Chapter 15
FIFTEEN
Sara
“Oh my gosh,” I blurt, flustered. “I’m sorry!”
I just walked smack-dab into Joe. Joe! Ah! What are the odds?
Genuine concerns splays over his face. “Are you okay?”
What a gentleman, asking if I’m okay when I’m the one who collided with him!
“I—um.” What are words? Say something, Sara! “I’m good!”
Joe gives me this shy smile, and oh. It’s really cute. “Okay. Good.”
“Good,” I repeat, as though this is the one and only word I possess in my personal lexicon. My mouth opens again and . . . I’m suddenly rendered speechless. I couldn’t string a sentence together if my life depended on it. Nouns? Verbs? What are those?
And now we’re just staring at each other as this awkward pause stretches on. My face grows more scarlet by the second. Soon I will transform into the same color as a fire truck, setting a Guinness World Record for Deepest Shade of Red a Human Can Turn.
He tugs a hand through his hair. This is so awkward. I’m so awkward! What am I even doing?
“Um, okay.” It comes out more like a squeak. “Bye!”
And then I sprint down the corridor, curve around a corner, and flatten my back against the wall.
Ugh. Why did I do that? I could have asked him about Newspaper Club! Or what school he attended before transferring. Literally said anything else besides good. Good?! How many times did I even say that? What is wrong with me?
It’s official. When it comes to boys, I’m doomed.
Sighing, I keep walking until I’ve entered the library. Patrick’s sitting at the study table Subwayboy and I occupied last week, but Oliver’s nowhere in sight. That’s good, considering I’m early on purpose.
I slump into the seat next to Patrick and tug my disguise from my shoulder bag, popping my glasses on my face.
Patrick sets his phone down, observing me. “How long are you going to pretend you’re not the creepy girl from the subway?” As I’m pinning my bangs back, he adds, “Not that I care, or whatever.”
“Listen, I’ll tell him eventually—okay? Just, uh, not today.
” I twist my scarf around my neck and pull it up to my chin.
“Also? I just embarrassed myself in front of Joe ten seconds ago. I can’t double embarrass myself right now.
I need recovery time, but I’m going to tell him, okay? It’s not that easy—”
“Sara.” Patrick looks at me like I’m a tiny baby bird who’s just fallen from a nest. “Calm down. You don’t have to tell him if you don’t want to.”
My fingers find my compact at the bottom of my bag. I admire my disguise. “Should I draw a unibrow?”
“Yeah, sure,” he deadpans. “While you’re at it, draw a fake moustache. That definitely won’t be weird.”
I snap the compact shut. “Fine. I get it.” Sighing, I hide my face in my palms, then glance at Patrick between my fingers. He’s already back to tapping on his phone. “I will tell him, you know. And then? I’ll apologize.”
“Mm-hmm,” he drones. “Sure.”
It’s clear he doesn’t believe me, and why should he? I barely believe myself.
“It’ll be incredibly awkward,” I go on. “But it’s the right thing to do.”
“Right, okay.” He keeps typing. “Good luck.”
This gets on my last nerve. I leap from my seat and slap my hands on the table. My dramatic display gets his attention.
“Why are you being like this? I am gonna tell him.”
“I’m not sure why you’re making this a big deal, but I’m in.” He sets his phone down, a mischievous glint in his eye. “Let’s turn it into another bet. You tell him today.”
My hand extends in front of me before I can process what I’m doing. “Deal.”
Deal?! Did I really just say that?
Too late. Patrick shakes, and it’s done. I’ve just made another bet.
The door creaks open. I glance over my shoulder to find Oliver shuffling toward us, textbook tucked under his arm, wearing his signature no-nonsense expression of eyebrows drawn together, scowling. It’s hard to believe anything in life brings him real joy.
Oliver looks from me, to Patrick, then back to me. “Are you ready to start?”
I nod enthusiastically, already sweating at the thought of fessing up.
Patrick’s on his feet, smirking at me as he reaches for his backpack. “I was just leaving.” As he passes Oliver, he adds, “So nice to meet Sara’s tutor. She’s a very normal and nice girl, but I’m sure you know that. Not weird at all, in fact.” He tosses me a wink. “Bye!”
I suppress the urge to roll my eyes. What an idiot.
If Oliver finds this strange, he doesn’t show it. He just sinks into the seat beside me and flips open his calculus textbook.
“Okay, let’s start from the last chapter.”
There’s no way I’m losing Patrick’s bet. So what if I acted like a fool in front of Joe? Now’s my chance to make up for it. No more secrets, no more awkward disguises. It’s better this way. I’ll finally be able to concentrate on math instead of stressing about clearing the air.
“Um, Oliver?” I lower my scarf. “Before we start, can I talk to you about something?”
He finally looks over at me, giving me his signature unamused expression.
“Don’t you have a test next week? Can it wait until after?
” He’s already turned back to the book. “Let’s go over your homework from yesterday, then we’ll move on to the next lesson.
Convergent and divergent series. Then, if a series converges, we’ll determine its value.
You’ll see—but stop me if you have any questions. ”
Gah! Subwayboy, you’re making this confession very difficult.
I slide over the homework Mr. Day handed back earlier today. It’s been graded already, and only half my answers are correct.
Oliver studies it for a minute and then says, “Okay, let’s start with this one.” He taps the first problem with his pencil. “This process is complicated, so listen carefully.”
If he wants to get down to business, fine.
Go ahead. Let’s study! But at the end of this session—oh, just you wait, Subwayboy.
I’m going to tell you everything. Because I, for one, am not chickening out this time.
Nope. Not me. Today’s the day I become a little braver.
Wait and see, Patrick. I’m not losing this bet.
As Oliver carries on about series, my brain feels like a marshmallow roasting over an open fire.
Unfortunately, unlike said marshmallow, nothing is sticking.
I’m barely following Oliver’s lesson, unsure what, exactly, I can ask that will make this easier.
All the formulas blur together, and my eyes glaze over.
“Hey,” Oliver snaps. “Are you listening? Does this series converge or diverge?”
“Uh—”
“First you have to write the partial sums.” He demonstrates in his notebook. “So this sequence diverges, which means the series also diverges. Do you see?”
“Um. Yeah.”
A lie, but before I can correct myself, he continues on.
“Okay. You do the next one.”
I pick up my pencil and freeze. My head pounds. Which formula do I use for this again? There are so many. They’re all starting to look the same too.
After a moment, he sighs.
“Remember, this formula,” he begins, tapping at the section in his textbook. “It looks like this.”
He jots it down on my worksheet, going over the problem, but soon enough I’m lost again. He may as well have said purple potatoes equal X but Y equals turkey legs, and XYZ equals blah, blah, blah.
I keep nodding along like it will magically unlock in the math portion of my brain, but it doesn’t.
Then Oliver moves on to the next lesson, showing me how to find the derivative of functions.
But, oh! This requires algebra in order to evaluate the limit, which involves multiple steps in order to get an answer.
By the time we get through one stinking problem, my brain is on fire.
“Well, that’s time.” Oliver closes his textbook. “Any questions?”
Uh, yeah. Just one. Why am I so bad at this?
“No,” I mumble, rubbing my temples.
“Right, well, we started your homework, so do the rest for next time and we’ll review it together.” He starts packing his backpack, not bothering to look at me. “Oh, and what did you want to talk about?”
That’s right. The bet. I have to tell him—except I’m not prepared.
We did so much math that I haven’t had a second to think about what I’d say.
How do I even begin? Maybe So, take the subway often?
No—what about Anything weird happen to you lately?
Like some stranger asking you to kiss her out of nowhere? Funny story . . .
Ack! I need to workshop this.
“Nothing,” I mutter, shifting my gaze to my shoes. “Never mind.”
I feel him watching me as I stuff my textbook in my bag and throw the strap over my shoulder. When I gather the courage to peer up at him, he’s palming the back of his neck. Almost like he’s nervous. No—aggravated? I have no idea. He’s more difficult to solve than a freaking derivative function.
Maybe confessing would come easier if he was friendlier. Instead, he’s always staring at me like I’ve sprinkled dirt on his ice cream. It’s very off-putting. Someone should let him know. Not me, of course, because I don’t currently have a death wish.
He lets out a long sigh, then steps around me and exits without another word. I wait until I’m sure he’s gotten a long head start, then unwrap the scarf from around my neck. So much for bravery and courage. Where’s my confidence?
Can’t I do anything right?