unamused expression. One eyebrow raised, mouth tilted down. All business without an ounce of friendliness, and this makes me I wonder if he’s ever experienced real human joy. Maybe he should try karaoke.
“You were saying?” he prompts.
Confirmation: He doesn’t recognize me.
Phew.
“Um,” I start. “Sequences? Are those the, uh, numbers? With the letters?”
Oliver hangs his head, disappointment evident. “Let’s just start from the beginning.”
Well, great. He assumes that I possess one single brain cell. Not even that—perhaps he believes there’s a wet noodle floating around in there instead of a brain.
My blush deepens, but he’s already turning his textbook toward me.
“Sequences are numbers that follow a pattern in a specific order, which are either infinite or finite,” he explains in this monotonous, dull tone. Geez, he’s worse than Mr. Day. “And a series is the sum of the terms in a sequence, then you have numbers in a sequence. Those are calledterms. So you see here,nis your index variable. Now, we can denote this infinite ordered list by—”
My brain pulses. (Because, yes, I do have one.) A headache starts to form behind my eyes, and my vision goes all glossy and ethereal. IswearI’m trying to focus, but he’s regurgitating what’s printed in the textbook like reading comprehension is my biggest issue. This doesn’t make the math magically click.
He goes on for the next hour. Any time he asks “Make sense?” I only nod, even though I’m retaining very little. My eyes keep ticking to the clock on the wall, begging for time to speed up. I’mexhausted. Who knew calculus could zap all your energy?
“Okay, complete those worksheets since that’s your homework, and then we’ll review it next time we meet.” He closes his textbook. “When’s your first test?”
“Next week,” I tell him. “I’ve bombed my quizzes so far.”
