Chapter 9
NINE
Sara
When school ends, I skip out the double doors with Patrick and Tammy, ready to embrace my sweet, sweet freedom, before I remember—oh, right. Tutoring. I can’t escape yet.
Ugh.
This doesn’t bode well for me. Honestly? I tried to make an effort in calculus today, but then Joe happened. Instead of paying attention to Mr. Day, I found myself entranced by Joe’s beautiful hair. How silky it seemed—and then I imagined running my fingers through it. A harmless daydream, really.
But get this: Mr. Day had us pass new worksheets to the person behind us, and Joe’s fingers brushed mine when he handed me the stack.
I swear, the briefest touch sent a jolt of electricity down my arm.
And then he smiled again—at me—and swept some hair away from his stunning green eyes before turning back to face the front.
“Sara? Did you hear what I said?”
I blink away the Joe haze. Patrick and Tammy have started walking ahead of me, and now they’re glancing back to see if I’m going to catch up. Meanwhile, I’m stalled at the top of the steps with my head in the clouds.
I adjust my cozy plaid scarf around my neck. “Sorry, what?”
“I said, are you coming to karaoke?” Patrick repeats.
There’s this karaoke spot we found a year or so ago on our walk home, but the best part?
It’s cheap. Fifteen bucks and you can have a room for an hour.
We’re not great singers, but it doesn’t matter.
We have fun combing through the gigantic songbook and picking out surprise musical numbers for each other, and after, we’ll usually stop in for hot pot.
“Ah, I forgot—I can’t. I have tutoring, remember?”
“Aw, come on! Tammy’s going”—he slings an arm around her shoulders—“and she never comes to anything. Just reschedule.”
Agh, it’s so tempting. Dad will never know if I skip this once, right?
No. Best not to risk it. I’ll totally get grounded if he finds out.
“I can’t.” I begin retracing my steps. “Sorry, have fun, though! I’ll see you tomorrow!”
Spinning on my heel, I reach for the door and head inside before I can clock the disappointment on Patrick’s face.
Almost everyone has left for the day. The halls aren’t bustling with activity.
The corridor walls are speckled with handmade posters promoting school activities.
join track and field, one reads. Uh, no thanks.
I’m not much of an athlete. Another says, eagle gate school festival september 15th!
remember to sign your club up for a booth!
As I make my way to the library, I unearth the paper Mr. Day gave me last week. Oliver Yang, Library Room 12-B. There’s a contact number printed underneath.
I’m familiar with the library. We come during English class sometimes to find reference texts, which are a bit dry, but I could get lost in the fiction section all day.
Reading is sort of like daydreaming—the way you get lost in a story—and I love that feeling.
I think it’s partly why I like writing my blog so much.
As I reach the library door, ready to push my way in, I freeze when my eyes land on a familiar face through the window. Because there, sitting at a study table, is none other than Subwayboy.
I gasp and flatten my back against the wall so he won’t spot me if he glances up. No! Why do I keep running into this guy? Maybe I’m in the wrong room, so I check the information again. Room 12-B, Library. This is it. He’s currently the only one inside, so that must mean he’s my tutor.
Or—maybe not? What if that is not Oliver Yang, because Oliver Yang is running late? Yes, I’m sure that’s it.
There’s only one way to find out, so I whip out my phone and text the contact number.
Sara: Hi, this is Sara Lin. Are we still meeting in room 12-B?
I tilt my head ever so slightly, eyes on him as he glances at his phone. He picks it up, types, then sets it back face down. A second later, my phone buzzes. I scan the message, heart sinking.
Unknown Number: Yep. I’m here already. See you soon
It is him. Subwayboy has a name. Oliver Yang. Oliver Yang, my calculus tutor.
What did I do to deserve this? And more importantly, what the heck do I do now? I don’t have time to text Patrick and ask for advice. Besides, he’s half the reason I’m in this mess. Vicky would know what to do, but she’s already started her shift at Kiki’s and won’t have access to her phone.
Okay—think. Hadn’t I been brave enough to ask him to kiss me? If I could do that, surely I can channel that same courage right now. All I have to do is march in there and face the consequences head-on. If he recognizes me, so what? It’s a chance to clear the air, isn’t it?
I spare another peek. He’s got his chunky headphones over his ears again, just like when I spotted him at the station, soft golden hair sticking out in every direction.
His eyes are focused on writing something down, pen scribbling, looking lost in whatever he’s doing.
It reminds me of, well, me when I’m typing out a blog post. Like the entire world around you disappears and it’s only you and your writing.
Here’s my opportunity to start fresh. To prove I’m a different person this year. Someone bold—confident. Determined. So I take a deep breath and—
Completely wimp out.
My scarf is a handy disguise, it turns out, and I use it to cover my nose and mouth while tugging my short hair into a bun that sprouts like a flower from my head.
I’ve got a few spare bobby pins in my shoulder bag, so I clip my bangs back before fishing my round glasses from their case and sliding them on. There! No way he’ll recognize me now.
Then, after taking a deep breath, I enter the library.
I’m looming over his table when he looks up at me, pen paused mid-sentence. He yanks his headphones from his ears and lets them fall around his neck, confusion settling in his pinched brows.
“Uh,” he starts. “You’re Sara?”
“Mm-hmm!” The sound comes out muffled from behind my scarf.
He sets his headphones on the desk beside him as I slip into the chair, tugging my shoulder bag to my chest like it’s a safety blanket. This is clearly odd behavior—I can see it on his face—but he doesn’t bring it up. Instead, he draws his calculus book closer.
“All right, then.” His gaze flicks to me. “What chapters are on your next test?”
Instead of answering like a normal person, I hold up my two pointer fingers.
He stares at me, unamused. “Eleven?”
I nod vigorously. See? This wasn’t my worst idea!
“Okay, so, sequences and series.” Oliver flips to the correct page. “I want you to explain what you already understand.”
Uh-oh. This is a problem. First, because I understand very little. And second, I did not expect to do much talking here. He’s the tutor, after all. I’m supposed to soak in the information in silent concentration. He speaks, I listen. Isn’t that the point?
Oliver’s mouth flattens, eyes narrowing as he waits for me to answer. I’ve got to give him something.
“Mm, mmfh fuhm? Mm fuhum mh—”
Is my scarf limiting my enunciation? Sure. Do I care? Absolutely not.
But what is crystal clear is the fact he’s annoyed.
“What?” He sighs, aggravated, and uses his pointer fingers to pinch the bridge of his nose. His glasses rise like an elevator as he does this, tangling with his floppy bangs. When he lowers his hands, he’s fully glaring at me. “Will you pull that down? I can’t understand a word you’re saying.”
Before I can stop him, he reaches over and tugs down my scarf.
Heat blooms in my face as my jaw slackens in shock—did he figure me out?
!—but he just stares into my soul with what I’m now realizing is his signature unamused expression.
One eyebrow raised, mouth tilted down. All business without an ounce of friendliness, and this makes me I wonder if he’s ever experienced real human joy. Maybe he should try karaoke.
“You were saying?” he prompts.
Confirmation: He doesn’t recognize me.
Phew.
“Um,” I start. “Sequences? Are those the, uh, numbers? With the letters?”
Oliver hangs his head, disappointment evident. “Let’s just start from the beginning.”
Well, great. He assumes that I possess one single brain cell. Not even that—perhaps he believes there’s a wet noodle floating around in there instead of a brain.
My blush deepens, but he’s already turning his textbook toward me.
“Sequences are numbers that follow a pattern in a specific order, which are either infinite or finite,” he explains in this monotonous, dull tone.
Geez, he’s worse than Mr. Day. “And a series is the sum of the terms in a sequence, then you have numbers in a sequence. Those are called terms. So you see here, n is your index variable. Now, we can denote this infinite ordered list by—”
My brain pulses. (Because, yes, I do have one.) A headache starts to form behind my eyes, and my vision goes all glossy and ethereal.
I swear I’m trying to focus, but he’s regurgitating what’s printed in the textbook like reading comprehension is my biggest issue.
This doesn’t make the math magically click.
He goes on for the next hour. Any time he asks “Make sense?” I only nod, even though I’m retaining very little. My eyes keep ticking to the clock on the wall, begging for time to speed up. I’m exhausted. Who knew calculus could zap all your energy?
“Okay, complete those worksheets since that’s your homework, and then we’ll review it next time we meet.” He closes his textbook. “When’s your first test?”
“Next week,” I tell him. “I’ve bombed my quizzes so far.”
“Right.” He’s already on his feet, slinging his headphones around his neck before packing his textbook in his backpack. “Then let’s start meeting every day after school.”
Every. Day?!
“Okay,” I mutter, because what else can I do but agree to this torture? I have to pass this class.
“Great.” He barely glances at me as he strides toward the door. “Bye.”
What’s his deal? It’s like he’s allergic to pleasantry and kindness. Do I smell or something? I sniff my armpits. Nope, I’m as sweet as a peach. Then what is it? This weird disguise?
Ugh—I guess it doesn’t matter now. He’s finally gone, which means I can let out the tight breath that’s wound around my lungs. Sweet air! Sweet relief!
That was pure emotional agony, and now I’m going to have to endure it every single day. I could cry. Why would I agree?
Oh, right. Because I can’t fail this class. If I do, Dad will make sure I never have a social life ever again, which means I’ll never see Vicky or Patrick or do fun things like karaoke or meet a boy who might fall for me.
On the one hand, getting grounded from social activities means I won’t run into Subwayboy Oliver when I’m coming and going from my building.
But on the other hand, I can’t exactly go on romanticizing my life if I’m stuck in my room.
And isn’t that the whole idea? I need to put myself out there more.
To embrace romance and whimsy! To be vulnerable and try new things!
That’s settled, then. He lives across from me, so I’m going to have to risk running into him, but I’ll keep our interactions strictly limited to the library, while wearing my disguise.
I can’t confront him about the subway. Maybe that makes me a chicken, but I don’t want to rehash that embarrassing moment ever again. It’s bad enough Tammy brought it up in class.
So it’s settled. Oliver Yang will never, ever know I was Subwaygirl.