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“Iamnervous,” she says, kind of defensively. “I’m not really a social person. I think I would have made a better turtle than a human, honestly.”
“Okay…” I go bug-eyed. “Um, what?”
She looks indignant. “We can’t all be super confident, outgoing social superstars, you know. Believe it or not, some people don’t actually love social situations.”
“Whoa,” I chuckle. “First of all, this istutoring, which hardly counts as a social situation. Also—”
“It does for me,” she says defensively.
I shake my head, still totally baffled by this girl. But I carry on like she didn’t just interrupt me. “Also, what the hell does that even mean—you’re more suited to being a turtle than a human?”
She looks at me like the statement should be self-explanatory. It’s a look I’m used to, though, so it barely affects me.
“Turtles carry their homes around with them,” Caroline explains. “Which means they can duck out of a social situation any time they want. They can literally be homebodies even in the middle of a crowded room.”
When I don’t respond for a couple seconds, she adds: “Which is totally badass in my books.”
So, basically doubling down on her over-inflated assessment of a species that is literally known for being crazy slow.
“Turtles are definitely not badass.”
“I disagree.”
She’s totally got her back up now. But at least she isn’t shrinking away from me anymore.
“Sharks are badass,” I tell her. “Sword fish are badass. Even—”
“Did you know swordfish have this weird organ near their eyes that warms their brain and eyes? So they can hunt in colder water?”
Wow. Totally random fact. But also… kinda cool? I guess?
I shrug. “So, like I said, totally badass.”
“Maybe. But turtles are still more badass,” she argues. “They’ve been around for over two hundred million years. As in, they lived at the same time as dinosaurs. So they—”
“Two hundredmillion?”
“Yup.” She leans in and her eyes light right up. Then, like she can’t help herself from spewing more weird facts now that she’s started, she adds, “Also, female turtles can store sperm for up to four years.”
I mean, so random, right? She’s like an encyclopedia of bizarre marine animal intel.
“Okay.” I give her a funny look. “That’s… weird.”
“Also: badass.”
She shifts even closer, her lips curled into a satisfied smile that makes me grin back in defeat. This girl is a trip.
“Anyway,” she says, in her regular, way less excited voice, “we should get started.”
And she plunges right in. First, asking me a million questions about my study habits (I have none), areas where I struggle most (all of them), and things that have worked best for me with homework in the past (nothing). Then she presents me with a detailed outline of today’s tutoring session. As if she’s an honest to God teacher or something.
My phone lights up with a message just as Caroline is sliding the color-coded sheet across to me. We both glance down at it.
I pick it up before Caroline can read any more and type out a quick response. When I place it back on the table, Caroline gives me a glower, which I pretend not to notice. Because, come on, it’s a stupid two-line text—not some major deal that’s gonna distract me from whatever we’re about to work on.
Then it lights up again with another message.
And then, a second later, another message:
