A lie, but before I can correct myself, he continues on.
“Okay. You do the next one.”
I pick up my pencil and freeze. My head pounds. Which formula do I use for this again? There are so many. They’re all starting to look the same too.
After a moment, he sighs.
“Remember, this formula,” he begins, tapping at the section in his textbook. “It looks like this.”
He jots it down on my worksheet, going over the problem, but soon enough I’m lost again. He may as well have said purple potatoes equal X but Y equals turkey legs, and XYZ equals blah, blah,blah.
I keep nodding along like it will magically unlock in the math portion of my brain, but it doesn’t. Then Oliver moves on to the next lesson, showing me how to find the derivative of functions. But, oh! This requires algebra in order to evaluate the limit, which involves multiple steps in order to get an answer.
By the time we get through one stinking problem, my brain is on fire.
“Well, that’s time.” Oliver closes his textbook. “Any questions?”
Uh, yeah. Just one.Whyam I so bad at this?
“No,” I mumble, rubbing my temples.
“Right, well, we started your homework, so do the rest for next time and we’ll review it together.” He starts packing his backpack, not bothering to look at me. “Oh, and what did you want to talk about?”
That’s right. The bet. I have to tell him—except I’m not prepared. We did so much math that I haven’t had a second to think about what I’d say. How do I even begin? MaybeSo, take the subway often?No—what aboutAnything weird happen to you lately? Like some stranger asking you to kiss her out of nowhere? Funny story . . .
Ack! I need to workshop this.
“Nothing,” I mutter, shifting my gaze to my shoes. “Never mind.”
I feel him watching me as I stuff my textbook in my bag and throw the strap over my shoulder. When I gather the courage to peer up at him, he’s palming the back of his neck. Almost like he’s nervous. No—aggravated? I have no idea. He’s more difficult to solve than a freaking derivative function.
Maybe confessing would come easier if he was friendlier. Instead, he’s always staring at me like I’ve sprinkled dirt on his ice cream. It’s very off-putting. Someone should let him know. Not me, of course, because I don’t currently have a death wish.
He lets out a long sigh, then steps around me and exits without another word. I wait until I’m sure he’s gotten a long head start, then unwrap the scarf from around my neck. So much for bravery and courage. Where’s my confidence?
Can’t I doanythingright?
SIXTEEN
Patrick
I’m heading to lunch with Sara the next day when she releases a squeal and ducks behind me.
“What the—?”
“Shh!” she hisses.
From a distance, I spot the reason for her distress. Oliver saunters toward us, a sour grimace pasted across his mouth. Is he always in a bad mood or something? What’s his deal?
I puff my chest out like it’ll help hide Sara—it’s a good thing she’s so short—and nod politely as he passes. A casual bro nod, if you will. New Kid only cocks an eyebrow, then shoots me a strange look before disappearing into the cafeteria.
What did I do to deserve that? Nothing, that’s what. Some people have no manners.
“That’s the math tutor I was telling you about,” a junior gushes to her friend as they stroll past us. “Helped me get an A on my last test—andhe’s cute.”
Sara clucks her tongue, emerging from behind me. “Yeah, right. He’s notthatgood,” she mumbles under her breath. “And he’s mean.”
Poor Sara. She texted me last night to explain how awful tutoring went, then admitted she never followed through with the bet. I didn’t think she’d have the guts to confess, but I’d secretly hoped she would. If anything, it would have made her life easier.
