I nod. “Ready.”
A friend of mine in elementary school had a little sister who was deaf, and I remember watching them sign to each other on the playground. That day, I went home and begged my parents for sign language classes until they finally caved. It was one hobby that my father didn’t squash—probably because he could exploit it later on in his career, which he did.
We dive into the session, working through the few homework assignments we have due this next week.
“Explain this reaction mechanism to me,” I say, tapping a diagram of a nucleophilic substitution in his textbook. His blue-green eyes hold mine for a moment, searching for an answer.
He takes a deep breath and tries to explain.“Okay,”he signs slowly.“The hydroxide attacks the carbon. Leaving the group is bromine, so it’s an SN2 reaction… backside attack.”
As he signs, I sketch a quick arrow-pushing diagram in his notebook to illustrate what he’s explaining. I lean over the table to show him, and a stray lock of my dark hair slips and falls in front of my eyes. Before I can tuck it back, Jasper reaches out gently and brushes the strand behind my ear. His fingertips graze my neck for barely a second, but I go completely still, my heart doing a weird little flip at the brief contact. It’s such a simple, platonic gesture, but try telling that to the heat creeping up my cheeks. I duck my head, pretending to fix my diagram to hide my blush.
Focus, Mara. This is a study session. I’m his tutor.
He doesn’t seem to notice my fluster. Instead, his fingers run over my drawing. The tendons in his forearms shift and I find myself staring at the rose wrapping around his right forearm. And when he twists his wrist, I see the tail of a dragon curling toward his elbow.
He clears his throat, snapping me out of my trance.
“Exactly! SN2—one-step bimolecular. Good. Good.” I shake my head and take a deep breath.
Later, Jasper fumbles through a particularly-convoluted reaction mechanism, “Nope,” I tease, tapping my pen against the table. “You flipped the nucleophile and the leaving group again.”
Jasper groans, dragging a hand down his face.
He’s trying. I respect that.
“You’re getting there. Don’t be so hard on yourself.”
Jasper smiles, sheepishly, then signs back,“Thanks. I’m just not naturally good at this stuff,”rolling his eyes in that quiet, self-deprecating way he does when he’s not sure if he’s joking or judging himself.
I narrow my eyes playfully. “What’s your major again?”
He signs,“Business,”and then adds quickly,“But I need this class for the pre-med core. Technically, I’m trying to double major with bio-psych, but… chemistry’s not exactly my thing.”
“Ah. So you just like to torture yourself?” I tease, lips twitching into something close to a smirk.
He groans again, slumping forward in his chair, head in his hands for dramatic effect.“It’s evil. This whole subject is a scam.”
“Well, unfortunately for you, it’s a required scam,” I remind him. “But you’re doing fine. You just need more practice.”
He peeks up at me through his fingers, then drops his hands and straightens.“One step at a time, right?”
I nod. “Exactly.”
His smile deepens, and I catch a dimple in his left cheek that I haven’t noticed before. Weird, the things you start seeing once the frustration clears.
He signs,“So… what about you? Are you actually into this stuff, or just a masochist like me?”
“I’m a control freak. So, yeah.”
He laughs with a soft, breathy exhale.“Figures.”
“I like rules that can be bent without anyone noticing,” I add, tapping the edge of the textbook. “Organic’s not intuitive, but once you understand the patterns, it obeys. Unlike people.”
That makes him pause, just for a second. Then he nods slowly, like he’s filing that away.
“Your brain is terrifying,”he signs.
“Thank you,” I deadpan, and he grins.
