“I’m not in any mess,” I said. “Just living life. See you later.” I refused to stand. I just stared at her and watched her shift in her seat before she walked away, plastering a smile on her face when she paused to talk with someone else.
I waited until the last possible moment to enter that stupid Ethics class and slipped out as soon as I could. I didn’t look at Trask once. Or Karina.
It was later in the afternoon, after I’d eaten my peanut butter sandwich I’d packed, when I bothered to open my phone. A text from Rosalie asking if I could edit her website content. (Of course, I said I would. About damn time she used proper grammar in her listings.) Also, a text from Rosalie asking if we could hangout. A text from Trask too.
TRASK: What? No hello? I see, you just use me for my superior math skills. Come by for tutoring tonight. I have a story for you.
ME: I must be a masochist because I am more than ready to be tortured by more of these stupid math problems. Please tell me the next unit is better.
He responded right away.
TRASK: Depends on your perspective. I think the next unit is significantly better, and that’s because I’m fairly confident you’ll think it’s worse.
ME: I fail to see the connection.
TRASK: That means I’ll be seeing much more of you.
I groaned. Not gonna lie, getting help from Trask didn’t sound too terrible. I just wish I didn’t have the looming math class over my head. The day flew by, and I already felt like I had my essays (and other, less than honest, work) together and I just feltright. Until I opened the math practice questions for the week. There were more than last week and I was just confused.
ME: See you then.
Iclosed my phone and continued working on an essay for AP history, this one would be a solid hundred-dollar job. When the tutoring lounge finally opened I had finished the essay for Michaela (complete with citations and a counterargument) and it was safely tucked away on a flash drive for her.
When I walked into the tutoring lounge, Trask stood from the back and waved me over.
“Hey,” I said, as I sat down. The room was much busier, students were working throughout the giant space, spread out on tables with furrowed brows and overflowing cups of coffee. I pulled out my computer and worked on powering it up. It sounded a little worse and the small fan was definitely working overtime.
“So, a story?” I asked, unable to hide my curiosity.
He smiled and pulled over his own computer. “Consider it za a reward for finishing half of your weekly practice problems.”
“That many?” I tried to hide a grimace. “There are a lot, I probably need to do twenty-five. I already attempted a handful but they’re not like the ones we did last week.”
He nodded. “I know, I think you’ll have an easier time once we go through a few. Plus, it’ll give you time to decide where you want to go for our date.”
“I need to read that story first,” I said, laughing a little, pulling out a notebook.
“One thing at a time.” He wrote the problem flashing on my screen and walked me through it. Then he covered it and had me do it on my own. I messed up, but he helped me. His voice changed when he was working on math. His whole body did. He was normally relaxed, spreading across the chair with ease. But when he was solving problems and concentrating? He was quieter, his movements tighter and fast across the page. More than once I got distracted by the fresh ink on his fingers. None on his coat today though.
“What are you looking at?” he chuckled.
“Your hands.” I blushed. “I mean, the ink. What do you draw?”
“This?” He held up his index finger on his right hand and unfurled his fingers. They were long and large and I wanted to touch them.
“Yeah,” I said, pointing to the ink on them. “You always have those stains.”
He shrugged. “I sketch lots of things.”
“An artist?” I couldn’t hide the surprise in my voice.
He smiled and went back to his cool and relaxed state, leaning back against the chair and crossing his arms over his chest, hiding his ink-stained fingers. “Maybe one day I’ll trust you enough to give you an answer.”
I rolled my eyes at my own words being used against me. I went back to the problem, solved it, and beamed when I got the right answer. “Okay, fine, if this is the feeling you get when solving math equations, I sort of get it.”
“The feeling of mastering something that once eluded you? Understanding the numbers and how they influence our world and being able to change the world through the numbers?”
“No,” I said, stretching and rubbing my tired eyes. “Absolute relief over the idea I might pass basic math. That’s what I’m feeling.”