Page 25 of Eye of the Beholder

She flashes me a charming smile. “Nothing a little therapy won’t fix.”

I feel a ghost of a smile myself. “Good.”

9

Cohen

When I get up on Saturday morning, I feel nervous before I even figure out why. It’s an anticipatory nervous. I have no idea how Mina’s going to tutor me, but I assume she knows what she’s doing.

I’m partly just worried she’s going to make me take an entire ACT practice test. She did say she wanted to evaluate my problem areas; I said as much to her about the Jack thing.

Lydia called it Operation Jack while I was eating breakfast, and as dumb as that name sounds, it’s already starting to ingrain itself in my brain.

She came downstairs while I was in the middle of my second bowl of cereal—Raisin Bran with copious amounts of banana on top—already fully showered and dressed, looking like she’d been up for hours, while I was still in my plaid pajama pants and a t-shirt I’d hastily thrown on so I didn’t have to walk around shirtless. She was humming to herself. She then informed me that she was going to the drug store to pick up a few things for Mina, because, as she said, “I don’t know that Mina probably owns things like eyeshadow or brow pencils.”

I still don’t know quite what a brow pencil is, but I agreed she was probably right.

I go back to my room after I wash out my bowl and stick it in the dishwasher. For my part of Operation Jack—I still cringe at calling it that, but I think it’s stuck with that name—I have a phone call to make. Jack and I don’t really talk about girls beyond the very superficial layer, and I have no idea how this will go.

I close my door behind me and then pull open my blinds. My walls are dark blue—a remnant of my childhood, but I don’t mind it—and they make the room look darker than it is. Then I sit at the swivel chair at my small desk. I cleaned it off at the end of the summer so I could use it for its intended homework-related purposes, but it’s already become more of a nightstand again. It’s cluttered with books, a couple empty water glasses, and a few unopened pieces of mail from my dad.

I can’t explain even to myself why I haven’t just thrown those away. I guess I just keep thinking that I’ll do it later, even though all it would take is one quick trip to the trash can in the corner of my room. They don’t have a return address, but I recognize my dad’s handwriting, so I know they’re from him. He has a distinct way of writing hiscs, and seeing my name in his writing feels like a little punch to my gut every time I look at it.

I move from my desk to my bed so I don’t have to see them. The bed is more comfortable anyway.

I’ve never been a conversation planner, but I try to think up a plan for this conversation, because I’m really only good at winging awkward conversations with girls. What excuse am I going to give for asking him what he likes in a girl? How do I even bring that up?

I know the basics. Jack has a type. He likes blondes, for one, which I wouldn’t tell Mina if she didn’t have blonde hair, but she does. He tends to stay away from stick-thin girls. He likes confident women, but I think all guys are attracted to that. He likes a girl who will come cheer on him at his games. Past that, I have no idea.

I’m already dreading this conversation.

I guess I don’t have to do it right this very moment, do I? I should probably check and make sure Mina is still good for four this afternoon. If she’s not, there’s no point in talking to Jack yet. I pull up her number and call her.

She answers on the first ring. “This is the second time you’ve called me in the last twelve hours,” she says, apparently feeling no need for the traditional greeting.

“I don’t think that’s accurate,” I say. “It’s been more than twelve hours. Did I wake you up?”

“It’s past ten,” she says. “I don’t think I’ve ever slept in that late in my life.”

“You’re missing out,” I say, grinning. “Listen, are you still good for four today?”

“Yeah,” she says. “Why wouldn’t I be? I literally never make plans for Saturdays.”

What would that be like? “I was just checking,” I say, groaning inwardly. I guess I’ll have to talk to Jack. “And hey—you’re not going to make me take a practice test, are you?”

“Yeah, I am,” she says, sounding totally unconcerned.

“No way,” I say, shaking my head even though she can’t see me. “That will take forever. Come to your window.”

“I’m in my pajamas,” she says.

I cross to my window and look out at hers, which is across from mine and a little to the left. Our houses are pretty close together.

“I don’t care,” I say. “I’m in mine.”

She heaves a sigh. “Hang on.” I hear some sort of shuffling, and then she says, “The only way I can evaluate where you need help is to evaluate where you already are.” I watch as the blinds to her room rise. And there she is, a robe pulled around her, her hair streaming over her shoulders. I watch her fold her arms. “And it won’t be a full test. I’ll do an abbreviated version.”

I narrow my eyes. “How abbreviated? The test is like three hours. I’m not spending three hours taking an ACT I’m not going to get graded on.”

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