Chapter 1
APRIL
I TAKE ARGYLE HIGH SCHOOL’S front steps two at a time.
The marching band is practicing in the parking lot.
The speaker-amplified metronome echoes through the morning air like a giant ticking clock.
I’m a college graduate who still hasn’t mastered the art of getting places before eight in the morning.
Jonathan will be waiting for me at that scuffed desk, his pencil beside him with the eraser chewed off.
“There a fire or something?”
I startle at the deep voice.
I turn to see a tall guy in corduroy pants. “What?”
“I’ve just never seen a student run so fast toward summer school.”
My cheeks warm. “I’m a tutor, actually.” I hike up my backpack, wishing I hadn’t worn braids. “A late tutor,” I say.
“Ah.” He transfers a binder from one arm to the other. “I’m Leo.” He extends his hand. “A late teacher.” In-service has just started for the new school year.
I chuckle and shake his hand. “April.”
He releases my hand and opens the school door, nodding for me to go ahead.
I walk into the familiar blast of cool air. Behind us, the door closes and mutes the marching band. The hallway is dark after the bright eastern sun, and I glance back. With polite nods, the teacher and I turn, and we go our separate ways.
“Sorry I’m late!” I drop my backpack onto a blue plastic chair.
Without looking up, Jonathan Gutierrez grins and shakes his head. “Hey, miss.”
I take him in: his hoodie and ear gauges.
His book and eraserless pencil. It’s been a great summer, and I’m dreading the approaching autumn, when I’ll have to make some sort of decision about what to do with my life.
I’m already doing what I want. But as far as I know, tutoring is a job for adolescents.
For summers and part-time hours and minimum wage.
Not for a college grad whose parents have been asking for a year what I’m going to do as though what I am doing counts for nothing.
Jonathan won’t admit it, but I can tell he’s enjoying The Count of Monte Cristo. Some days, he asks for just a few more pages, and on those days I stay as long as I can. It merits celebration when someone with dyslexia wants to keep reading.
When I got my own diagnosis in elementary school, I wondered why they gave it such a hard name. For years, I called it dills-hex-ya until my sister, Josie, said I sounded like a spell-casting pickle. After that, I didn’t say the name at all.
I’m barely seated before Jonathan begins reading.
I relax into the starts and stops of his voice, so much smoother than a few months ago.
Now I hear inflection and emotion, which doesn’t just tell me he understands the story—it tells me he’s enjoying it.
Last semester, he flunked everything related to reading comprehension.
While dyslexia is one of the most difficult things I’ve faced, for Jonathan it’s only one page in a whole book of hardships.
Teachers know home life is part of education, which means it comes into the job.
But it needs a delicate touch, and the learning curve is real.
Like when I brought some hand-me-down clothes from my brother and Jonathan only mumbled thanks, stuffing them deep into his bag as pink spread across his face.
Despite Jonathan having only two ragged outfits, Cameron’s clothes remain nowhere to be seen.
Food is different, though. Jonathan accepts it, even asking for vending machine change he knows I’m not supposed to give. Just one bag of Cheetos, miss. But Mom has started cooking extras for him, so at the end of our sessions, I pull Tupperware from my bag.
Today I have muffins, boiled eggs, and tangerines. Jonathan dog-ears his page. He peels one of the eggs with great effort, and I refrain from helping.
Instead I say, “So, junior year.”
He lifts his eyebrows. “Yeah?”
“You ready for it?”
“Don’t know. Am I?”
I nod. “Absolutely.”
“You know, miss?” He finally gets the eggshell off. “This shit’s been all right. I’ve, uh, learned a lot.” He puts the whole egg into his mouth and somehow manages to chew.
I smile. My superiors cautioned against a thick book for a kid with dyslexia, but I respectfully disagreed. In the right hands, it doesn’t feel like expectation but invitation. Belief, even.
“You’ve made incredible progress, kid.”
He swallows the egg. “Let’s just hope I get Mr. Torres this year.”
At this, I roll my eyes. All summer, it’s been Mr. Torres this and Mr. Torres that. Jonathan talks like the only way he’ll be able to graduate is if the scheduling stars align and he gets Mr. Torres for history.
“You’re going to do awesome no matter which teachers you get.”
He takes a crumbling bite of muffin. I check the time and start packing the empty Tupperware. I have half an hour to get across town for my next student, so I stand and slip my backpack straps onto my shoulders. “Okay, J, see you tomorrow.”
“Later, miss.”
As I’m leaving the school, the teacher from earlier darts out of the front office.
“April, right?”
I pause, nodding to confirm.
“You’re working with Jonathan?”
I glance over my shoulder. “Yeah?”
“How’s he doing?”
“Great, actually.” I beam. “Tons of progress.”
Relief washes over his face. “That’s so good to hear.”
This is when I note his name badge: Leo Torres.
“Oh, you’re Mr. Torres!”
He follows my gaze down toward his badge as if checking. “Afraid so.”
“No, it’s just that Jonathan adores you. He really wants to be in your class.”
Leo laughs. “Great kid dealt a hard hand.” He leans in. “I’ve got him for history and study hall.”
“Oh, good!” I notice the clock on the wall and cringe.
He steps back. “I won’t keep you. Thanks for working with him.”
“Of course!” I wave and dash away.
The next day I wear my hair down.
On my way out, I cross paths again with Leo, who slows to a stop. “Hey.”
“Hi.”
“What a doorstopper you and Jonathan are tackling.”
My copy of Monte Cristo is in my backpack, which means that at some point during my tutoring session, Leo Torres was looking at me. My skin warms. But also, my defenses rise. “I know it’s a thick book, but he really can do it—he has done it—a little at a time.”
“I don’t doubt it.”
“Really?”
“Why would I?”
“I sometimes get flack for reading dense books with dyslexic kids, but I swear they need good books, same as anyone. Even if the process is slow as molasses.”
Leo leans against the cinderblock wall beside a crooked poster that’s shouting in primary colors: Amazing Things Happen Here! A swoop of dark hair rests above his eyebrow as he asks, “So, what are some of your favorite books to read with them?”
I spout off six books before I find myself giving a soliloquy about the importance of getting good books into “bad” schools. I only realize I’m rambling because of how Leo is smiling at me.
“Sorry, I get carried away.”
But he picks up where I left off, talking about his own curriculum and students. He talks with his hands. He’s passionate about this, about them. After twenty more minutes of discussing education, I begin to think I’ve met my match. He cares about this like I do. Most people don’t.
A woman walks by with a steaming lunch, and my stomach growls.
Leo straightens. “I’ve kept you way too long.”
I say, “No, it’s okay. I have a long break today.” I almost say, Keep me longer.
“Want some trail mix or something from the faculty lounge?”
“Um—”
“Here, come with me.”
He leads me a few doors down, where there is indeed a basket of trail mixes. I choose one, but instead of saying bye, Leo walks me back out. “Really sorry you missed lunch. Could I make it up to you?”
“What do you mean?”
This is when I learn that even a very tall man can look shy. Glancing down before meeting my gaze, Leo asks, “Could I take you to dinner on Friday?”
I bite back my smile. “Sure.”
When we met to the beat of the marching band, there was no spark. There is now.
Later, I sit by the pool with Josie as she rambles about her freshman welcome events at Emerson.
There’s a divide between us now. Josie is living childhood’s last gasp while I’ve been thrust into all that comes after.
A bit jealous of my pink-shouldered sister for having college still in front of her, I nod along, lulled by her verbosity and the shimmering blues of water and sky.
I say zilch about Leo Torres, but my thoughts float toward him. The passion with which he spoke about history. The dignifying way he talked about his students. And the way that, when we parted, he touched my arm and said, “See you soon.” His eyes were as warm and green and inevitable as springtime.