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The young math teacher glared at me for a moment then adjusted his glasses and went on with his lesson. After a couple of minutes, when I was sure I’d proven to him who was in charge, I strode over to my desk—again, dragging my loafers like I had with the other teacher—and slid into my seat.
While the teacher rambled on about trigonometry, I made a pile of paper snowballs. When one rolled off my desk and onto the floor next to Tutor Girl’s foot, I expected her to pick it up the way any other kid would when Henry Walton dropped something next to them, but she was paying serious attention to the graphing being done on the board. I leaned over, pretending I was going to pick up the paper myself—which, of course, I never would—and saw her gripping her pencil so tightly, that her fingers were bright red.
“Hey,” I whispered. “We should hang out sometime in a place that isn’t this boring.” I waved my hand to show her the classroom full of half-asleep students who were paying even less attention than me.
Mr. Trig heard me and screeched, “That’s it, Henry, another word from you, and it’s detention!”
I leaned back and arranged my stack of wadded-up snowballs.
He smirked, feeling proud he finally scored a point in this game he knew he’d eventually lose, anyway. Enjoying his victory, he went for point number two. “Did I finally make you speechless, Henry?”
“The name is Mr. Walton.” I laughed and waved him off. “Now, let’s get back to teaching, shall we? Not good to waste our parents' not-hard-earned-at-all money, right?”
Knowing what was good for him, the teacher backed off and went back to drawing a large, upside-down “U” on the whiteboard, while I spent the rest of class staring at Tutor Girl’s shiny hair—the waves falling perfectly over her shoulders. I noticed on the floor next to her was a somewhat beat-up leather book bag with a pink charm bracelet hanging off the strap. I’d seen girls with these kinds of bracelets before and knew that each charm—usually hearts, flowers, volleyballs, airplanes, crosses—held some kind of special meaning. Tutor Girl’s, though, only had a single charm: a tiny, silver calculator.
What. A. Nerd.
The lunch bell rang, but I stayed in my seat while the other students filed out of the classroom, not caring much about our meeting with Ms. Martin.
Tutor Girl grabbed her book bag and walked to the door, without sparing a glance in my direction.
I laughed under my breath at how different we were: She followed the rules. I broke them.
“Are you coming?” she asked on her way out the door.
“To what?” I asked, knowing exactly what she meant but also wanting her to have a reason to talk to me.
She sighed and rolled her eyes. “Th… the homeroom teacher said we—”
“Oh, right.” I interrupted her. “Gotta make this thing with Tutor Girl official.” I laughed, again.
“My name is Grace O’Connell.” She snapped.
A little shocked by her bite and surprised how nervous it made me, I fumbled to grab my bag and stood up. “Feisty, huh?” I snickered. “Well, it’s nice to meet you, Grace O’Connell.”
“Ms. Martin wants to see us both, and you’re not going to make me late.” She turned on her heels and walked out the door, calling back to me without turning around. “Henry, now!”
Because I didn’t know my way around the school yet, I had no choice but to follow her—although at a distance because she made sure to walk ahead of me the whole way.
Ms. Martin’s dimly lit office had rows of filing cabinets and long windows with even longer curtains that kept the outside light out. “Creepy….” I muttered under my breath.
“Hello you two,” Ms. Martin said. “Please take a seat.”
Grace sat in one of the two chairs, but I stood because I wanted the meeting to move along as quickly as possible. It was already a waste of my lunch hour.
“Have a seat, Henry,” Ms. Martins said sternly.
I pulled the other chair back to be farther away from her desk and let its legs scrape the wood floor. I sat down and threw my hands in the air. “You have my full attention Ms. Martin. All ears.”
She shuffled some papers in her hands and cleared her throat. “Grace,” she started. “As you’ve heard, Henry, was transferred to our school on short notice and needs guidance to get up to speed with the curriculum.” Ms. Martin continued filing the papers in her hands.
Grace moved to the edge of her seat, possibly trying to get a look at the forms Ms. Martin was holding. “I’m sorry, I don't understand, Ms. Martin.”
“I know that, Grace. That’s why you’re here.” She looked at me. “Let me explain to both of you how this is going to work.”
I felt Grace’s gaze and grinned at her. Yes, Tutor Girl, this is how it’s going to work.
“Grace, you’re one of our best students, and in most of the same classes as Henry, so Headmaster Waltz requested that you tutor him until he’s prepared for the end-of-term exams—"
