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“Stitch? Really? He’s such a troublemaker.”
“Exactly.”
“I’m more of a Lilo girl. I tie her with Mulan as my favorite Disney heroine. Same goes for their respective movies. I love the relationship with her and Nani.”
“Got to love family relationships in Disney movies.”
“Agreed.”
Going back to tutoring, I draw stick figures with long drops of hair and explain to Jase what I do first. He mumbles “mean” and “number n,” staring at them like they’re main subjects with blurs that are obviously not meant to be there. Interestingly enough, when he’s listening to me, repeating what I’ve said out loud, he understands a little bit better. He answers wrong, but at least he now understands how you find the “mean.”
Throughout our tutoring session, Jase asks me questions after reading the ones he’s supposed to answer.
“UR Mine? That boy band who only has two members who sing and sing badly? Seriously?”
“New Girl? I’m more of a Game of Thrones kind of guy.”
“Sweet, I like sugar cookies with frosting too! Doesn’t frosting make everything better?”
I wasn’t expecting this tutoring session to turn into an exchange of icebreakers. In between reviewing the question and explaining strategic studying, we’ve had a few banters.
“UR Mine has blessed the world’s ears with their harmonies, thank you very much, and their dancing is perfectly synchronized!”
“I’m more of a fun rom-com girl who roots for awkward characters. I can’t stomach too much violence.”
And we’ve also had a conversation just as entertaining as our Disney talk (“If frosting were healthy, I would put it on everything!”) I’m not entirely sure how any of this happened, but I’m enjoying it. Learning all these little details about each other, many of which I never would have guessed just by looking at Jase.
When I first explain a concept to him, I draw out my examples on notebook paper. I’ve noticed that Jase scratches his head when he doesn’t understand something.
“Sorry, I still don’t get it.” He looks at me with a face that matches his apology.
I feel bad seeing him like this, so I ask, “Which part do you want me to go over?”
His face melts with relief when I say this, so I continue repeating this question whenever he’s confused. Along the way, I find myself drawing less and speaking more. It seems like he understands better when I just talk. Guess he’s an auditory learner. While, for the most part, he still doesn’t understand an entire strategy or concept, he at least learns something. Like a few comma rules and the formula for the circumference of a cylinder.
In the end, he scores a 2/10. Jase props his head on his fist and frowns at all the questions where I circled the right answer in blue pen.
“I’m so sorry, Jase,” I say.
His eyes float to mine. “Sorry about what?”
“For not getting you a higher grade.”
He breaks into a chuckle. “Don’t be. Honestly, I thought I was going to get a zero. I’ve learned more from you than I have any other teacher. But, eh, I’m just bad at school. What else can I do?”
“Try again, study harder.”
He shrugs. Is he giving up already? I almost want to offer another round of practice questions until he says, “Ready to practice your presentations?”
“Sure.” I pull out my index card, each line written with my words, all describing my vision of friendship. From left to right, breathing in the smell of watercolor paint and coffee, I glance at everyone. Can they all hear me in this sea of noise, the whir of the blender and the calls for people’s names? “Um...”
“We can go outside if you want,” Jase offers.
I catch a glimpse of outside, the window framing families and couples strolling along eating ice cream and French Fries. The sunlight saturates the trees’ leaves to a lighter hue of green, the planters’ bricks a lighter shade of red.
“I don’t know,” I reply.
Jase glances outside as a group of people our age stroll by with purple soda cups from the movie theater. “No one’s going to look at us. They’re too busy walking around, eating Carl’s Junior, or going to the movies.”
