2. Sutton
2
SUTTON
Even without her bright-pink sweater or the fact that she barged into class ten minutes late, Laine Rodriquez would stand out. Her hair is in a classic style that reminds me of 1920s flapper girls and she’s wearing red lipstick, the kind I’ve only seen girls wear to formal events—never to class. Throughout the hour, I peek back at her periodically. Her bangs stick out from her beanie in wild angles, and her eyes are wide, fluttering between the slideshow and her notebook as her hand flies across the lined paper. Those thick, dark eyebrows wrinkle with worry.
Laine fidgets constantly. She straightens her sweater. She rolls to sit on her knees. She twists the small pendant on her necklace from side to side. I’ve never seen someone so restless.
When class ends, Laine wastes no time running to the front of the lecture hall, sticking her hand out to Mr. Hirsch. He stares at it for a few moments before taking it, shaking once. Meanwhile, I’m frozen in my seat, petrified on Laine’s behalf.
Mr. Hirsch doesn’t wait for Laine to speak before airing his grievances. “I don’t like tardiness, Miss Rodriguez. As if it weren’t enough for you to wait until the last possible day to add my class, you then choose to show up ten minutes late.”
Laine smiles despite the criticism, her entire face joining in on the expression. It’s a miracle that Mr. Hirsch can resist smiling back at the brilliance. “I’m very sorry. It won’t happen again. I will be taking this class seriously. You see, I need to pass in order to graduate at the end of the semester.”
Mr. Hirsch raises his eyebrows and begins packing his messenger bag. “You may have been able to join our class,” he says, not bothering to bring his eyes to hers, “but that doesn’t mean you’ll be passing. This is an upper-division class, and the workload is evidence of such. Being late to my class shows a lack of discipline and propriety.”
“I’ll do anything,” Laine says, nodding as if to convince herself of her own words. “Do you have office hours?”
“No.”
Laine winces before fixing a smile across her face again. “Okay,” she says, letting out a single, breathless laugh. She swallows hard. “Are there any tutors?”
Now it’s my turn to flinch. I move my gaze to my laptop and type away gibberish on the keyboard, trying to signal to them how busy I am these days.
“For that, you should talk to Mr. Sutton Davis,” Mr. Hirsch says, closing his briefcase with a thud so forceful both Laine and I straighten. “Good day, Miss Rodriguez.”
He gives me a curt nod on his way out of the room. And then it’s just me and Laine.
She rocks back on her heels a few times before plopping down in the seat beside me and leaning her chin down on her palm. For a minute, she doesn’t speak. Instead, she waits for my eyes to meet hers. Despite myself, they do.
She leans over to see what I’m working on. I slam my laptop shut before she can see that my typing has been utter nonsense. “Hi,” she whispers, the corners of her mouth lifting a touch.
“Hi,” I echo.
Please don’t ask me to—
“Can I schedule a tutoring session with you?” Laine asks, as if she can read my mind.
“No.”
“No?”
“I don’t have any availability. All my tutoring appointments are booked,” I explain. It didn’t take long for Mr. Hirsch’s students to realize how tough he is. Laine opens her mouth, but I quickly add, “For the whole semester.”
Laine’s rich olive skin takes on a pinky tint, a subtle wash the same color as her sweater. When she looks at me, I can almost see my reflection in her eyes, which are so dark the irises and pupils blend. She has a scar above her lip, not unlike my own.
It’s never easy for me to turn a student down. I remember what it was like to be drowning in schoolwork, looking for any sort of life preserver. But I can’t be that life preserver for every student, or I won’t be able to stay afloat myself. Still, with those big, dark eyes and bright smile, there’s an even stronger draw than usual that’s begging me to help Laine.
“I need to pass this class,” she says, her chest rising and falling with quick breaths. “I need to graduate. And something tells me next week’s exam is going to kick my ass. And maybe every exam after that. Don’t you have any open sessions?”
I study Laine for a few moments, and she fidgets, uncomfortable with the silence.
“No,” I force out again. The thought of taking on yet another student makes my anxiety climb. Heat gathers under the collar of my button-down. “I’m sorry. Aside from my own classes, I have dozens of students I’m working with, my TA responsibilities, a job, and my internship. So, no. I don’t have any availability.” My words come out colder than I intended.
Laine pulls back a few inches, shocked by my frankness. She pushes a stray lock of hair under her jaw. “Well, if anyone cancels…”
Her defeated expression is almost enough for me to add another thing to my plate.
Almost.
But not quite.
Not when I’m so close to finishing school, closing the end of a hard-fought chapter in my life. “I’ll put you on the waitlist for tutoring,” I offer.
“Thanks. See you next week.”
I nod, and she accepts defeat, taking sluggish steps out of the room. I feel so bad about turning her down I nearly call out to her. Instead, I check the calendar on my phone again, something that has become habitual. I’m met with a screen chock-full of colorful little squares that will dictate my life for the coming months.
School. Work. School. Work. Tutoring. Counseling. Repeat. Repeat. Repeat.
I double-check the room to be sure everything is tidied before sloshing through the remnants of snow outside. Though I should be thinking about my endless to-do list, my mind circles back to Laine. To the furrowed brows as she copied notes down. To the deflated look when I told her no…three times.
When I get to my next appointment, a one-on-one with the professor overseeing my thesis, I’m welcomed by the Althea Carr etching on the frosted glass door. Thanks to the cold, my nose is running and my lips are chapped. Feeling—and likely looking—worse for the wear wouldn’t be so bad except for the blur of bright pink I see through the frosted glass .
Ms. Carr's voice, sharper than usual, is muffled by the door. “Do I even want to know why you’re not in class right now, Laine?”
“Do you?”
“Do I need to remind you that if you drop a single class, you won’t be eligible to graduate this spring?”
“My sixty grand in tuition is reminder enough. Thanks, Mom.”
“It’s not my fault you didn’t take advantage of your four years of free school. If you had graduated on time—”
“You pushed me into school before I had any idea what I wanted to do. It’s no wonder I had to change my major.”
“Fine. But most students don’t switch majors four times.”
My instinct tells me to wait to knock so I don’t interrupt, but the accidental eavesdropping seems almost worse. Before I have the chance to back away from the door, I hear Ms. Carr’s voice again, louder than before—loud enough to be directed at me, hiding behind the semi-private glass.
“Yes?”
Even though I know Ms. Carr already saw me, I knock.
“Come in,” she says with a sigh.
I try—really try—to make my eyes land on Ms. Carr when I open the door. But Laine is like a bright-pink billboard I can’t tear my eyes away from. She’s perched on the arm of the chair opposite Ms. Carr’s desk. The second I peek my head in, her wide smile is back, giving no indication of the argument she was in seconds ago.
“If it isn’t Sutton,” Laine exhales, her cheeks reddening a touch. She quirks a questioning eyebrow up. “Please tell me you came to say there’s a tutoring appointment open.”
“You know Mr. Davis?” Ms. Carr asks, her eyes narrowed. She always calls her graduate students by their last names.
“He’s the TA of my new elective. He’s the one that will ensure I do, in fact, get my degree this semester. Right, Sutton?”
“As long as you can show up to class on time,” I say.
Laine’s smile pinches. “Thanks for the tip.”
“Laine, Mr. Davis and I have an appointment to talk about his thesis.” Ms. Carr flicks her eyes to the open door behind me.
When I look back at Laine, she is staring up at me through her eyelashes, a mischievous lift at the corner of her lip. “Sure, sure. I was just going to ask my mom about Miranda in The Tempest . And…”—Laine pauses to look down at her notes from class, rereading a copied slide word for word in a monotone voice—“what Miranda can teach us about feminism both in the seventeenth century and today.”
“Are you trying to turn this into a tutoring session, Miss Rodriguez?” I ask.
“No, no.” Laine waves her hand. “I’m just trying to make casual, organic conversation. What do you think, Sutton?”
I fight the urge to give in to Laine’s playful personality. You don’t have time for this , I remind myself. “I think you should read the play,” I tell her.
“You’re such a brilliant tutor. I can see why you’re booked solid.”
“I thought this wasn’t a tutoring session?”
She crosses her arms over her chest. “Not with that kind of attitude it isn’t.”
“Laine,” Ms. Carr prods, impatience hardening her voice again.