5. Josie
5
Josie
I t’s been a busy day, but I haven’t been able to get my meeting with Dr. Ambrose out of my mind. I’m an overthinker and I’ve been obsessing and falling down the worst-case-scenario rabbit hole all day. I sit down for my dinner break. I only have ten minutes and I’m eating those orange crackers with peanut butter. There’s no way they have any actual nutritional value, but yeah, we can call it a dinner break—and I’m thrilled to see an email from Dr. Ambrose in my inbox.
Well, I’m thrilled at first. Then panic sets in. But curiosity wins out, so I open it.
Hi Josie,
I have excellent news. As luck would have it, there is a tutoring opportunity available for you. It will require 10-12 hours a week, and a bit of flexibility because the student is an athlete. In exchange for your services, the Dean is graciously granting permission for you to use the accumulated tutoring hours as the remaining credit toward your Teaching and Tutoring Writing course. With this plan in place, you are on track to graduate in May with dual degrees. I know this is a goal you have been working toward in earnest, and I am pleased that we were able to find a pathway to ensure completion of that goal.
Your first session is tonight, immediately following your shift in Reference. I realize it’s short notice, but as I said, the student is an athlete, and his team is scheduled to travel this weekend. He’ll meet you at 8:00 p.m. for a tutoring session and you can make further arrangements from there.
Please log all of your hours and add them to your timesheet so we can keep track. I’ll stop by periodically to check on your progress.
This really is a wonderful opportunity to earn the credit you need and to assist a fellow student at the same time. I’ve listed his information below for reference.
Name: Beckett Vandaele III Year: Senior
Courses: Intro to Philosophy, Medieval History, Contemporary Lit, Feminist Studies, Statistics
Thanks,
Dr. Diane Ambrose
Chair, Education Department
The fact that my request has been granted is a miracle. I should be relieved. Maybe even overjoyed.
Instead, I’m anxious as hell. And for good reason. I look down at my phone again and my eyes zero in on the root cause of the stress I’m feeling.
Beckett Vandaele.
There’s no way he’s the student I’m supposed to tutor. There are nearly 6,000 people on campus. What are the odds?
And, ok, statistically speaking, taking into account the number of student tutors, the hours we’re available that are compatible with an athlete’s schedule, and the number of students who seek tutoring in general…, the odds are roughly one in 562.
But fuck statistics right now because there is no way that I can actually tutor Van.
I can’t be in the same room with him.
It’s hard enough being on the same campus.
So sitting together at a little study carrell in the library is going to be torture.
I reread Dr. Ambrose’s email again, checking to see if maybe there’s some hidden alternative woven into the message.
There’s not.
The timer on my phone dings, signaling the end of my break and the beginning of my impending doom. If Dr. Ambrose arranged it so that our session starts at 8:00 tonight, then I have fifteen minutes to either get my shit together or move to another state and change my identity.
It’s a tough call, but I love my siblings too much to skip town, so that means I’m doing this.
Suddenly those little orange crackers are not sitting so well in my stomach. I feel like I got in line for the merry-go-round but somehow ended up on a roller coaster with an ominous name like Devil’s Last Wish or something. Now I’m at the top and about to go over and it’s going to be terrible, but there’s nothing I can do to stop it.
Oh, god. I really don’t think I can do any of this. I can’t tutor Van and I’m not sure I can keep my dinner down, either.
I take a few deep breaths and remind myself that I’m used to doing hard things. I do them all the time. Just as I’m about to laugh in the face of my feigned positivity, my phone buzzes with a message from home.
Milo : Where did you find this babysitter, Josie?
Ah, thank you, Universe, for giving me a problem I can handle. Our regular babysitter is on vacation for the next 10 days and Levi has studio time booked all week that he can’t get out of. The kids are less-than-thrilled about their temporary sitter, it seems. I take the stairs up to the main floor and text my brother back.
Josie : She lives in our neighborhood, bud. She’s a year ahead of Zane in school. And she’s CPR certified. She came highly recommended.
Milo : She’s a weirdo, Josie.
Josie : No name-calling. And there’s nothing wrong with being weird. Besides, Mrs. Fulton has one of the largest collections of porcelain dolls on the East Coast. That’s not exactly ordinary, but we’re not judging her, are we?
Tillie : Actually, you are. But I agree. It’s odd. Not as bad as collecting toenails or used dental floss, but still strange.
Milo : I’d rather have a lady obsessed with creepy dolls than this girl. I say we go back to Mrs. Fulton, starting now.
Josie : Milo, you can’t do that. She’s on a cruise to Alaska. Besides, it can’t be that bad.
Josie : And be nice to Chesleigh. And I’m at work until way past your bedtime, so only text if it’s an emergency, okay?
Milo : She’s doing laundry.
Josie: Uh, please tell her she doesn’t need to do that. Maybe she’s trying to be helpful? And how is there laundry? I just did two loads.
Milo: No, Josie. Not our laundry. Hers. And before she started the washer, she sniffed the detergent and said, “Mmm, it even smells like him.” Red alert, Josie. Red. Alert. I think she’s stalking Zane. We must protect him. I repeat: RED ALERT.
I hold back a laugh, because that’s a little strange, but it’s also a little funny. Chesleigh seems intense, but harmless. And Milo’s texts got my mind off the roller coaster.
I can totally do this. I’ve tutored students for years. I just need to be professional and detached. Van’s not my ex, not in this setting. He’s a student who needs help and I’m the tutor who’s going to provide it.
My bravado lasts about thirty seconds because the main doors open, and in walks Van.
He doesn’t look the same as he did three years ago, but his effect on me hasn’t changed. He’s a little taller now than he was at nineteen, and his shoulders are impossibly broader. He’s still lean and muscled, with blue eyes and a jaw that could cut granite. He’s got one devastating dimple on the left side of his mouth and a smile so dazzling it could belong to a Disney prince. His hair is golden blond, but where it was cropped close freshman year, it’s long and flowing now, curling effortlessly and making him look like a Viking god.
And that’s not too far a stretch. Ancestry aside, Van is a god on this campus, and not just because he’s a hockey player. I’m sure that doesn’t hurt, but the fact remains that the man looks like he just stepped off a soundstage somewhere. He’s got the face and physique of a Hollywood heartthrob and the easy demeanor of a rom-com hero. He’s practically a legend at BU and he hasn’t even graduated yet. He’s at every party, always with a beautiful girl (or two) on his arm. He’s charming, funny, popular, and staring right at me.
“Hey, Josie,” he says, his voice still low and gravelly.
“Hello,” I say politely, gesturing to the wooden tables in front of the circulation desk. “Should we have a seat and get started? What are you working on right now? Do you have any upcoming exams or papers?” I cringe inwardly. God, could I sound any more awkward? I mean, getting down to business makes sense, but I’m usually a little better with small talk.
We’re what? Ninety seconds into this and he already has me off my game. That’s not a good sign, but it does cement one thing in my mind: there’s got to be an alternative. I have no clue what it could be, but as soon as this session’s over, I’m going to figure it out. In the meantime, the only way I’m getting through this is to be totally detached and completely professional. I can do this.
We walk toward the sea of tables just off the main lobby. I usually prefer the quieter atmosphere of the third floor, but considering this whole tutoring gig was sprung on me 20 minutes ago, and considering the fact that the guy I’m tutoring is a guy I used to date—a guy I haven’t spoken to in three years—well, these tables will do. I place my tablet and pen on the table that wobbles the least, and have a seat.
“Thank you for doing this,” he tells me, pulling out a chair and sitting across from me.
“It’s my job,” I state plainly.
He nods, adding, “Yeah, but it’s almost the middle of the semester. And I’m pretty sure the dean had to call in a favor or something just to get me on your roster. All I’m saying is, I appreciate it.”
“I don’t really have a roster,” I tell him, because it’s the truth. My schedule’s so busy this semester with the extra course, and with my responsibilities back home, that I gave up tutoring to focus on my course load, my family, and my work at the library. “My schedule’s packed,” I explain, “so I took myself off the tutoring list. But my adviser messaged, and…here we are.”
“Oh…well, I guess I was right about that favor then,” he says as an even more awkward silence settles around us.
No matter how gorgeous the man is, we can’t just sit here and stare at each other for the next hour, so I mentally shake my head and redirect my brain to remember that I’m working. I’m a tutor, and he’s a student. I need to completely disregard the fact that I fell for him, and he crushed my naive little heart into a million pieces. None of that matters right now. In fact, he’s probably been with 100 women between then and now. He might not even remember me. Yep, that’s it. I need to create some distance. I need to treat him like any other student who’s come to me for tutoring, because that’s exactly what he is: one of the 2,361 students who seek academic services each year. The fact that he looks shockingly like the prince in one of Iris’s books is irrelevant. But to be clear, he looks like the dashing prince after the villain stabs him and he dies and the princess’s kiss brings him back to life. Because Van’s not a beast. He’s a prince. But he’s not my prince, even if that story is my favorite.
I’m no princess; I’m a librarian.
Get yourself together, Josie, I admonish, straightening my glasses and going into work mode.
“Like I said, I just received the email, so I don’t have much background. Let’s start with your schedule. What courses are you taking this semester?” I know that information is in the email Dr. Ambrose sent, but seeing Van again has my brain a little scrambled.
“I have five classes, but I’m doing okay in Stats. The other ones are Medieval History, Intro to Philosophy, Feminist Studies, and Contemporary Lit.”
I jot them down as he ticks them off, running his hand through his hair. He used to do that even when it was much shorter. It’s a tell that he’s nervous or unsure, which is no surprise. Tutoring often makes people uneasy, and it’s my job to uncover what their strengths are and how best to overcome their struggles. But it’s also my job to make them feel at ease, so I paste a smile on my face and aim for warmth. “Ok, which of the courses has brought you here tonight?”
He huffs out a laugh. “Wow, they really didn’t give you much, huh? I’m here for four of them, Jos. I’m on the brink of failing two of them, and the other two aren’t much better.”
I inwardly wince when he calls me Jos. I hate when anyone shortens my name. I mean, it’s already shortened, how short does it have to get? Van was the only exception to my rule. Somehow, the extreme abbreviation always sounded sweet when he said it. Now, it just grates. But beyond my annoyance, I hear what he’s saying, and it sounds like this semester has been a struggle so far.
“You’re really loaded up on humanities, huh? You’re more of a math and science guy, I take it?”
“Not really,” he says, shaking his head. “But Pete is, so that helps.”
“Okay, well, it’s good to know we have four different types of content to cover. We’ll have to take a look at your syllabi and see when you have upcoming assessments. Do you have your course paperwork handy?”
“Paperwork?”
“Yes, of course. There should be digital copies of each syllabus in your online portal. You can forward those to me,” I say, scribbling need syllabi in my notebook. “If I am going to tutor you, I need to know when your papers are due, or if you have upcoming tests or quizzes.” My smile is pleasant, my tone professional and polite.
But Van just looks at me like I’ve lost my mind.