Chapter 5 — Tutoring, Nothing Else （Nora） #2
Trey Satterfield leaned one shoulder against the film-room doorframe with his arms crossed, eyes already on our papers, smiling like he'd caught us at something.
Through the tall glass beside him, one rain track slid down the window past Beck's constellation doodle, and the whole afternoon tilted a degree sideways.
“Well, well. Picasso's got an artist. You drawin' his plays for him, sweetheart?”
Beck went completely still beside me, pencil frozen mid-line, and the warmth drained out of the room so fast my damp sleeves felt cold again.
My fingers curled tight around my own pencil ahead of any conscious thought, and I sat up straighter in the door-facing chair like my spine had made a decision without me.
Trey pushed off the doorframe and strolled two steps closer, tie loosened, whistle lanyard swinging, his gaze sliding from my messy diagram to Beck's face and back like he was counting something.
“Relax, Hale,” Trey said. “Just checkin' the film-room schedule. Didn't know you needed art lessons too.”
“I'm tutoring him. Don't — you don't get to talk to him like that.”
Trey's eyebrows went up, and his smile widened, and he looked at me then, really looked, and I made myself hold still under it and not drop my eyes.
“Feisty,” Trey said. “What's your name, sweetheart?”
“Nora,” I said. “And don't call me sweetheart.”
“Nora,” Trey said, tasting it, and his eyes dropped to our papers again, lingering on Beck's constellation routes and my folded flashcards. “Cute setup you've got here. Real cozy.”
Beck's hand had found his left wrist again, two fingers pressing hard, and I wanted to put my hand over his so bad it scared me, so I stayed planted and kept my eyes on Trey.
“We're working,” I said. “Was there something you needed?”
“Routes,” Trey said, jerking his chin at Beck. “You nailing your routes, Hale? Or too busy getting tutored?”
Beck said nothing, jaw working, eyes on the table edge, and something hot rose up the back of my throat.
“He knows his routes,” I said. “Better than — you should see his board work. Don't start.”
“Board work,” Trey said. “Sure. Lot of chalk for a backup.”
“He's got a midterm to pass,” I said, “and a tutor to listen to, so if you'll excuse us —”
“Oh, I'm not starting anything,” Trey said, hands up, grin lazy. “Just looking. See you around, Picasso. Don't work her too hard.”
He left with one last slow look at our table, at the diagram and the squared pens and all of it, and his steps faded down the hall toward the stairs.
The quiet he left behind felt bruised, and Beck stared at the doorway with his jaw tight and his fingers still pressed to his wrist.
“Hey,” I said quietly. “He's gone. Just us.”
“He's gone. I'm fine. Three — just give me a sec.” Beck ran his palm along the table edge until it sat square and breathed, one, two, three, slow and counted.
I waited without talking, rain ticking the windows, radiator clanking, my own heart thudding loud in my ears, and on the third breath his shoulders came down.
“There you are,” I said softly. “Hi.”
“Hi,” Beck said, rough, and something in my chest cracked clean open.
“You did good,” I said. “The breathin'. That was — that was really good.”
“Three breaths,” Beck said. “Works better when you're — when you're here.”
“Then I'm glad I'm here,” I said, and his eyes met mine, quick and bright, and dropped to the table.
“Breathe with me?” I asked. “One more. For the road.”
He nodded, and we breathed together, in and out, and the radiator clanked like applause, and his fingers left his wrist and flattened on the oak.
My hands were shaking a little, so I curled them around my empty cinnamon cup, and the leftover smell steadied me, warm and sweet.
“Sorry,” I said. “About him. He doesn't get to — that was rude, what he did.”
“You stayed,” Beck said. “You didn't — you stayed loud for me. Thank you.”
“Always,” I said, and meant it, and that scared me most of all, so I started stacking the flashcards with clumsy fingers.
I slid the good pencil back across the oak toward him, and our fingers almost brushed, nearly, not quite, and we both pulled back at the same last second like the air between us was hot.
He lined the pencil up with the others, square and perfect, and stared at it like it had saved him, and maybe it had, a little.
“Still yellow?” I asked. “Or back to green?”
“Green-ish,” Beck said. “Yellow-green. Like early leaves.”
“I'll take it,” I said. “Early leaves count.”
“We should —” I started, and he said “Yeah” in the same breath, and we both laughed, shaky and real, and it felt like surfacing.
“Thursday,” I said. “Same time. Same pens. Same Picasso.”
Tutoring. Nothing else. That was the rule, and I broke it smiling.
We packed up slowly, my diagram folded into my bag and my empty cup in the trash. At the front desk I caught the line I'd nearly missed and initialed it before we left. Rules mattered more now, not less.
He walked me to the hallway edge with careful distance between us, two whole floor tiles, and the corridor smelled like wet coats and floor wax.
The film room stood dark and empty across the hall, and rain hissed faint against the high windows by the stairs, and the silence sat down between us and stayed.
“Same pens Thursday?” I asked, dumb, just to keep him one more second. “Same chairs?”
“Same,” Beck said. “I'll save yours. The door one.”
“You always do,” I said before I could stop myself, and his eyes flicked to mine, and I let the meaning of it sit there unclaimed.
“Thursday? Same time? You'll come?”
“I'll be here. Don't — yeah. I'll be here.” My voice wobbled and I let it.
He nodded once, hard, like I'd handed him something heavy and good, and ducked his head under the doorframe the way he always had to, and I watched him go with my throat tight.
I stood on the wet Whitmore steps with rain misting my face and my dead phone heavy in my pocket, and I thought about squared pens and hovering hands and the way he'd said thank you like nobody stayed loud for him, ever.
Wet leaves stuck to the steps, and the gray light was going grayer, and somewhere across the quad somebody laughed, far away and normal, and I pulled my damp jacket tight.
Rain on the steps, his squared pens behind me, and Thursday already circled in my head like a promise I shouldn't keep.