She gives me a look. A look I’ve come to recognize as—‘We all know you got cheated on and spiraled for a while—do you wanna talk, buddy?’
It’s a look I both despise and love my friends for giving me often.
“I’ve gotta tutor some struggling junior in storytelling.”
“Oh, well... to be fair, that sounds like hell,” she says, not even looking at me as she pours her coffee.
“Yes, thank you, Delilah. So insightful.”
Freddie snorts.
“I mean, is it at least going to get you some extra credit?” she asks, ignoring the sarcasm.
“Yeah. My grades aren’t great, and some professors still hold the plagiarism thing against me,” I mutter. Junior year Igot accused of plagiarizing. Essays have never been my strong suit—I didn’t do it on purpose or anything—but the school’s rules are so strict they basically decided I was guilty until proven innocent. All the guys helped bail me out, but some of the old-school profs still look at me like I faked my way in. I’m pretty sure they’re still marking me down just to prove a point.
“Wait, thatagain?” Delilah says, finally turning to face me. “You do know that no one actually thinks you cheated, right? Your case is legendary. Half the school still talks about how Freddie turned into a CSI agent to clear your name.”
Freddie bows dramatically. “Thank you.”
“I just...” I trail off, poking at the soggy remnants in my cereal bowl. “I need this to go right. Martinez is watching me like a hawk.”
Delilah softens—slightly. Which, for her, is basically a warm hug.
“Then don’t screw it up,” she says. “You’re better than you think.”
“Thanks.” I smile. “That was weirdly comforting.”
She shrugs. “Look, it’s one semester. You play mentor. They learn something. You get your credibility back and maybe stop looking like a sad ex-jock who talks to plants.”
That’s more like the Delilah I know.
Freddie raises a hand. “Greg is thriving, thank you. I watered him this morning.”
I look at Freddie with complete earnestness. “It means the world to me that you’re taking your role as Greg’s godmother seriously.”
He narrows his eyes. “You’re insane, you know that?” Then he pauses. “And if I’m anything—I’m his fucking uncle, okay?”
By midday,I’m outside Professor Long’s office, holding a folder labeled Mentorship Pairing and trying not to bolt like a spooked horse.
He waves me in. “Ethan. Nice to see you. Have a seat.”
I drop into the uncomfortable chair that every professor seems to own. Same scratchy fabric, same weird smell.
“Ah good, you’ve got the program. So, you’ll be working with someone quite bright, but she’s... stuck. She’s a sophomore, and she needs someone who can meet her where she’s at, so to speak.”
I raise an eyebrow. “Another game dev major?”
“Computer Science, actually.”
Oh, fantastic. Comp sci students think we’re just finger-painting with pixels and calling it a degree. This should be fun.
“Right. And you’re absolutely sure I’m the guy for this? Because I feel like there might be some more qualified people?—”
Long adjusts his glasses in that way professors do when they’re about to drop life-changing information. “She’s exceptional at anything technical and mathematical. Brilliant even. But she’s lost her way a bit and is struggling to understand Creative Writing.” He makes a vague gesture.
“So I’m supposed to teach a robot how to feel things? Cool. Love a challenge.”
“We’ve had two other tutors attempt this assignment. Both requested transfers.” He pauses, leaning back in his chair. “However, your Creative Writing scores have been consistently among the highest in the department of Computer Science. I’m not entirely sure how, given your... other academic adventures, but the numbers don’t lie.”
