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There’s a short list of tutors who specialize in reading problems including dyslexia, and I scan those names, stopping at Joanna Sutton. I frown, thinking of Jo Jo at the bookstore. Could it be her? Damn, I wish they had photos next to their names, so I could know for sure. I like her, but not necessarily in a sexual way. She means business. She isn’t impressed by me at all. I got her smiling and even laughing a little bit today, but I threw my all into flirting with her. It’s as if once I decided I’m not going to hook up with girls, I’ve become the world’s biggest flirt.
I need to calm my shit down, especially if Joanna Sutton just so happens to be bookstore Jo Jo.
I probably couldn’t be so lucky.
* * *
Practice wasa slog thanks to the heat. We kept fucking up and the coaches kept making us run, which only made us even more tired. By the end, we were all snapping at each other and I was glad as hell to get away from all of them.
I’m grumpy. The confrontation with my English professor didn’t help. What a bitch. But I’ve run into this kind of thing before. Some of the university’s instructors get all pissed off that I’m a successful player on the football team because they believe we get special favors.
Here’s where I admit that sometimes we do. Professors will forgive us for missing class or being late with an assignment every once in a while. Some professors are more forgiving than others, that’s for sure. I try not to take advantage of it, but sometimes, they make it so hard not to.
Professor Johnson isn’t going to cut me any breaks. That much is clear from the way she treated me earlier. The moment I get back to my place, I’m holed up in my room, my laptop open on my desk, waiting for me to answer the assigned questions. I’m scanning the book, trying to absorb the words on the page, but I’m so tired.
I’m completely lacking focus.
Tossing the book on my desk, I grab my phone to see if I have any notifications. Nothing on social media. No texts from anyone.
Though I do have a notification from the tutor scheduler.
I open it up, reading what it says.
Congratulations!Your first meeting with your new tutor Joanna Sutton is confirmed! It’s scheduled for 2 p.m. Thursday at the campus library, meeting room 226. If you need to make any changes or cancel the appointment, please do so by responding to this message.
The only reasonI’m not canceling this session is because I want to see who Joanna Sutton is. That’s it. Otherwise, I’d already be trying to bail. I know myself. I don’t want to do any of this.
Even though I need to.
Clicking out of the student portal, I decide to send my mom a quick text, knowing she’ll approve of my latest move.
Me:I’m meeting with a tutor for my English class tomorrow.
It takes her a few minutes to respond—and I attempt to read a few more pages while I wait—but finally she sends me a text.
Mom:Oh, that’s great! I’m glad you’re being proactive with the class you know you’ll have the hardest time with.
She said exactly what I figured she’d say.
Me:I knew you’d say that.
Mom sends me a string of laughing emojis.
Mom:Here’s what’s funny. That’s how I met your dad.
I’ve heard this story before. Countless times.
Mom:History is repeating itself! Oh, unless your tutor is male. Or maybe you go that way. I don’t know.
I decide to call her because this text exchange is getting awkward, quick.
“Mom,” I groan at her when she answers laughing, “I’m not gay.”
“I never said you were, and there’s nothing wrong with it if you are.” Her laughter slowly dies. “Do you know who your tutor is?”
“It’s a she.”
“What’s her name?”
