Page 7 of Overtime
Not quite. She’s as American as apple pie and the Spanishrsound will never come naturally to her, but at least she has thea’s straight.
“Good enough,” I concede.
Her lips stretch into a smile that reaches all the way to her eyes. It transforms her face from that of a meek little mouse into something I can’t describe. Something blinding and alluring like the sun is. Something I have to fold my arms to resist.
Okay, so what? Strawberry’s cute. But I don’t do cute. My type is girls who are looking for a good time andonlya good time, which this girl is the antithesis of. So even though I specifically requested a dude for a tutor, this swap shouldn’t put Step One of my plan at risk.
“So, Aran,” she continues with more confidence. “I’m afraid that with the last-minute change, I haven’t been able to look at your profile in detail to find out what your needs are. And on topof that, I know we’re starting this lesson twenty minutes after the agreed time?—”
Eighteen, but I don’t interrupt this time.
“Which is why I’m wondering what you’d prefer to do. I could take a few minutes to review your file and come up with a lesson plan, and then we could start today’s session but do the full forty-five minutes. Or—” Here she pauses to draw in a breath. “We could just meet for our first session tomorrow. I can try to work around your schedule if that’s what you’d prefer.”
I run a hand over my head. Is she always this chatty, or is this just the standard introduction?
“How many minutes isa few minutes?”
“Ten to fifteen?” She cringes a bit and, without pressure from me, says, “I can try to keep it to ten maximum.”
“Fine.”
There’s the smile again. “Great, I’ll get right on it.”
I grab my kale shake and take another big gulp as she fires her laptop back up. The smile naturally fades as she focuses on my file.
I had to explain why I needed someone to tutor me in essay writing when I approached the student center, which meant showing my essay in all its embarrassing glory. My profile probably contains interesting tidbits like: total bonehead, lives up to the reputation of a stereotypical jock, can barely string together a coherent sentence in English—and often chooses not to, anyway—code red: needs to be sent back to elementary school.
Strawberry scribbles in the yellow journal she was poring over before. When she does, she leans forward so much her long hair falls over the table like a curtain. I stretch a bit to see if I can catch what she’s jotting down. Or whatever she wrote before when she was observing me. But her hair ruins my plan.
Another whisper comes from the eavesdroppers at the table, and it mispronounces my name. No matter how many times I explain the correct way, people still botch it. At least tutor-girl made an effort and got it mostly right.
Her pen flashes against the light as she taps it against her chin, and lo and behold, the end cap is shaped like a big strawberry. I snort, and the sound makes her look up in a panic.
“Oh, is the time up already?”
I glance at my laptop’s clock. “Nah. You have two minutes left.”
“Okay, thanks.”
Her face scrunches up as she tries to speed write the rest of her ideas. She looks fiercer than some of my teammates.
The right corner of my lips twitches. How interesting. Attitude comes out when she faces words. But when she’s up against people, she retracts.
I polish off the last of my shake and stuff the bottle back into my backpack. Next, I close my auditing textbook and set it aside. She’s gone over a minute already, but fortunately for her, I’m free for the next two hours. Unfortunately for her, I’m not generous enough to share that info.
Just as I’m about to cut her off, the crease on her forehead grows until she comes up for air like the Little Mermaid. She even pushes her hair back and away from her face as if she’s been underwater. “So here’s the plan. Take a look.” With a flourish, she turns her journal upside down and slides it over to me.
Two forty-five-minute sessions the first week. The first would be centered around the general methodology for writing essays, and the second one would help me flesh out the content of my current class assignments. Then from week two and on, we’d alternate. One week, she’d correct last week’s essay, and the next, she’d help me revise it or flesh out the new one, per my class assignments. At the bottom, she lists the time slots she hasavailable per week. There are so many that this girl either has no social life or isn’t taking many courses this semester.
“What do you think?” she asks.
“I honestly have no clue what I’m doing here,” I admit with a shrug. “You tell me. Is this what I need to pass this elective?”
“I think so.” She nods at her computer screen. “The ideas in your essay look pretty solid. It’s just that you basically put zero effort into fleshing them out the way professors want. That’s probably why Melinda—that’s my boss, by the way—assigned you to Wyatt and now to me. We’re English majors, not business ones, you know? You don’t need help with the concepts, but with the execution.”
A few giggles echo off to the side. My so-called admirers seem to be finding this amusing. No doubt I’ll wake up to a fresh round of hockey-players-are-knuckleheads comments in the morning.
But Strawberry’s expression holds no trace of mockery. In fact, if anything, she thinks I’m lazy. Which I’ve definitely been with this class.
