Page 3 of My (Not So) Perfect Plan

“You’re struggling with this class, Miss Brown. Care to explain?”

I don’t know what to say to that other than the obvious, and true, answer that, “Math is not my talent….?”

“Regardless, this will bring down your whole GPA, which never looks good to colleges. Now, I know you took a bunch of AP classes, but if you don’t get a handle on this, I’m afraid you are going to be seriously hurting.” His eyes watch me overthe tops of his wire-rimmed spectacles to make sure I’m paying attention. “Look, can I assign you a tutor? Would that help?”

I wordlessly nod my head, blinking back tears. Never in my life have I ever been held after class for a low grade. This is humiliating with a capital H.

“Okay, tell you what. He normally has practice, but since it’s a Friday, he has off today. Why don’t you meet him in the library right now?”

“Now? Right now?” I ask, my breathing starting to come in shorter spurts.

“Yes, I’m sure Coach Jenkins will be willing to send him down. He owes me a few favors.”

Great, a jock is going to be tutoring me in Trig. Now I feel lower than low. I don’t even know what else I say but it appears to satisfy him. I drag myself toward the library after texting my mom and Rachel of the plan. Normally I would head home and Rachel would pick me up on the way there. Now, it looked like I was going to be staying at the school the entire time.

Is it too much to hope that the jock won’t show? I grumble to myself as I sit with my back to the door. I hate math. I hate math. I hate –

A back pack drops on the table in front of me and I look over, my stomach settling somewhere in the vicinity of my shoes at the devastating smirk turned my way. The universe is a cruel mistress.

“What up, Claire?” Evan asks, offering me a fist bump.

“Look,” I ignore his hand and wave a finger under his nose. “Let’s get one thing clear, I’m not one of your bros and I’m not one of your hoes, so don’t be ‘whatsupping’ me or ‘hey dawg, how’s it hanging’ me or any of that. We have a student/tutor relationship and that’s it. Kapiche?”

“Drake is out, The Godfather is in. Got it,” he kicks back in his chair and fires an imaginary gun my way, like he’s the Fawnz.

I roll my eyes so far I’m sure they can see my brain and turn away from him. What was Mr. Henderson thinking? This was never going to work.

“So Henderson tells me you need help with Trigonometry. I was kind of surprised. Aren’t you, like, really smart?”

“No. All your brain dead friends just came up with stupid names to call me in grade school because I actually tried and that made them look bad.”

He cleared his throat, sat up, and clasped his hands together on the table. “So when they call you ‘The Brain,’ that’s notactuallya reference to your intelligence?”

I grit my teeth and check my phone. How much longer will this go on? He might get my blood racing on a regular basis because he is so stinkin’ good looking, but right now he is just ticking me off.

“Okay, okay,” he raises his hands like he’s the soul of innocence. He pulls his trig book out of his bag and opens to a page. “Math. I’m going to tell you a problem, I want you to walk me through finding the solution.”

I might reconsider what I think of Evan if he proves to be a decent tutor with an ounce of focus. After working with him for an hour and a half and seeing that brain of his in action, I’m glad to be wrong about him being a dumb jock. Not that I actually thought he was dumb, but I had been pretty convinced that Mr. Henderson was letting him slide just because he wasthe quarterback. I always hated the idea that I was crushing on a dumb jock.

“Are you going to the game tonight?” he asks, knowing full well that all student council members are required to be at the home football games.

“Haven’t missed one yet,” I say, shrugging my back pack onto my shoulders. He grins like there is some sort of personal triumph in my having attended the games.

“You going home to eat?” he asks, following me to the door.

“No, I’ll probably just pick up something from the vending machines. I don’t have my license yet.”

He gasps in shock. “Whaaaat? How old are you?”

“Almost eighteen,” I grind out. “You don’t have to say it like that. I just never had time to learn to drive or money to buy a car. I mean, I took driver’s ed, but it didn’t stick very well.”

He steps in front of me to open the hall door to the cafeteria. The vending machines are right inside.

“I’m going to go get something to eat right now. You want to come with me instead?” he asks.

My hands pause in their search for money in my pockets. “Wh-what? Why?”

“I don’t know. I’m hungry?” he asks, like it’s this novel thing that happens to people sometimes.

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