“I know, but you told her she could come and see you audition, and you don’t even want me and Aidan there,” I say, hearing a slight whine in my voice.
He puts his arm around me and pulls me closer to him. “Don’t be jealous, Leese.”
I fake-punch him. “I’m not jealous,” I say, so obviously jealous.
“If I get in, you and Aidan can be my own personal cheerleaders, but if you’re there for the audition, it’ll just make me more nervous.”
I sigh and pout. “Okay, I guess. Speaking of new love connections, I have a date.”
He rolls his eyes at me before heading to his closet and pulling out his guitar case. “Who’s your next victim?”
I frown. “His name is Brett, and he’s premed at Michigan U.”
“Well, hopefully he has better luck with you than poor Malcolm,” he says, and I throw a pillow at him.
I grab my bag off the floor next to his bed and swing it over my shoulder. “Do you know what you’re going to play?”
“Not yet. I’m thinking of that song I wrote last month,” he says, pulling out his guitar.
“Cool.” Before I open the door, I think back to what Amanda said about him talking to her about his dad. I want to tell him he can talk to me about anything, no matter what it is, but as I look at my best friend, I know he
has
to already know that. “I guess I’ll be headed downstairs.”
“Have fun.”
I shut the door and smile as I hear him strum a few chords. I head down into the study and see Mr. Scott on his laptop. He looks up and smiles at me as I walk in. He’s warm and inviting, and I wonder if he’s always been like this or if I’m just noticing it now.
“Hey, you ready to get started?” he asks with a wide smile that radiates enthusiasm. He seems excited, and that makes me excited.
“Yeah.”
He already has a chair for me on the other side of the desk. Pencils and a calculator are set out along with scratch paper. I can’t help but smile. I sit and pull out my homework.
“So I took a look at some of the stuff Chris has been working on,” he says, pulling out what looks like copies of Chris’s work.
He passes them to me, and I look at them. Chris is in a different class, but it looks as though we’re working on the same things. Of course Chris’s quiz has a much better grade than any of mine.
“Yup, that’s what we’ve been working on,” I say with a sigh.
“So before we get started, I want you to close your eyes,” he says.
I look at him to determine if he’s serious, and he nods. It seems a little silly, but I let out a small breath and do as he says.
“Repeat after me,” he says.
With my eyes closed, I notice the depth of his voice. If it were a color, it’d be a warm hue.
“Math does not scare me or intimidate me,” he says, and I repeat after him, holding in a small laugh. “It isn’t difficult. I am bigger than it. I will conquer.”
I say the same words after him.
“You can open your eyes now,” he says.
I almost don’t want to, but when I do and see him smiling at me, I forget the thought.
“Okay, let’s see what you’ve got.” His voice is still warm, but the magnetism it had earlier is gone.
We go through my homework and worksheets, and he’s excited about them, enthusiastic even. He starts from the beginning, breaking down the problems and working his way to the solutions. He walks me through the steps, and as he works, he makes it seem easy. What’s crazier is that I find each problem seems a little easier. After about forty minutes, he lets me work alone using the strategy he showed me. I feel nervous but anxious to see if this is legit. For the first time in my life, doing math doesn’t feel like pulling teeth, and the person showing me doesn’t sound as if they’re speaking a foreign language. When I’m done, I let out a small breath and slide the paper across to him.
“You’ve got it. I know you do,” he assures me before looking at the paper.
After he says that, I hope even more that it’s right. I play with my fingertips as his eyes scan the paper. I’m on pins and needles waiting for him to look up. When he does, his expression is blank, then he smiles at me, a devastatingly handsome smile that gives me butterflies. I attribute them to the excitement of getting the question right and nothing else, but still I hold my breath until he speaks.
“Perfect.” His voice is as warm and melodic as it was earlier, and I’m ecstatic.
“Really? I got it right?” I take the paper from him, and he walks over beside me and shows me how I followed all of the right steps.
I can’t help noticing how good he smells. He’s wearing a cologne of some kind, and it’s intoxicating. Boys my age don’t wear cologne—at least not the ones I’m around. It’s nice, and I have to remind myself to focus on what he’s saying and not what he smells like. We work for another twenty minutes, and by the end, I’ve gotten four out of five problems right.
“I can’t believe this,” I say. I’m not getting a headache or ready to quit in frustration. Maybe those mantras really work. Maybe I was psyching myself out, and of course Mr. Scott is amazing. I can be a testament to that. Or I guess I should wait until my next quiz before I speak too soon.
“You’ve done excellent work today,” he says as I put away my homework.
“No, you were great. Nothing in this class has ever been as easy as you’ve made it. I’m shocked, really shocked.”
His wide grin softens, and his cheeks warm up a little.
“I really appreciate you taking the time to do this. I’m so grateful,” I say.
“It’s not a problem at all. Things are going to be pretty slow around here, so helping you gives me something to look forward to,” he says, putting the things away on his desk.
I nod, watching him. “What made you stop teaching?”
He glances at me. He seems caught off guard from the way he drops his items in the desk. Maybe I was being too intrusive. I can be intrusive sometimes. That’s what my mom says.
“You don’t have to answer if you don’t want to,” I say immediately. “My mom says I always ask the wrong questions.”
He smiles. It’s small one, but it’s there. “There’s never really a wrong question. It’s sometimes just an uncomfortable answer.”
I wonder what that means.
“I was young and wasn’t sure what I wanted in life,” he says, sitting on his desk. He crosses his arms across his chest. It’s broad, and through his sweater, I can see that his arms are built in a lean boxer sort of way. “I didn’t choose to teach for myself. It was more to piss off my parents.” He shrugs.
“Becoming a teacher would have pissed off your parents?”
He nods with a smile. “I didn’t have the typical parents.”
“So you became a farmer to really piss them off?” I guess.
“No, well, maybe subconsciously,” he admits. “I wanted something different, and being a farmer was always sort of a dream. Maybe I watched too many cowboy movies when I was little.” He laughs, and I join in. “I did intend to go back to teaching, but when you’re young and low on money and you take everything you have to buy a farm, it’s a lot harder than you think to make it work. It’s not a part-time gig when you first get going.”
“You miss it?” I ask, and he seems to think for a moment.
“I’m not sure yet,” he says with a shrug.
“I think you’d still be a great teacher,” I say, folding my arms around myself.
“Thank you, Lisa,” he says, seemingly surprised. My eyes lock on his, and I get lost in them. The same eyes I’d thought were similar to Brett’s, but now looking into them, that thought is an insult to the beauty that they are. His eyes are a deep, soulful blue, one that makes you smile but connects to every emotion you’ve ever had. He has eyes that look like an ocean, one that you don’t just want to swim in but skinny dip.
“You guys finished?”
I turn and see Chris in the doorway.
I smile tightly at him.
“Yup, you’re right on time,” his dad says, standing from his desk.
“What time does Mom get home?” Chris asks, jingling his keys.
“She should be on her way now,” he replies, heading toward the front door. “So I’ll see you Tuesday at eight?”
“Sure thing,” I say happily.
“I’ll see you when you get back, Chris. Good night, Lisa.” Mr. Scott retreats up the stairs.
“How did it go?” Chris asks as we head to their truck.
“It was great. I actually got some problems right on my own,” I say excitedly.
“Good,” he says, sharing my enthusiasm.
“Your dad is great. He would have made a really good teacher.” I get in the truck after he opens the door for me.
“My dad could have done a lot of things,” Chris says when he gets in. He turns on the car. “He taught me how to play the guitar.”
My eyebrows rise. “Really? That’s so cool.”
Chris looks at me a little strangely. “My dad’s not cool. He’s my dad.”
I swat him. “Your dad can be cool, and it doesn’t make you any less cool. Does he sing?” I remember how melodic his voice was from earlier.
“Not a lot, but he can,” he says, turning on the radio.
He’s quiet on the ride to my house, but when Chris gets into his music, he tends to be quiet. I imagine melodies, rhythm, and harmonies running through his head. I used to be the same way when I wrote poetry. That was before I realized there wasn’t any money in poetry and if I wanted to do anything besides get stuck here, I had to change my dream. I just haven’t come up with another one yet. In college, I plan on majoring in business, a solid choice from what my guidance counselor has told me. Creative writing would practically guarantee I’d remain unemployed or have a useless degree I couldn’t pay for after getting it.
When I make it into my house, I call Amanda, but it goes to voicemail. I just leave a quick message. “He likes you. Don’t screw it up.”
I throw myself in bed, and that night, when I’m having trouble sleeping, from the deepest corner of my thoughts, I hear Mr. Scott’s voice singing me to sleep, and I let it.
Gwen
I did it. I got the stupid cap and gown and the piece of paper that shows four years of my life haven’t been completely worthless, though time will tell if that’s really true. At the very least I’ve earned my ticket out, or out of my mom’s house in Michigan, and the key to Gia’s apartment. I did everything I promised. I stopped smoking pot with Zach and only have a wine cooler every now and then. I put a little effort into my classes, and by doing that, I was shocked at how much my mother’s attitude changed. I earned a reasonable curfew of nine on weekdays, as long as my school work was done, and eleven thirty on weekends.
But the days of curfews are going to be over soon. Next week, I’ll be in Chicago, a certified adult. Well, not really I guess. Twenty-one seems more adult-like since I’ll be able to go to bars and stuff, but at least now I’m eighteen and four weeks. Gia mailed me the key, and it arrived with perfect timing. The best birthday present I’ve ever had.
Today I’m spending my last Saturday with Zach, a boy I was drawn to because he was everything I wanted to be when I wasn’t. The boy who didn’t care what others thought, who did what he wanted but still could charm his way out of trouble. I’d thought he was my kindred spirit after Gia left for school. He was my first kiss, the person I smoked my first joint with, and came close on a few occasions to being the first man I ever gave myself to. I’m glad we never crossed that line though. It would have been weird, and I know Zach isn’t the guy to be anyone’s first. He’s said that on more than a few occasions.
“I’m going to miss you, brat,” he says as we lay in the empty football field.
Okay, we did sneak in and would probably get in trouble if someone caught us, but our last weekend together wouldn’t be the proper send-off if there wasn’t a hint of danger or punishment.
“I’m going to miss you too.” I lay my head on his chest as I look at the stars. “You should come with,” I say for the fifth time since I told him I got the okay to move to Chicago.
“And do what? Panhandle on the streets, live out of my van?” He laughs.
“I could always sneak you in the house when Gia’s at work,” I say semi-seriously as he rubs my back.
“Believe it or not, I don’t hate it here. I’m happy where I am
right
now. Everything has its season. I move with the wind.”
Zach loves talking in what I call poetic codes. Though annoying, it’s part of his charm. He finishes his joint, and I inhale the scent. He won’t let me take a puff though. He hasn’t since I told him about the deal I made with Gia.
“You’re going to be good out there,” he says, playing with loose strands of my hair.
“I hope so.” I sigh.
“You just be yourself. The real you. Not the you who just wants to piss everyone off.” He laughs.
The past year or two, I haven’t felt like myself. I didn’t really know who I was, so I put on a mask. I played a part that was so different from the person I used to be so I’d feel as though I was escaping—escaping the memories that hurt. The pain never seemed to leave after my dad passed away. It only escalated when my mom married Martin, and it carved itself into my skin when Gia went away. I’d thought I’d gravitated toward Zach because the “me” I created fit perfectly with him, but what it was really is that everyone believed the mask was real. Zach saw behind it and knew it was just a façade.