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“Knew you had it in you.” It was dark out and there were only a few students left. All the other tutors had since gone home. I was technically off the clock an hour ago, but I didn’t have the heart to leave.
“Thank you,” she said. “I appreciate it. I tried pretty much two days straight to make sense of it, but my brain doesn’t work that way.”
“Is that where you were?” The question tumbled out of my mouth. “Yesterday and the day before? You missed class to work on math?”
She shrugged. “No.”
“Are you going to admit where you were?”
“No,” she said, but it wasn’t malicious. She closed her laptop and rubbed her eyes. “I wish I didn’t have to take math, I don’t see the point, I’m not ever going to use it.”
“You use it every day. It’s all around you.”
She groaned. “Not once in my life have I ever needed to know about log systems and algebraic expressions. Heck, tell me, why is it essential that I know what a damned parabola is?”
I just smiled, seeing the beauty in the madness.
She rolled her eyes. “I bet you think the same thing about English.”
“You cannot convince me I will ever need to know Shakespeare, the pretentious snob.”
“No!” She sat up straight, pointing her pencil at me like it was some weapon. “Shakespeare fans are pretentious little shits. They’ve ruined it. Shakespeare is a chaotic mess, and it’s hilarious. Each play is a bunch of strung together dick jokes with wild plot lines and devolving characters who ultimately turn out to be gay the whole time. You cannot tell me that’s not incredible entertainment. Blame the fans for ruining a good thing.”
I couldn’t help but smile. “You love words, don’t you?”
She shrugged. “Not so much love as need them to survive.”
I raised my eyebrows.
“I write short stories,” she said. “Sometimes people buy them.” It sounded far more complicated than that but she didn’t look at me.
“Oh?”
“Yeah,” she bushed. “It’s how I make it, what did you call it?Honest money.”
Holy shit this woman was blushing like a schoolgirl. I changed my mind, I’d do anything to make her do that every day.
“Huh,” I said. “I don’t know if I’d consider that honest money.”
“What?” Her eyes flashed and for a second, I could have sworn I saw fire in them. “I earn that cash. I pay taxes on it, I—”
“That’s not what I meant. I just think that it’s weird how you can write nonsense and people buy into that. It’s like painting a canvas with leftover paint and scribbles and calling it abstract. Anyone can make that. And you can share what you want, at whatever price you want, because it’s art. It’s subjective.”
She pursed her lips. “Thanks for your help.” And she began to wrap her computer charger and put her things in her backpack.
“No, wait,” I said. “I didn’t mean it like that.”
“I understand you hate the whole English and writing side of things, probably like how I hate the stupid absolute nature of math. But that doesn’t mean it doesn’t have merit. I think you’re upset that being called an artist is the one thing that people can’t say is false, because artissubjective. And you, Mr. Math Man, can’t handle that.”
“I never said that.”
She scoffed. “You’re practically dripping with disdain over the idea that someone would pay for art. Forgive me for filling in the details.”
I laughed. “Stories aren’t art. They’re pretty words that hold the interest of people for a few moments.”
“Thanks again—”
“No, wait,” I said, standing with her. “I want to know more. Explain it to me.”
