She leans against the doorframe, her arms crossed. “I'm here to tutor you.”
I stay rooted in my seat and she just walks inside the room like she owns the place. She's still in her uniform even though school ended a few hours ago. She probably stayed behind for stem club; she does that every Monday.
I mentally face palm. “Fuck, I didn't even realize. Why didn't you let me know beforehand?”
I completely forgot that we had a tutoring session today. Honestly, I half expected her to cancel our tutoring, but she's actually listening to what I said to her on Friday—about going back to hating each other. She's acting normal and I can't fault her for it because I know she wants that commendation letter, so of course, she still needs to tutor me. So why is her nonchalance irritating me?
“I emailed you,” she says with a shrug, as she just stands in front of me with her hands in her pockets.
She's wearing trousers for once, her white shirt untucked as usual, her navy-blue tie loosened, and her black backpack slung around her right shoulder.
She captures the essence of being a student so perfectly, like a swirl of innocence and rebellion, with a plethora of exhaustion.
“I barely check my emails. You should have called me,” I respond in an agitated tone. I should have brought this up in the countless weeks she spent tutoring me via email, but I didn’t care that much then.
I care now though, because I need to be notified before she just shows up at my house. What if I looked ridiculous? Or I was sick?
She rolls her eyes. “I don't have your number, genius.”
“Really? I have yours.”
“What? How?”
“Year nine when I stole your phone and switched all your contacts, remember?”
She clenches her jaw and I smile smugly. I still remember how angry she was at me. I'm assuming she had a difficult time changing her contacts back. She probably sent a dozen wrong messages before she realized what I had done.
I messed with her like that all the time, especially during the first few years of school. However, I used that specific incident as an opportunity to steal her number and save it.
As funny as it may sound, her number is the only one I can recite from memory.
Weird.
She scoffs. “Don't look so smug or are you forgetting what I did to you after?”
“As if I could forget; I had blue hair dye stuck in my hair for months.” I shake my head, annoyed at the memory.
To be fair, it was a good response, but thankfully, it was temporary hair dye. I remember how smug she looked that day, my mother kept asking me how it happened and obviously, I never told her. It was between me and Adaline; our game has only ever been between us.
“At least, it brought out the colour of your eyes.” She chuckles. Although her compliment is sarcastic, it still brings a blush to my cheeks.
She thinks about my eyes?
“Anyway …” I clear my throat, “I can't have a tutoring session with you today. My art project is due tomorrow and I have to work on it. I know you think it's not important—”
“When did I say that?” She cuts me off, looking irritated.
Oh, come on. This is Adaline Emery; she probably doesn't even think that art is a real subject because it doesn't require rigorous testing and or contain any academia.
“You're thinking it,” I say, like it's obvious.
She crosses her arms over her chest. “I didn't know you could read minds, that is so fascinating. Tell me, what am I thinking right now?”
She thinks she's so funny, doesn't she? With that little glimmer in her dangerous green eyes and that confident, assured stance.
“You are so insufferable.” I groan out at her sarcastic response.
“Yeah, and you love assuming things about me,” she retorts, looking genuinely irritated, which throws me off for a moment.
