Page 5 of Eye of the Beholder

I close out of the screen quickly when I hear footsteps coming down the stairs. My mom is going to ask how I did at some point—if not look up my score for herself—but I’m going to put that moment off as long as possible.

“Cohen?” she says as she enters the room, and I look at her. “Hi, sweetie,” she says, and she smiles.

And just like that, she’s changed—she’s back from the tired, post-marriage version of herself. She’s always back when she smiles. My dad doesn’t make her happy anymore, but at least she has us.

“Hi,” I say, standing quickly and walking with her to the kitchen. How to distract her from asking what I was doing at the computer?

“What were you doing?” she says, leaving me and pulling open the refrigerator.

Crap. “Just checking some stuff,” I say, trying to be both vague and truthful.

She raises one eyebrow, looking formidable. “Like your ACT score?”

Crap again. I shift my weight from one foot to the other as she approaches. I’m a full head taller than her, but sometimes she makes me feel like I’m still five. Finally I sigh. “Yeah.”

“And?” she says, pouring two glasses of milk and passing me one.

“Did you already look?” I say, accepting the milk.

“Yes,” she says.

“Then why did you ask?” I say, irritated. “That’s sort of private information.”

“I paid for you to take the test. I’m perfectly within my rights to check your score. Not that I should have to,” she says, looking disapproving. “I would hope you’d tell me what you got anyway.”

“I’m going to have to take it again,” I say, my voice dull.

“You know,” she says, her voice suddenly thoughtful. It’s the voice she uses when she’s latching onto an idea. It’s not my favorite voice of hers. “We could get you a tutor.”

Uh, no. No tutors. I’m not spending my limited free time hunched over the kitchen table, torturing my brain with math problems. Because I’m not stupid; I have good grades. It’s just something about taking tests that makes my brain freeze up.

“I’ll be fine,” I say.

“Mina’s mother said Mina did well on the ACT,” my mom says, still using that same thoughtful voice. “You could ask her for some help.”

“I’ll be fine,” I repeat firmly.

My mom levels me with an even stare, and I brace myself for whatever she’s about to say.

“I’ll give you one hundred dollars if you get a tutor,” she says, and my jaw drops. “I’ll give you another two hundred if you get your score up by three points.”

What?I pull out a chair from the kitchen table and fall into it, my mind buzzing.

That’s not what I was expecting at all. But…three hundred dollars is a lot of money.

“Deal,” I say before I can even think through all aspects of this.

“Great,” she says, smiling, all sweetness again. “I’m sure you won’t regret it.”

3

Mina

When I show up to work that evening, my mind is still swimming with homework and college applications and school. I’ve planned out my study time; I have a biology test on Monday, and if I can get in two or ideally three good study sessions this weekend, I should be good to go. I can study, take the test, and then forget everything I just learned. There’s only so much room in my brain, and the life cycle of the frog is not high on my list of priorities.

The smell of the flower shop always hits me anew when I arrive at work, even though I’ve been working here for over a year. Somehow that floral scent is still just as lovely to me as it was when I started. I pull on my apron—a neon green monstrosity that clashes abominably with everything about me—and sign in on the computer. Then I shuffle through the crowded back room and out to the counter in the front to find my supervisor, Shana. The shop is, predictably, totally empty.

The first thing I do is dig out the binder we use to request time off. The Quadrantids meteor shower is in early January, and even though it’s months away, I’m not taking any chances. Once I’ve requested a few evenings off, I put the binder away.

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