So Much Closer (7 page)

So I’m not exactly thrilled, but I buy the first three seasons after school. It’s weird what love can make you do. You do these crazy things before you can even recognize yourself. If it was anybody else, there’s no way I’d start watching some show they like. Dad gave me a credit card for clothes and things, but he’ll be checking the bills every month. I can justify my purchase because they’re having a sale where if you buy three seasons you get a free shirt. Not that I want an
Office
tee, but Dad doesn’t have to know that. The tee has a heart on it that says JAM in between the Jim guy and some girl. I don’t know what “Jam” is supposed to mean. I guess I’m about to find out.

My plan was to discover where Scott lives over the weekend. I thought about asking him where he lives exactly, but that would seem even more stalkerish. I tried to find out his address, but it wasn’t listed. So I was going to keep searching his street until I found him. Except it rained for two days straight. I’m not a fan of walking around in the rain. I ended up staying in all weekend, having an
Office
marathon.

And now? I absolutely love
The Office
.

True, I only started watching it because of Scott. But oh my god, that show is
so
good. That talking-to-the-camera thing is actually really funny now that I get where it’s coming from. And the whole Jim and Pam dynamic? Totally brill. I’m hooked.

On Monday, I wear my Jam tee to school. I nervously look around for Scott all day. I catch a glimpse of him down the hall before fifth period, turning a corner in the opposite direction. My heart flutters. I can’t wait for him to see my shirt. It takes forever for seventh period to end.

Scott’s already at his desk when I get to class. I saunter over. He notices my shirt, smiling all big.

I go, “Is it just me, or does it smell like updog in here?”

“Yes!”
Scott is so cute when he’s excited. The only other time I’ve seen him like this was when his lacrosse team won state last year. “I love that one!”

We talk about our favorite eps until class starts, tossing quotes back and forth. It’s obvious I’ve totally won him over with my Jam tee. I like this Scott. This Scott is interested in what I’m saying. It’s easy to talk to him. Not that we’re only going to talk about
The Office
from now on. It’s just that I don’t have to worry about what I’m going to say to him as much. We’ll always have this. And once we have a few other things, we’ll be so much closer.

The fun times continue. We get to work in pairs today, which means I can talk to Scott for the whole class. I’m on a natural high. We even keep talking after class and walk out together. Which is when I come back down to earth.

Leslie is waiting for Scott across the street.

He looks happy to see her.

And suddenly it’s like I’m not even there.

It’s sad how quickly a day can deteriorate.

“See you tomorrow,” Scott says.

“Okay.”

Pretending to be waiting for someone, I watch Scott go over to Leslie. Her outfit is incredible. She’s wearing an expensive-looking cropped jacket over a silk cami that I desperately want. Why does she have to be one of those girls who looks like she just stepped out of
Vogue
? I don’t even want to know how much her jeans were.

Wait. Since when do I care about this stuff? I’ve never been insecure about my style. At my old school, kids complimented me on my clothes and accessories all the time. But here, things are a lot different. The urban vibe I thought I was rocking back home was nothing compared to what some of these kids wear every day. It’s unreal. Except for a few unique pieces, I’ve been owned.

Suddenly, I feel like a big, fat dork, loitering on the sidewalk in my Jam tee. That doesn’t even fit right. Why wouldn’t Scott notice Leslie more? She stands out while I’m barely blending in.

Just when it seems like life is getting good, something always has to come along and ruin it.

Sadie wouldn’t stop
bothering me about becoming a peer tutor. It didn’t matter that I wasn’t interested. The girl was not hearing it.

So here I am. At my first peer-tutoring session. As a freaking peer tutor.

Yesterday in calculus, Ms. Jacobs asked me to help someone with one of the problems. I didn’t know that Sadie was watching me the whole time. Later, she pointed out how that girl was stuck on something that was beyond simple for me. Didn’t I see how much I could help people?

I guess Sadie had a point. She was just so determined to get me here. Whatever. Maybe explaining stuff wouldn’t be the worst thing if it makes someone’s day a little easier. I can relate to feeling like you might not survive past second period.

Mr. Peterson is the faculty advisor for peer tutoring. Before I could start, I had to take an aptitude test to see which subject I excel at. That subject will be the one I’ll tutor. The aptitude test sort of reminded me of that IQ test we took in eighth grade.

I wonder if these results will be as major as those.

Even though the year just started, the tutoring center is packed. I actually like it in here. There’s room for all your stuff on the tables, and the chairs are really comfortable. The space is airy and bright, with big skylights. Finding a room at school where you can breathe is not easy. As an added bonus, there are cupcakes. Sadie brought them in from someplace called Crumbs. Apparently, she’s a cupcake addict.

Mr. Peterson comes back with my aptitude test.

“Huh,” he says.

He just stands there, staring at the test. Not explaining the “huh.”

I’m not about to ask. I don’t want to appear too interested. Once teachers think you’re interested in any part of the standardized testing/labeling/herding process, they assume they have you.

Mr. Peterson sits down across from me. “Usually,” he starts, “tutors specialize in one subject area. This test is very good at telling me what that subject is.”

“Can’t you just ask us what we want to tutor?”

“I do, but I also need to make sure you know your stuff. Sometimes teachers will recommend kids for certain areas, but since you’re new I wanted to explore our options.” He stares at the test again. “This is the first time I’ve seen results like yours. You seem to excel in ... all subject areas. By a lot.”

Is this the part where I’m supposed to be surprised? Because I’ve heard it all before. I still don’t care.

“So can I just pick which subject I want to tutor?”

“To tell you the truth, I was hoping that you’d agree to be a general tutor. It would be great to have someone who could help out with everything. You’d be our first!”

I still haven’t figured out Mr. Peterson. His class is probably as cool as a class can be without violating any federal laws. But no matter how different his class is, he’s still part of the system. The last thing I want to become is a cog in their machine. Just because I’m offering to tutor doesn’t mean I have to be on their side, though. I can still make things work my way.

“Okay,” I go.

“Have you ever helped someone with a learning disability?”

“I’ve never helped anyone with school before.”

“That’s about to change.”

After Mr. Peterson goes over some guidelines with me he says, “We have some special-needs students who need help with all of their classes. I think we should pair you up with one of them. Does that sound good?”

“Sure.”

“Wonderful! I’ll send John over. He’s a senior, too.”

I watch Mr. Peterson approach the boy who must be John. He’s leaning against the wall with his earbuds in, playing air drums. He takes them out and talks to Mr. Peterson for a minute.

John looks at me. Then he darts right over.

“Wow,” he says. “You’re my tutor?”

“Are you John?”

“Affirmative.” He extends his hand like this is some kind of business meeting. “John Dalton, you’re at my service.”

“Excuse me?”

“Get it? ’Cause—”

“Uh-huh. Do you want to sit?”

John crashes on the plush chair across from me, turns his music off, and whips out an assortment of books and notebooks, all in one frenetic motion. His shirt says BIG GAY ICE CREAM TRUCK.

I get the impression that New York kids are way more accepting than kids back home. It’s probably easier for gay kids to be out here. This city is so diverse. Kids are exposed to lots of different people and cultures, which probably makes them way more tolerant. No one would dare wear a shirt like John’s at my old school. But no one in here is even looking at John.

“What’s Big Gay Ice Cream Truck?” I ask.

“You’ve never been to Big Gay?” John is incredulous.

“Guess I missed that one.”

“Dude, he’s the
man
! This guy has all these crazy toppings, like bacon and pumpkin and pickles. He even makes his own toppings—so wild! He’s usually at Union Square. Haven’t you ever—”

“I just moved here.”

“Oh. Well, I’ll take you, we’ll go, you’ll love it.”

“I’m Brooke, by the way.”

“You rock, Brooke.”

“Thanks.”

“You’re probably wondering why I’m here.”

“Um—”

“I have dysgraphia. Ever heard of it?”

Yeah, I’ve heard of it. More accurately, I’ve read about it, which is why I still remember what it is. Lots of things I read stick in my brain, regardless of whether or not I want them there.

“Sort of.”

“Basically, I have problems putting my thoughts into words on paper. Too bad we can’t just hand in our brains instead of homework. Ha! Good one.”

“So, maybe we could—”

“Work on my stuff, I know, I know. Sorry about the rambling. There’s no excuse—it’s just this thing I do. If you tell me to shut up, I won’t be offended.”

John’s funny. Annoying, but funny. It’s like we’re already in on the joke together, on the same side of this academic war. But after a few minutes of working on his homework, his sense of humor vanishes.

“Why did I think this year would be any different?” he groans. “Of course it’s just like all the others. Things don’t get better just because you want them to.”

“It’s usually when you’re wishing things would change the most that something gets in your way.”

“Exactly! Why is that?”

“Who knows? I just put it in the Of Course file and slam the drawer.”

“The what file?”

I explain.

“Righteous,” John decides.

Not to be conceited (believe me, I’m nothing worth bragging about), but watching John struggle over such simple things is an eye-opener. I’ve helped people in calc, but those problems can be ridiculous. This is different. It’s really hard for John to clarify his thoughts, even for easy questions. I’ve never seen handwriting like his before. There are random spacings between his words. His spelling needs a lot of work. And sometimes he mixes lowercase with capital letters for no reason. Mr. Peterson said that John works with a specialist at school who focuses on his writing issues. He also has a private tutor who deals with dysgraphia. My job is to help him understand his homework and study for tests.

“You know in
Office Space
when they smash the fax machine?” John says.

“I’ve never seen
Office Space
.” What is it with boys and office-themed entertainment?

“You’ve never seen
Office Space
?!” John says in this way where it’s like,
Do any other movies even
exist?

“No.”

“How is that possible?”

I shrug.

“Okay, there’s this scene—which you totally have to see immediately if not sooner—where the fax machine has been harassing everyone so these guys drag it out to a field and beat it up. They’re all smashing it with a baseball bat and pounding on it and stomping it and pieces are flying everywhere. Dude. I can totally relate. All that anger and frustration is what I feel every day in this place.”

It’s official. John is awesome.

“Like with this quiz I just got back.” He takes out a quiz with a red
32
at the top. I didn’t even know they gave grades that low. I mean, I’ve gotten zeroes for not handing in work, but even when I do half of an assignment I somehow manage to get a passing grade on it. “I want to smash it. Except it wouldn’t smash like a fax machine because it’s just a piece of paper. An evil piece of paper. I’d want there to be pieces of broken quiz flying if I pounded it with a baseball bat.”

“That would rule.”

“I know, right? We’ll have to settle for ripping it up with flair.” John dramatically rips his quiz in half.

“Wait! We’re supposed to go over that.”

“Says who?”

“Mr. Peterson.”

“Rule number one of tutoring: throw out all previous rules. Seriously, if we stayed inside the lines on everything we’re supposed to be doing, we wouldn’t get anything done. Know what I mean?”

I do. Because John is speaking my language.

This tutoring thing might not be so bad.