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At this, I wince. What does he have to do with my tutor? More importantly, why isn’t she answering my text?
He answers my unvoiced question. “She had a family emergency and asked me to take over her student list.”
Shock spins me around to face him, but his eyes are glued to his phone, so all I see is thick, short black hair and the bold rims of his glasses. A pleasant whiff of shampoo or gel or something informs me I’m standing too close, so I back up a step.
“Where is it?” he mutters, scrolling through the Notes app on his phone. “Ah, here we go. I’m supposed to be meeting a Tracy Burt here right now. Is that you?” He looks up with a small smile that immediately vanishes.
Can he already tell I’m beyond help? Just from a glance? I remind myself that I have survival skills like Bear Grylls and put on a brave face. “Iamsupposed to meet Lupe Navarro here, but my name is Grace Ebert.”
He flinches as I put out my hand to shake. His thick brows furrow, nearly meeting in the middle. He looks down at his phone again and mumbles, “Tracy Burt.”
He must be so good at math that he never conquered social skills, because I have to reel in my unshaken hand and pretend to tuck a curl behind my ear with it. Summoning my inner empath, I decide to help him through the awkwardness. Somehow his bumbling eases my math-lab angst, and I chuckle as I realize what has probably caused the confusion. “Tracy Burt, huh?” I ask him.
He nods, though he’s still looking down.
“Must have been a bad connection. Grace Ebert. Tracy Burt.” I force another chuckle.
His eyes stay on his phone as he mutters something under his breath about why she couldn’t have texted.
Biting back a sigh and the feeling that my chances of graduation have significantly diminished, I forge onward. “You’re the replacement tutor?” I shift Trusty on my shoulders. “I wish she would have let me know about the change. It would have made this a lot easier.”
His head pops back up, angry. He must have an ego the size of Texas if he’s offended at being called a replacement, especially when he is one.
“Her brother died. She’s on a plane to Peru.”
Oh.My heart sinks. “I’m so sor—”
“She didn’t have time to contact everyone personally, so she just told me her schedule”—his voice is clipped, irritated—“which, obviously, I had difficulty understanding over the phone. She was cutting in and out.”
“Well, that’s totally understandable,” I say in what I hope is a comforting tone, pushing away the sharp pang of grief I’m feeling for Lupe. This guy’s curtness is throwing me, but if I’m to have any chance of succeeding in math, I have to make this work. I take a deep breath, knowing I don’t have time to find another tutor. “Look, I’m so sorry about her brother and the confusion, but I have quite a few questions on an assignment that’s due at midnight. So, if you don’t mind, I’d really like to get started.”
He stares at me through those thick black frames as if he has no idea what I’m talking about. Serious social problems here. Well, maybe I can help him with his people skills while he helps me with my math.
“Maybe it would be best if we just start over. Hi,” I say, forcing some cheerfulness into my voice and blatantly offering my hand again. “My name is Grace Ebert, and I could really use your help with my math homework.”
He stares at me for the longest three seconds of my life, as his eyes shift from confused to something I can’t quite place.
“Noah Jennings.” He delivers a handshake that is slightly longer than normal and several degrees beyond firm, holding my eyes in a bit of a dare.
An uncomfortable laugh bubbles out before I can stop it, triggering an answering one from him that definitely has sadistic undertones.
Oh, please, don’t let him be mean.
My tutor takes a seat at the nearest table, Ashley having abandoned me for some other hapless wretch. I’m still standing where they left me, clutching Trusty like a life preserver and contemplating alternative career paths. Maybe the taco shop I worked for in high school is hiring.
“So. Quantitative reasoning.” Noah leans back in his chair like this is the most comfortable thing ever.
I swallow in a futile effort to quench the dryness at the back of my throat and approach the table with the care I give every cliff edge. Settling into my chair gives me more angst than the first step back in a three-hundred-foot rappel—without the adrenaline rush.
Might as well jump in. Or off. Whatever. I pull out my assignments and set them on the table. They’re both unmarked, other than a slight rumpling at the corners from residing in my backpack.
Anticipating Noah’s judgment as he inevitably finds the lapsed due date on the first, I start to unzip my backpack’s laptop compartment—a little too forcefully, judging by the tearing sound it produces.
“Trusty!” I gasp when I see the little split I’ve created in the zipper’s seam. “Oh no.” I manage to reverse the zipper past the loose threads that caught and led to the rip, forcing back thoughts of Benson, hoping I haven’t ruined the last thing he gave me.
“Trusty?” Noah says, watching my struggle.
“My backpack,” I say.
