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Logan came out with his hair wet and his shirt off. He walked over to me. I did my best not to stare, but it wasn’t easy. The guy was built out of muscles.
“You’re waiting for Tristan, right?” He asked.
I cleared my throat, nodding. “Yeah. For the project.”
“He’s at the library. Coach makes us all do a couple community service hours every week. Tristan tutors freshmen.”
I raised an eyebrow. “He tutors?”
Logan shrugged. “Supposedly. You can go see for yourself. He finished showering up like ten minutes ago. He should be there by now.”
I tried to wrap my mind around that image on my way to the library. I couldn’t picture Tristan with the patience to be a tutor. All I could picture was him degrading a sobbing group of poor freshmen, telling them they were the dumbest pieces of shit he’d ever seen, or something.
Once I was in the library, I spotted him near the rear of the room. His back was to me, so I was able to bring my chair close enough to listen in. There was one freshman kid who looked small, even by freshmen standards. I thought he could’ve passed for a sixth grader. He was watching Tristan read what looked like an essay. Tristan had a red pen in his hand, which he occasionally used to scribble something in the margins.
“Okay,” Tristan said after a few quiet minutes.
I mentally braced myself, deciding if he was too much of an ass, I’d come to the poor little kid’s rescue.
“This isn’t bad, but the whole ‘Webster’s defines blah blah’ intro is really over-done. And that second paragraph?” Tristan nodded his head, sticking his hand out in a fist. The kid smiled, shifting in his seat before reaching out to bump his small fist against Tristan’s.
“That argument you made was really solid,” Tristan tapped the paper a few times with his pen, nodding. “Really solid. Just gotta start using those transitions like I told you. Think of it this way: you’ve got the brains, man. You took that topic out back, slapped it around, and made it your bitch. But you just need to work on the delivery. Smooth it out. Act like it’s a pretty girl you want to woo or some shit.”
I grinned to myself. Okay. All the swearing was probably a little much for the kid who looked like he still needed a booster seat, but it was admittedly cute listening to Tristan.
“Yeah.” the kid’s voice was adorably high-pitched. “Girls aren’t really my specialty.”
Tristan frowned, like he was surprised. “Look, it’s easy. Girls love it when you fix problems for them. Or give them shit they want. So all you’ve got to do is find out what they need, or what they want, and then you go get it for them.”
“Like jewelry?”
“Uh, no. Even if you have the cash, that would be weird. You’re in high school. You get them small stuff. Like, I don’t know, find out what kind of coffee they like and surprise them with it. Or find out which girls are talking shit about them and put an end to it. Actually,” Tristan scrunched his face up. “Scratch that. Just get them something they like. And because I like you, if that doesn’t work, just tell them you’re friends with me.”
The little guy’s eyebrows shot up. “Seriously?”
“Hell yeah. Make up some good shit. I’ll back anything you say up. You can tell them we hang out all the time, I don’t care.”
The kid bit his lip in excitement. “Thanks, Tris.”
Tristan winced. “Okay. Take it back a step. We’re not that tight. No nicknames.”
“My bad.”
The kid and Tristan fist bumped once more, then the freshman got up and left the library, shooting me and my chair a passing glance on his way out.
I slowly brought myself closer until I was right behind Tristan. “Hey, Tris.”
He flinched. “Jesus. Wh—” Tristan looked, and his face fell when he saw it was me. “How long were you there?”
“Long enough to see that I should’ve been asking you to help me with my English essay all along.”
He chewed the end of his pen, leaning back in his chair to take a long look at me. “Dammit. I was going to tell you to fuck off, but now I’m too curious to see how shitty of a writer you are. C’mon. Give it here.”
I fished in my backpack, fighting back a smile.
Tristan pulled out the copy I’d printed. It wasn’t finished, but I had been planning to re-read it on the bus-ride home and make any notes I could think of.
He absently flicked his pen between his fingers in an agile display, whirling it in quick circles as it flitted from his pinky to his forefinger and back again in a blur. He re-read a line, tracing it with his finger, then tilted his head, as if deciding to let something slide.
