Page 6 of The Wallflower and the Running Back

“Religious Themes in American Literature from Eighteen-Seventy to Present Day.” He huffs out a quick laugh then peers back at me as he nudges the book away from him as if it’s poison. “No, these aren’t mine.”

“I figured,” I mumble, dropping my backpack on the table and closing the rest of the books. I stack them and push them to the opposite end of the table to give us room. Taking the seat adjacent to him, I flip open the Chem 101 textbook I brought with me for reference. I assumed he wouldn’t be prepared, and from the looks of things, I assumed right.

“Alright. Well, the first thing you should know is that this course begins with a lot of the basics. If you can ace those first two or three exams, you will be in a much better position when the more advanced topics kick in.” I flip through the first three chapters and stop at chapter four, which is when covalent bonds come into play. But while I’m pulling out my notebook and pencil, Logan flips the pages back to the very beginning of the book.

He tilts his head and gives me a bashful expression, his eye contact brief.

“If those first exams count for that much, maybe we should start there.”

I hold his gaze for a moment but he quickly averts his eyes, pulling the book closer and scanning the introduction.

“I’m sorry. I thought you took this class once already.” From what Professor Combs said, Logan was repeating to improve his grade.

“I did.” He flips the page halfway, toying with it for a second or two before turning it completely. “I failed the first three tests.”

His gaze zips up and catches mine for a breath, diving back down to stare at the periodic table printed across two pages.

“Oh.” I push my tongue into my cheek and recalibrate my already low expectations.

This is going to be more work than I bargained for, and I didn’t even bargain for this gig. I tap my pencil tip in the margin of my notepad a few times, forming a small trail of dots. I write the word MATTER at the top of the page and draw a line under it, then exhale.

“Thank you,” Logan says, his fingertips resting on the top edge of my paper. “I know you’re busy. So thank you . . . for this.”

I glance up and catch him wincing with a guilty expression, his mouth pulled in tight on one side, and my stomach tightens. I’m not a patient person, and my inability to bluff has been well established. My attitude about this shouldn’t bleed onto his plate.

“It’s fine,” I say, my shoddy attempt at, “You’re welcome.”

He gives me a short nod and leans in with his hands folded together, his focus immediately dropping to my notepad. It’s quintessential model student posture. I fear it’s going to take a lot more than sitting up straight to get him where he needs with this class, however.

We spend an hour going through the first unit, reviewing the properties of solids, liquids, and gas, along with measurements and notations. It seems as if he has a decent grasp of the concepts so I give him a short practice test. It takes him almost forty minutes to get through twenty-five questions, his hands grabbing at his hair the entire time. He pushes the pages across the table in a rush the second he finishes the final question, flattening the pencil in front of him before pulling his hood over his now wild head of hair.

“You all right?” I give him a crooked grin, and he waves his hand at the test, almost as if he’s shooing it away from him in disgust.

“Just check it.” He tugs the strings of his hoodie tight then flops back in his chair, stuffing his hands in the front pocket. His behavior reminds me of when my father tried to teach me to drive a stick shift. Defeated.

“I’m sure it’s not as bad as you think.”

His lip ticks up and he breathes out a short laugh. It’s endearing in a way, to see someone like him so uncertain of himself. I’ve watched him walk around this campus for three years with his head always held high and his chest full. Ironic that chemistry is his kryptonite.

I go to work on his sample test, grinning to myself as he flies through the first page of questions. I glance up with a reassuring smile as I flip the page.

“See? So far so good,” I say.

He remains silent, though, and his eyes are devoid of any reaction whatsoever. I bite my tongue, deciding to grade the second page before teasing him with an, “I told you so.” It’s good that I did, too, because of the twelve questions on the second page, only three of them are marked correctly. He might have done better simply guessing and playing the odds. By the time I get to the final page—the test on measurements—I’m unable to find a single correct answer. Answers seem flipped, numbers in the wrong place. He finishes with a thirty-eight percent, and that doomed sense I had going into this whole thing weighs heavy over both of us.

“It’s pointless,” he huffs out, standing from his seat and pushing it in until the wooden back cracks against the table’s edge.

I’m apt to agree with him, but my professor’s voice rings in my mind, echoing patience.

“It’s not pointless, Logan. That was our baseline, is all. Now we know where to start.” I do my best to sell the positivity, but he’s not buying it. I can tell.

“We didn’t need a test to get a baseline, Shortcake. Zero. That’s my baseline.” His gaze rests on mine for a beat, mouth pinched and resolute. I was almost slipping into sympathy, but?—

I gather up his test and rip it in half, plopping the torn pages into a stack on the table in front of me.

“So, here’s the deal. My name? It’s Rachel. It’s not Shortcake. Never has been. And I don’t particularly like being called that. Got it?” I pause for a moment, expecting him to nod at my scolding. He doesn’t. But he’s also dead silent, not even breathing, so I think I frightened him, or at least surprised him.

“Good. Next, yes we needed a baseline. I have to know what I’m working with. And fine, you win. There’s a lot about this that feels pointless. I gather you have no intention of working in a field remotely close to chemistry, right?”

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