The locker room was loud and obnoxious as the end-of-day high teased us. Locker doors were slammed hastily and clothes were thrown in backpacks that were quickly slung on shoulders as everyone crowded out of the smelly room. I remained behind until the last girl was gone so I could change out of my shorts since I was sticking around after school. Checking between the rows of lockers to make sure I was alone, I finally changed out of my shorts and slid my jeans back on. My shirt was still damp and smelled of sweat, but I didn't have much of a choice. Hopefully, the stench would bother the tutor enough that she'd cancel the session. A girl could dream anyway.
The halls were quiet when I finally exited the locker room and headed to the school library where Ms. Jones had set up my torture session. The library door squeaked loudly, announcing my arrival and I grimaced as several heads turned my way.
"Yes?" the librarian asked when I stopped in front of her desk.
"Ms. Jones set up a tutoring session," I said, praying to any possible god that might help me that it had been cancelled.
"Your tutor is waiting for you back in the media section," she said, pointing to the back of the room beyond the bookshelves.
I headed in the direction she pointed and let out a sigh of relief when I saw the backside of a guy waiting for me. A male tutor had to be at least a little better than a girl. Maybe I could talk him into quitting early. I walked around the table and slid into the seat across from him, placing my backpack on the table before finally looking up.
Fuck
me.
Seriously, out of the entire student body, Ms. Jones would pick
him.
As an obvious rule, I didn't crush on anyone, but if I did, Dean Jackson would be worthy. Dean was everything I wasn't, smart, funny, charismatic and all-around good guy. I wasn't in the same league as him in academics, so we shared none of the same classes, but I'd seen him in the halls over the years. His easy laughter drew me in, and I couldn't help looking for him sometimes in between classes. By all rights, I should have hated him. He was the very essence of those that hated me. He was possibly the king of the
Populars
, but I didn't hate him. His laughter and easy going attitude entranced me. I wondered how it must feel to be so carefree.
"Madison?" he asked, checking the slip of paper in his hand.
I nodded, not sure if I could trust my voice to produce coherent speech. Something about him flustered me, making me lose the shield that I normally had in place.
"Ms. Jones left me a note saying you were having problems with some of the material. Is there a particular section you'd like to work on?" he asked.
I shrugged my shoulders, suddenly mortified that he was going to see my stupidity firsthand.
"Hey, it's normal to fall behind, especially with the stupid-ass grading module they're using. They'll do away with it in a year, but that won't help us since we'll be long gone by the time they decide to change it," he said, smiling at me. "Do you have your textbook?" he asked when I continued to look at him like a moron.
"Uh, sure," I finally stuttered, pulling out my book from my backpack. "I need to be able to pass the summative exam on chapters five through eight," I managed to get out without wanting to strangle myself.
"World War II," he said without having to open the book.
I looked at him like he had sprouted an extra head. He laughed out loud.
"You're not the first person this term to have a problem with this section. The dates are a bitch, and it's easy to mix up the timeline. I'll show you a few things that I use that help me keep the dates straight," he said, pulling out a stack of index cards.
I could have told him I didn't need the help. That the only reason I bombed the test was because I didn't care enough to study. I figured I'd study enough to retake the summative and squeak out my normal passing grade. While everyone else bitched about the new grading module, it actually suited my study habits. If I didn't feel like studying right away, I could always just retake the test if I failed it. My plan had been working fine until Ms. Jones decided to throw a monkey wrench into my whole strategy by threatening
me with a parent conference. I opened my mouth to tell him, but abruptly closed it. I could at least wait until we ended the current study session before I broke it to him.
"First, you should know that sixty percent of the questions on each of the exams come from the subheadings in each section. That means those should be your priority. If you memorize those, you're more than halfway to an A. The rest is a little trickier, but I've learned that dates are always a given. I always make a point to go through the chapter and write down all the dates. It's a pain in the ass, but I think teachers like seeing us suffer," he said, shooting me a grin.
If I could smile, it would be at a time like this. But I can't, so I don't. If things were different, I think I could have gotten lost in his smile or the twinkle in his eye. That pulled at me like there was an invisible string hooked to my abdomen. For a moment, I wished like I had never wished before that I was normal.
Instead, I did what I always did—look down, and let my hair fall across my cheek, blocking my face from view. Even with my head down, I could feel his eyes on me. Finally, after a moment, he started talking about notes again.
"Ms. Jones gave me a new study guide," he said, pulling out a crisp sheet of paper from one of his folders. With anyone else I would have rolled my eyes at how ridiculously organized he was, but it seemed right with him.
"Um, okay," I said, reaching out to grab the study guide, and feeling like a complete imbecile.
"I figured we'd do it together," he said standing up.
No, no, no, no, no,
I thought, Panicking when he came around to my side of the table and sat in the chair next to me. Our shoulders bumped as he slid his chair back in, and I jerked away in response. Bumped shoulders definitely fell under the "do not touch" category.
Without looking at him, I tried to move my chair over inconspicuously. I already had the reputation of being a social leper. I didn't need to add paranoid or psychotic to the list. If Dean noticed my sudden desire to put a Gulf of Mexico-size distance between us, he didn't comment. He situated the study guide on the table so we both could look at it.
"Okay, so the first question is 'what was the initial trigger of World War II?'" he said, opening his book to the right section. "This is kind of a trick question. There are many things that triggered World War II, but they're looking for the answer that brought the U.S. into the war, which would be when Pearl Harbor was attacked," he finished, looking up from the book.
I've never really been the type to flush from embarrassment, but I was pretty sure I'd been staring at him with open fascination. What the hell was wrong with me? I didn't stare at guys. I didn't admire their features, and I definitely didn't think about their lips.
Especially all-American pretty boys who could spoil their reputations just by looking at me.
I was an outcast, the wild child, the one that had tried everything at least once. I could deny it, but it was true. It's amazing when you think of the things a person would do to get noticed by the ones they looked up to, but that was all ancient history now. I stopped trying to get attention years ago, and really, I didn't care what anybody thought of me. But for
a
moment, as I studied Dean, I kind of did care what he thought. Had he heard all the rumors about me? Did he know what I had done in junior high that had ruined several people's lives?
Probably.
Everyone knew. It was my cross to bear.
"Do you want me to fill it in for you?" he asked, looking puzzled. This time I did blush. Nothing like making
myself
look like a moronic ass on top of everything else.
"Uh, no, I got it," I said, moving the paper closer to me. At least my hair once again covered my flushed face from view, but just to be sure, I took my time jotting down the right answer.
"All right, the next one is 'How many American civilians and soldiers were lost in the bombing of Pearl Harbor?'" he said as he turned the page in the text book. "Okay, since they want the overall number, it's twenty-three hundred," he said, watching me write the correct answer.
I kind of felt bad that he was doing all the legwork. I knew how to look up answers, but I liked hearing him talk. I'd always been fascinated with dialect and forms of speech. I was a sucker for accents, and had watched every Hugh Grant movie just because I liked his accent, but I would never admit that to anyone. Dean didn't have any kind of accent, but he had a deep voice that could only be described as a radio voice. Maybe that was why he was so popular. His voice dragged you in, making you forget everything else. I think I even heard some guys ribbing him one time, calling it a "
panty
d
ropping
"
voice. As a girl, maybe that should have offended me, but actually, it was pretty dead-on, and I couldn't help replaying the phrase over and over in my head. Not that I thought about that stuff anymore, but I did allow myself the luxury of labeling Dean as Panty Dropper after that.
We worked together for the next hour until the librarian started switching off the lights, ready to head home for the day. I was amazed the hour had passed so quickly. Dean kept up a running commentary as we worked. I was surprised to discover that he had a wicked sense of humor, and that his sarcasm matched many of the thoughts I had. Several times my lips even threatened to curve up into a smile, but I held it back. I gathered together my books and the half-completed study guide as the librarian switched off the lights above our table. I shoved the items in my bag and stood up. "Thanks for the help," I mumbled, turning to leave.
"Same time tomorrow?" he asked, catching up to me.
"Uh, I thought Ms. Jones said this was just a onetime session," I stuttered out.
"I'm free the whole rest of the week. Might as well help you pass the summative, so you can put World War II behind you," he said, smiling at me as we exited the library together.
I wanted to tell him I didn't need his help. That I could do it on my own, but the words died on my lips. Spending the last hour with him had been the best hour I'd had in—I didn't know how long. I didn't deserve to be happy, but I found myself agreeing. "If you don't mind," I said as he held the door open that led to the student parking lot.
"It's no problem," he answered, making my pulse race. For a moment, I was confused. I felt like I did the one time I tried crystal meth, jittery and excited at the same time. My palms even began to sweat. I wiped them hastily on my jeans.
"Um, okay, well, I gotta go," I said, hurrying away before the telltale signs of the high I was feeling would give me away. My short experimental phase with drugs had left me feeling the same kind of high at first. The problem was that afterward, I would come crashing down and get violently sick, which pretty much ended that ride. Of course, that onetime drug foray had resulted in rumors of my supposed usage for almost two years. Moms and dads throughout our community glared at me with a mixture of contempt and
pity, convinced I would corrupt their own children just by looking at them. I wondered if they ever figured out that their precious kids had done a pretty good job corrupting
themselves
without my help.
"Hey, wait," Dean called after jogging over to join me. "I was going to offer you a ride," he said, indicating the used gunmetal-colored jeep behind him.
"That's okay. I like walking," I lied. I hated walking. Walking was slow and annoyed the hell out of me. Some days I left my backpack behind in my locker and opted to run the short two miles to my house. On days like today though, I was forced to carry the bane of my existence.
"You sure?" he asked dubiously, looking at the bag on my back that was digging into my shoulders.
"Yep," I said, scooting away before I caved to the silent voice that was taunting me to take his offer. Distance is what I needed right now. He'd already gotten under my defenses enough for the day. I turned back to look at him as I walked through the opening in the chain-link fence. Surprisingly, he was still standing there watching me. Not that he was watching because he was interested or anything. I know that. I was just an oddity. I didn't conform to any social molds, and it had obviously sparked an interest in him. He'd lose interest soon enough though. There's just nothing of substance to a shadow.
James was perched on my front door step, reading a book, by the time I finally made it home. "You could have gone in," I said as he handed me the key.
"That's okay. I didn't mind waiting," he answered, trailing behind me through the house. "Besides, what if your mom would have come home?"
"Did hell freeze over when I wasn't looking?" I asked, tossing my backpack on the floral print couch that made me puke a little every time I looked at it.
James laughed. That's why I hung with him. He understood what I meant without even having to ask. "That couch is fucked up," James said, sitting on one of the barstools at the high counter in the kitchen.
"Tell me about it. Hey, maybe if I hurled on it
she
wouldn't have any choice but get rid of it."