Tutor Me
Authors: Hope Stillwater
Tutor Me
by
Hope Stillwater
Tutor Me
by Hope Stillwater
Copyright © 2015 by Hope Stillwater
Cover Design by Mayhem Cover Creations, Inc.
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All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights.
This book is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or any events or occurrences, is entirely coincidental. The characters and story lines are the product of the author’s imagination and are used fictitiously.
ISBN: 978-0-692-50038-5
Contact me: [email protected]
Contents
3:14pm. Sixteen minutes until Calculus class was over. Thank God. School had seemed to drag on forever. Normally my classes flew by, but not today. Calc was my last class of the day and then I was going to Lacey Bell’s house to lie by her pool with the other cheerleaders. Lacey’s house was the inner sanctum of coolness at my high school and I, nerdy Jenny Bartholomew, was almost in. Who would have thought?
“Folks, I’m letting you out early,” Mr. Ferguson was announcing.
Oh what a relief, I couldn’t stay in here another sec
-“-all except tutors and tutees.”
I groaned internally. I had agreed to be a peer tutor for ‘at risk’ students in the class. It was only the second week of the school year but Mr. Ferguson had preemptively selected students to receive tutoring based on their grades in Algebra II last year. When over the summer he had emailed those of us who’d gotten A’s in Algebra, asking us to be tutors, I had said yes immediately. I wish I could claim it was out of the kindness of my heart but I had an ulterior motive: it was senior year and I needed a letter of recommendation for college from him. I liked Mr. Ferguson: he might have looked like a cuddly grandpa with white hair and a big belly, but after decades of teaching high school math he was deeply cynical and utterly unshockable. When I’d asked him for a letter of rec he’d hinted that he could write a better letter if, besides my straight A’s, he could describe what a kind person I was. I already did some volunteer work on a regular basis, giving free swim lessons at the Y on Sunday afternoons, but Mr. Ferguson didn’t know about that. Tutoring another student sounded difficult and I wasn’t looking forward to it. I didn’t want to come across as some uptight bitch to my peers. I had transferred to this school last year and had pretty much avoided making friends, choosing to study or hang around my best friend Tina exclusively. But in the Spring Tina’s family announced they were moving to California that summer. Things had been looking pretty bleak socially when Tina took matters in hand and urged me to try out for cheerleading. Miraculously, I had made the team. This was quite a feat for someone outside the ‘in’ crowd, but years of gymnastics, ballet and tap meant that I was good enough and they took me on. After gradually getting to know the girls in practices over the summer, I was starting to be included in their social lives. An invitation from Lacey, the alpha girl of the school, was concrete proof that now, with senior year starting, things were going to be different. Still, if being a tutor reaffirmed my nerd status, it was worth it to get that letter.
Mr. Ferguson cleared his throat as most of the class filed out. “OK people, once I announce your partners, find them and make a plan to meet once a week.”
Looking around at the handful of us who remained in the classroom, I could guess who the tutees were because they were the ones who hadn’t been in after school AP Algebra prep with me last year. I wondered whom I’d be paired with. Caitlin Morgansen was sweet and would try hard but was so ditsy I couldn’t imagine her doing well. Tristian Garcia seemed bright enough but he had only arrived in the US recently and he barely knew any English. Drew Roberts was a total stoner, and Callum Caldwell was the arrogant ‘too-cool-for-school’ type who would never take instruction from me. I had to admit he was smoking hot, but definitely not ‘tutee’ material. My heart sank. None of these students seemed like they were going to be easily guided toward a higher grade. Mr. Ferguson would not be impressed by my efforts. Why even bother? I was just thinking Tristian was probably my best chance if I could get hold of a Spanish language Calc textbook when Mr. Ferguson interrupted my reverie.
“Bartholomew and Caldwell, you’re paired. Ramirez and Morgansen, you’re paired…”
Oh geez. The hot rebel
. My heart sank.
Mr. Ferguson was erasing the whiteboard. He called out with his back to us, “Remember, plan on meeting once a week. Once you have a schedule worked out you’re free to go.”
Students started getting into their pairs. Callum was seated a couple seats behind me and one row to my left. He was leaning back, his legs stretched out and crossed at the ankles, tapping a lazy rhythm on his desk with his fingers and palms. If he had heard Ferguson call our names, he wasn’t acknowledging it. Tutoring this guy was going to be like pulling teeth. He’d been in my Algebra class last year, and it had been impossible not to ogle a little when he was in my line of vision, all messy black hair, intense chocolate brown eyes, high cheekbones and a lean hard body in his uniform of concert t-shirts and jeans. His arms in those t-shirts were my undoing: taut muscles and strong forearms that made my mouth water. He had cut class a lot and when he was there he’d seemed either hung over or aloof to everyone. I knew he was in a band with some guys and I recalled seeing him at a restaurant once with some gorgeous girl who looked like she was 20 years old and a model. Tina had drooled over him all last year but for me his looks didn’t make up for his attitude. The last thing I was going to do was give this guy’s ego a stroke by showing any awareness of his sexiness. This year he was sporting a short fauxhawk and a lip ring but the same attitude. I swung around and stared at him, willing him to look up. When he didn’t I got up and strode toward him, annoyed. Already I was the one making the effort when I was doing him a favor. Granted, he hadn’t asked for a tutor and I was doing it for less than altruistic reasons, but still! Then it occurred to me, he probably didn’t know my name. Why would he know that I was the Bartholomew who was his tutor? It wasn’t like we’d ever exchanged even one word. I decided to be polite. I stood in front of his desk awkwardly. He raised his head, his molten brown eyes managing to look bored and inquiring at the same time. I made my voice neutral.
“Hi, I’m Jenny Bartholomew. I’m assigned to be your tutor.” Friendly smile, professional tone.
Nailed it.
“I know,” he said, not cracking a smile.
“You know who I am, or that I’m going to be your tutor?”
Geez Jenny, what a lame question!
“Both.” His gaze was expressionless. The ball was back in my court.
“Oh.”
So not nailing it
.
I had felt a momentary spark of pleasure that he at least knew I existed, followed immediately by annoyance at myself for caring. There didn’t seem much more to say to that so I tried again, keeping my tone businesslike.
“OK now that we’ve got the introductions behind us, let’s set up a plan and be quick about it as I have somewhere to be in like 15 minutes.”
Callum’s eyebrows shot up, and I saw the first hint of a smile. “OK Miss Busy, what do you have in mind?”
He was teasing me already? I looked around for an empty chair and sat in the one in front of him, turning around in it so I was facing him.
“Well, I have cheerleading practice on Tuesdays” - at this Callum snorted.
“What?” I asked.
“Cheerleading? Jesus Christ.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Talk about shallow.”
At that my temper flared.
Was this guy for real? What a jerk!
His aversion to cheerleaders didn’t surprise me: my school was completely fractured into cliques and his group – rocker types known as the roadies, did not mix with the cheerleader-jock crowd. They were like oil and water. Even the aesthetic was different: the hot roadies, boy and girl alike, were pale and tatted, while our crowd was tanned and athletic. (Listen to me: already with the ‘our’. I’d been a member of the popular group for about a minute and a half). There were plenty of other cliques at the school, but these two were the most hostile to each other. So anyway, I got that he hated cheerleaders. But who says that stuff to someone’s face?
I made an effort to keep it together. “What’s your availability?”
“I work Tuesdays and Thursdays so those days are out. Some of us actually have to earn money.”
That was it. “I worked two jobs all summer so that I don’t have to work in the Fall, you asshole, so shut the hell up. And excuse me, since when do you have a right to pass judgment on me?”
A couple students looked over and I realized I was talking kind of loud. Was that laughter in Callum’s eyes? He sat up straighter in his seat.
“Did my tutor just call me an asshole?” Yes he was definitely laughing at me.
“You deserved it,” I said huffily, feeling I had lost the upper hand in this exchange.
Callum made a mock frown, and put his hand under his chin. “Hmm. I thought part of a tutor’s job was to build the student’s confidence so that they could excel, achieve their full potential, if you will.” He paused for effect, clearly enjoying himself. My eyes had narrowed as he spoke. “My education is on the line here, Jenny, and I’m not sure you’re going to live up to Mr. Ferguson’s expectations as a tutor.” He could barely contain himself from snickering.
I looked around. The other pairs were chatting amicably. Caitlin and her tutor Pablo were even looking through the textbook together. Meanwhile, my tutee was insulting me.
I hissed, “I have experience tutoring so if you don’t do well it’s all on you. Anyway, education? You were so checked out of Algebra class last year I bet you didn’t even know I was in it.”
The words came out before I thought them through, and immediately regretted them.
Did I sound like I’d wished he’d noticed me? Pathetic Jenny!
He leaned forward further, a smile playing at the corners of his mouth. There was about a foot between us now. “You sat two rows in front of me, and one over to the left. You had a notebook with a picture of Imagine Dragons on it and when you were bored you would doodle on the inside cover. That poor kid who sat to your right would try like hell to get your attention but you shot him down every time.”
I felt my face flush and there was an awkward pause while I processed his words. Awkward for me, anyway. Callum looked completely at ease.
“Do you have a photographic memory or something?”
“No.”
“Anyway, Ethan was just being friendly. He wasn’t into me.”
A snort.
I was at a loss. “Well, OK, whatever.”
He slouched back, looking bored again. What a mind fuck this guy was.
Finally collecting my thoughts, I said as briskly as I could, “How about Mondays or Wednesdays?”
“Mondays I practice with my band. Wednesdays are good.”
“OK, can you meet this Wednesday, the day after tomorrow?”
He shrugged. “Sure. Might as well get started.”
Way to be enthusiastic
.
We exchanged phone numbers with plans to text on Wednesday to iron out the details. I stood up.
“Bye pom-pom girl.” He winked.
“Later.” I glared at him and headed out of the classroom. He made no attempt to walk out with me. Mr. Ferguson nodded to me on my way out. I smiled sweetly, thinking,
thanks for nothing
. As I walked across the parking lot to my car, I kept going over the conversation in my mind. Callum was rude and insulting, and yet the way he had noticed me made my stomach flip over. But then maybe he was just one of those super-observant people, and it meant nothing at all. I couldn’t read him, but I did know myself, and I knew that being near him disarmed me, and not just because he pissed me off. Tutoring was turning out to be so much more than I bargained for.
