Page 8 of Tutored By the Smart Girl

Oh my gosh. I’ve just deflated his lungs.

Both the cup of Benji’s beer and the cup of my cola spill onto his crotch. Our faces sit inches apart— his deep brown eyes staring into mine.

“Oh my gosh. I’m so?—”

“Oh shit.” His eyes widen and the corner of his mouth works up a cocky grin as his eyes focus on my lips.

So much for blending in with everyone.

I manage to use his muscular chest as leverage to get to my feet. My pant leg is drenched. My ears and face burn as I stand, frozen in place, my muscles refusing to move.

I have to get out of here.

It feels like hundreds of eyes judge me as I run through the masses to get to the front door.

I make it to the front door and hit the sidewalk running. Back to the safety of my dorm.

Rush

My attention is drawn away for a moment as the pong table starts chanting for Benji.

Benji makes his way across the crowded room and hands my mystery girl his beer.

What the hell? Does he know her?

My stomach hardens as a pang of unexplained jealousy comes over me.

The crowd opens and allows him a free path to his destination.

Before I know what’s happening, there’s a small squeal and the mystery girl falls right into my lap. She loses her grip onBenji’s full cup of beer and whatever she’s drinking. Her eyeballs are the size of frisbees as the liquid hits my crotch.

Damn. Cold. Ice. Must’ve been a mixed drink.

Her face is close enough that I could kiss her. Her sweet strawberry scent fills my nostrils and practically makes me dizzy.

Damn, she smells good.

I open my mouth to say something, but she jumps off my lap so fast, I barely have a chance to think. She runs through the crowd and out the front door without saying a word.

Good-bye, mystery beer spilling girl.

3

Adison

Friday night wasn’t necessarily the worst night of my life, but it was absolutely one of my most embarrassing moments.

Just when I’m enjoying the view of the sexy football player, some pong king decides I’m the one who should hold his beer.

Wonderful. Just wonderful.

Thankfully, whoever Mr. McSexy is, I’ll most likely never lay eyes on him again. I’ve never seen him around campus before, don’t have any classes with him, and the campus is large enough the chance we’ll cross paths again is minimal.

I make my way through the campus toward the library. I have a new list to look through. This is the time of the school year when I get assigned new students to tutor. It’s too late to drop classes so students who are struggling come to the realization that they need tutoring. Some of them will most likely be difficult to work with— angry they can’t figure out the math on their own and being pushed by parents, professors, or coaches to get help.

Fun.

Crossing the library, I head to the small meeting rooms used for one-on-one and small group tutoring. I open the door to room B-4, turn on the lights, and plop my backpack on the table.

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