Chapter 8
Eight
The next day, during second period math, Mr. Pritchard goes through our homework by showing the solutions on the blackboard.
He has us swap with a student beside us and mark their work in a red pen.
John Hughes always gets the right answer.
However, this time I can tell he messed up some of his working out.
I remember how to solve these equations because Milo went over them several times, breaking down each step until it finally clicked in my brain.
John Hughes’s work isn’t correct, but his answer is.
I suck in a breath, and my shoulders are tense. He’s cheating.
I’ve never paid attention to Mr. Pritchard’s explanations before, and I’ve spent all semester just checking or check-minusing John’s work, depending on the final answer.
I tap the red pen against my lips, figuring out if I should go along as per normal, or if I should alert Mr. Pritchard to John’s lackluster effort.
I make check marks against John’s work. I don’t want to ruffle feathers, and I also don’t know if my work is up to scratch yet.
I can’t one-eighty my life in a day and suddenly become a tattletale.
When John and I switch papers, I smile at the check marks.
The first three sets I knew would be correct because Milo walked me through them.
The final three he left me to do on my own without his help.
Two were incorrect. Nothing shocking there.
But one was correct! Whoa. How in the world did I pull that off? Wow. I’ve learned something.
Mr. Pritchard sets out our work for class.
I half pay attention. I can’t help the fact he still drones on.
At least Milo changes the lilt in his voice when he’s explaining stuff.
When he leaves the blackboard after explaining today’s lesson, Mr. Pritchard strolls around the classroom desks.
I glance at the extra work he gave me yesterday.
Milo said, I’m on the right track, but I guess I should get my teacher’s opinion, too.
Maybe he’ll be so impressed that he’ll say I don’t need to do the rest of the extra study.
The enthusiasm instantly dwindles from my body. It’s more likely he’ll be underwhelmed and pile on more equations to solve.
Oh well. Let’s bite the bullet.
“Mr. Pritchard,” I say softly, raising my hand as he passes by my desk. He turns to me, and I slide my notebook to the top of the desk. “Can you look over this? I worked on it last night and I think I’m starting to get it.”
A happy smile graces Mr. Pritchard’s face.
“Certainly,” he says, lifting the book. He nods along as his eyes run along the work I did to get my answers.
He lowers the book with a smile. “This is a vast improvement, Jamie. There are still ways you can improve, but this is a step in the right direction. Did someone else help you with this?”
I nod. “I’m getting tutoring.”
He places the notebook on my desk. “Excellent. Keep up the good work.”
As he walks away, I slink down in my seat with a sigh of relief.
Thank goodness. I didn’t want the hours of homework with Milo to be for nothing.
Hopefully, he can give me enough pointers over the next week or so, and we can end the tutoring as quickly as it began.
As long as my grade average improves, the school administration will get off my back.
When the bell rings, I notice how relaxed my shoulders are. Another bonus of manning up and showing Mr. Pritchard my work caused him not to call out to me in front of the entire class. Without being singled out, Camila and Yvette didn't make horrid comments about me.
I file out of the classroom with everyone else. I just need to dump my gear in my locker and then meet up with Milo for soccer drills. At least I’ll feel more in control out on the field and giving the instructions instead of struggling to understand him.
I bypass the Miss Perfects, but unfortunately, not in time.
“Tabby,” Yvette calls, waving at her friend.
Tabitha smiles and waves at her friends. While she struts toward them, she locks eyes with me.
Dang it. These girls are always so much stronger as a trio.
“I see that look, Tabby,” Camila says with a wicked grin. “The tomboy looks absolutely bizarre in a skirt.” Camila sizes me up. “They should just let you dress like the boys. You’d fit in better.”
I keep my stare on Camila as all three girls look me up and down. Their faces twitch like they’re about to burst into laughter.
“I don’t know how you can stand it,” Yvette says, twirling her platinum blonde hair around her fingers. “Look at your long hair. You just let it become a knotty, gross mess.”
I swallow hard, touching my hair out of instinct. I didn’t think it was that bad. It’s gross?
I hug my books and pen case close, bunching my shoulders high as other students pass by, easily able to hear the girls hurl verbal abuse at me.
“She can’t help it,” Tabitha mutters, turning away like it’s a conflict of interest to tease her boyfriend’s best friend. “She is one of the boys.”
At this point, she should just admit she’s trying to get me out of the picture so she can have Kai all to herself.
“Well, she certainly has the figure for it,” Camila sneers. “Or, should I say, lack of a figure.”
Yvette laughs, elbowing Camila’s ribs. “What did you say earlier about her mother?”
I almost drop my books, sickened to my core.
“Oh, what?” Camila asks with feigned forgetfulness. “That she’d never be able to pull off the tricks her mother did?”
A soft gasp pours out of Tabitha as her mouth falls open, staring at me.
Yvette cackles alongside Camila. “Come on, Tabby,” Camila says, linking arms with her. “Let’s get going.”
The laughter continues as they sashay along the hall.
I stand still for a few moments, taking in their barbed words.
Again, throwing in my mother just for kicks.
All she did was dance in a bikini, nothing worse.
At this point, I’ve heard worse about myself.
It’s ridiculous that they’re picking on me for being a tomboy while I’m wearing the same feminine uniform as them.
It’s like they already had the insults locked and loaded.
Oh my gosh. What if they were firing off the same insults around Kai last night?
Gah! How can he be with someone like that? Seriously. I need to shake sense into that boy.
I turn away and stop in place, stunned. Milo stands ahead, his face shocked. He obviously heard the whole thing.
“It’s nothing,” I mutter, averting my eyes. “Don’t worry.”
“They’re wrong, you know,” Milo says softly.
It causes me to look up at him.
His eyes are comforting, framed by his rounded glasses. “You’re beautiful.”
The word causes me to jolt backward. My insides contort, rejecting the word. I grit my teeth, disconnecting any association the compliment could possibly have with me. I shake my head and tell him, “Don’t brown-nose me. I already agreed to help you today.”
Milo is taken aback and utters a few sounds before spitting out, “Umm, I wasn’t. I didn’t mean…” His shoulders slump. “Sorry.”
I huff and wave it off. “Whatever. Are we doing this or what?”
A weak smile twitches on his face. “Yeah, let’s go.”
Milo has already changed into his gym uniform, but I stay in my normal uniform as a cover. If my coach or any other gym teacher catches us, perhaps I could play dumb enough and convince them I didn’t touch the soccer ball at all.
When I dump my books, I hand Milo the soccer ball from inside my locker. He cradles it under his arm as we leave the school building and head outside toward the soccer field.
It feels super weird to be stepping onto the field in my shiny black shoes. If the girls thought I looked ridiculous before, they’d have a field day seeing me in a blazer and tartan skirt by the goal posts.
Milo drops the ball to the ground, letting me take the lead.
“Okay, just kick it back to me,” I say, nudging the ball toward Milo.
Milo takes a deep breath as apprehension sweeps across his face.
As the ball rolls closer, his leg winds back.
His body isn’t in position to aim the ball at me.
He hasn’t looked up to check where the ball is headed.
Instead, his framed eyes fixate on the ball.
His tongue juts out as he rushes his foot forward, connecting with the soccer ball.
He went toes first, and the ball propels a foot off the ground.
There was little strength in the kick, so the ball bounces back down, and does little hops in a thirty-degree angle to my left.
“Ugh. See,” Milo complains. “I need help.”
“You weren’t even close to aiming,” I say, jogging after the ball and dribbling it back to my position. “How have you not learned how to do that?”
He shrugs. “How do you not understand act one scene two of King Lear when we’ve discussed it in three classes?”
I rock my shiny leather shoe over the ball. “Because it’s boring.”
Milo gestures at the ball. “Well, this is useless.”
“It’s not useless.” His words feel like a personal attack. “It keeps you fit. It teaches you to use your peripheral vision, so you stay alert. It teaches you hand-eye coordination. It teaches you balance and agility. I could go on and on.”
“You need to start listing off the good things about classes like that.”
I turn to the side and aim at Milo. “Not gonna happen. Now, when I kick it over, just stop the ball, don’t try to kick it back.”
When the ball rushes toward Milo, he sets his foot forward, letting the ball ricochet off his foot.
I groan. “Dude, you’ve gotta stop going toe first.”
“What does that mean?” he asks, throwing his hands up. “I told you I don’t have any skills, and you haven’t taught me how to do anything.”
“You can’t stop a ball?”
“I’m obviously doing it wrong. I don’t just tell you to equal out the sides for an algebraic problem. I’ll show you how to do it.”
I throw my head back and drag myself over to him. “Fine.”