Chapter Seven Vaughn #2
The set? It’s on the tip of my tongue to ask, but I glance over, and the answer is pretty obvious.
The living room looks nothing like it did when I left this morning.
The walls have been painted and new artwork displayed.
Our big sectional has been removed, and in its place is a beige couch that’s small and looks uncomfortable.
I guess Maureen and Rick finally got their wish.
“How long is that going to last?” I ask Dad.
“Hopefully not long.”
I’m feeling particularly petty, I guess, because knowing he’s suffering through the documentary interviews makes me feel a twinge of satisfaction.
“I’ll leave you two to study.” Dad’s mouth curves up for Lacey and then he leaves, but the tension in the room lingers even after his departure.
I’m not sure I’ve ever felt more uncomfortable in my own house. It doesn’t even look like my house.
“I made a plan,” she says and moves to her backpack.
It sits on one of the stools in front of the counter.
It’s blue and has a mini pom-pom on the end of the zipper.
I’m distracted by the shiny bauble, thinking how Lacey-like it is to have decorated her backpack with team spirit, while she pulls out a notebook and her laptop.
It’s then I realize I’m staring at her and she’s waiting for me to say, or do, something.
“Where do you want to work?” she asks.
I usually work in my room, but this is already painful enough. Adding confined spaces to the mix sounds like torture.
“The living room, I guess.” I wave a hand toward the tiny couch. They even moved the TV. This really is a sad day.
With a nod, Lacey takes her things into the living room. She sits right in the middle of the smallest couch ever and spreads her stuff out on the matching ottoman in front of where she sits.
I skip dinner and join her.
Her notebook is open, and the top of the page has today’s date. Each section is underlined and the notes underneath it broken out into bullets. I’m not surprised at all to find all her notes organized and neat.
“I wasn’t sure what specifically you had questions about, but I thought we could start at the beginning of the unit and work forward?”
It’s safe to say she could start at the beginning of the class, and it wouldn’t hurt, but I’ll take what I can get. “Sounds good.”
While she talks, I listen and try to comprehend. I really do, but math is not my strong suit, and it’s not long before my eyes are glazing over and I’m nodding along but have no idea what she’s said for the past few minutes.
Lacey stops. “Am I going too fast?”
“No.” I shake my head.
She doesn’t look convinced.
“It’s not you. It’s me. It doesn’t make any sense.”
“Which part?”
“All of it.” I blow out an exasperated breath and run a hand through my hair. “I don’t understand the point of complex numbers. I can carry out the motions, but I don’t understand why we’re learning about them or what they’re used for.”
“That’s a good place to start.” Her eyes light up, and she talks me through factoring—what it is and why we do it.
“Make sense?”
“Yeah, I guess so.”
“Okay. Now let’s try one.” She writes out a problem and then passes the notebook to me.
I feel uncomfortable with her watching me. Even my handwriting feels lacking compared to hers. Halfway through, I drop the pencil to the page. “This is stupid.”
“You almost had it.”
She leans over me. Her hair falls onto my arm and her leg presses flush against mine. She’s scribbling on the page, finishing the problem and explaining as she goes, but the only thing that has my attention is her. She smells nice, like grapes and something else I can’t place.
“See?” she asks, pulling back.
I clear my throat and blink several times before answering. “Yeah. Thanks.”
An alarm on her phone goes off and she digs around in her backpack to silence it while I hand back her notebook.
A piece of paper falls out as I do, and I pick it up.
Like her math notes, it’s organized and neat, but this paper has a bulleted list of things like “learn the ‘Thriller’ dance” and “watch the sunrise from the football field” written in blue and silver ink.
And there are hearts and other doodles around the edge of the paper.
She stops the alarm and then looks over at me.
“You dropped this,” I say as I hand it over. My gaze is caught on one bullet item: Go skinny-dipping.
“Oh.” She snatches it from me quickly. Her cheeks flush as she tucks it into the back of the notebook.
“Are you making some sort of to-do list?” I ask.
“Yes. No. I don’t know.” She looks at me with a sheepish smile. “I found this bucket list my mom made when she was my age, and I’m thinking about completing it.” She waves it off but won’t meet my eye. “I guess I thought it’d make me feel closer to her or something, but it’s a little embarrassing.”
“Why?”
“She died when I was a baby, so I didn’t know her. I’ve heard stories and seen pictures, but something about being in the same place doing the same things feels like I’m seeing the world in the same way. That probably doesn’t make sense.”
It did make sense. A lot of sense, actually. I feel that way about my mom sometimes, and she isn’t dead, just across the world.
“I meant why is it embarrassing?”
“Oh.” Her cheeks turn redder. “I added a few of my own things to the list.”
“Okay.” I’m still not following why that would be embarrassing. Though I’m curious if she added skinny-dipping or her mom did.
“Something about putting an item on the list gives it weight.”
“Like you wouldn’t put it on the list if it weren’t important to you?” I ask.
“Exactly.”
“So skinny-dipping is important to you?”
“Like I said, it’s embarrassing.”
Interesting. Maybe she did add that one herself.
I still don’t completely understand why she’s embarrassed, but as I fight off thoughts of Lacey skinny-dipping, she starts to pack up her stuff.
“I have to get home,” she says as she zips up her backpack. My gaze snags on that blue and silver pom-pom again. “Do you want to get together again tomorrow? I’m free during lunch and after cheer practice.”
I stare at her, waiting for the sincerity in her expression to shift. I can’t believe she’s offering up her time for me.
She’s a good tutor, whip smart, and if I weren’t so embarrassed at needing her help, I think I might have enjoyed hanging out with her more.
One thing is certain. If Lacey can’t help me, no one can.
“Yeah. Either time would be great.”
“Perfect. Let’s do both so we can get through everything and then focus on where you’re struggling.”
I’m struggling with everything, so that won’t be hard to pinpoint.
She beams at me, and I find my lips curving in response. For as shitty of a day as it was, that’s a pretty big accomplishment.
It’s easy to see why people like her so much. When she turns all that attention on you, it’s like stepping into the sun.
“That’s great. Thank you. I really appreciate it.”
“I just have one requirement.” She stands and loops her backpack over one shoulder. “If I’m going to keep dedicating my time to help you, then I need to know you’re going to take this seriously.”
“Nothing could be more serious than this. If I don’t pass, I can’t play soccer.”
“All right, but if you flake or, I don’t know, blow me off to hang with your friends, then I’m out.”
“I’m grounded,” I remind her. But even if I weren’t, there’s no way I’m going to risk failing this test. Not if there’s anything in my power to stop it.
“Do we have a deal?” she extends one hand out to me, all formal and official.
I reach out with my right hand, engulfing her much smaller one in mine and shaking. Goose bumps spread up to my shoulder. “Deal.”