“Sorry,” the guy says, “I didn’t mean to scare you like that.”
He’s probably in my year. Now that I look more carefully, his face seems vaguely familiar from somewhere.
“It’s fine, I startle too easily.”
I slowly set my notebook back on the table and try to force my heart to settle.
“Hugo. My name’s Hugo,” he says, extending his hand.
“Amalia.”
I shake it briefly and try to signal that I’m not looking for conversation, but something tells me Hugo hasn’t picked up that I come here for the silence.
A few minutes pass without interaction, me reading through the course I’d been working on before the interruption, him shifting restlessly in the chair across from me. When I hear the chair creak under him for the eighth time, I close my notebook with more force than necessary and look at him.
“Is there something I can help you with, Hugo?”
His eyes go wide for a second, but once he registers the question he straightens up in his seat.
“Since you asked, Amalia — yes, actually. I’d like you to tutor me in mathematics. I need at least a B+ on this exam, otherwise I’m going to fail the course.”
“I don’t tutor.”
He looks me over from head to toe, and I don’t know exactly why, but the gesture bothers me.
Sure, I don’t wear designer clothes, I don’t have the latest phone, and I don’t have a private driver dropping me at the college gate every morning, but for people like Hugo, who wear cashmere sweaters and shoes that cost a month’s rent, status lives entirely in the image you project.
“Not even for the right amount?” he says with a faint edge of arrogance.
At this point I lock the old Amalia in a room and let the other one out.
“What kind of amount are we talking about?” I ask, crossing my arms, smiling.
“Fifty dollars for four sessions,” he answers.
I laugh before I can think better of it and then immediately clap a hand over my mouth, eyes darting around the library.
I’d bet fifty dollars is what he spends on lunch on any given day, and he thinks I’m going to hand over eight hours of my life trying to make vectors make sense to him for that.
I look up at the ceiling, slightly squinting, calculating how much fun I want to have with this. Finally I look back at him, and in the sweetest voice I own, I say, “Five hundred, and we can start tomorrow.”
His eyes go wide and that cocky smile disappears the moment the number lands. I’d bet he hasn’t done a calculation on paper since he was counting his nannies and the gifts he received from every relative on Christmas morning.
“Are you out of your mind? That’s a full average salary, and for what, a few explanations?”
His irritation is so palpable in the air that I’m almost tempted to drop the act and tell him he’s wasting his time, but I want to enjoy this a little longer.
“Six hundred now. We both know that getting a B+ from Professor Vaughn is going to take a small miracle, and that’s what miracles cost in my book, Hugo.”
His eyes narrow on me because he knows I’m right, but what surprises me is watching him actually weigh the decision.Is he seriously going to agree to six hundred dollars for a few tutoring sessions? No, he’s not that idiotic.
“Fine. Six hundred. But I want that B, Amalia.”
Oh, I guess I was wrong.
Now I’m the one without words because I genuinely didn’t expect him to agree to that number for a handful of study sessions. I could still turn him down, but I remind myself that the money wouldn’t hurt. And for what, a few formulas and worked examples? I do far more questionable things forseñorGustav, and for less money.
“Tomorrow, same time, same spot,” I tell him as he stands up with the look of someone who thinks he won.
