Page 24 of Overtime
“Nope. And I have class soon, so we better get cracking.”
“Fine. But promise me something.” I pause not for drama, but so I can steel myself. “You won’t tease me.”
“I can’t promise that,” Aran responds factually. There’s no malice in his eyes, only amusement.
I purse my lips. “Then promise you won’t bring it up in public.”
“Icanpromise that. I didn’t do it last night.”
“And thank you for that. Lori would’ve eaten me alive.” I sigh and grab my bag, because I’ll need my things after all. “I guess we can start the lesson.”
CHAPTER 9
ARAN
For the first ten minutes after the session finally starts, I can’t concentrate on what Strawberry’s saying at all.
My normal scale of emotions is a spectrum that ranges from mild annoyance to virulent, volcanic rage. I’ve only felt the latter once in my life, the night Luz got hurt. But I normally oscillate between levels near the lower end because even though good things happen every day, I can’t help feeling the bad ones more strongly. I’m like a caveman primed for danger and misfortune all the time. So a bird shitting on my car will leave me sour for the entire day, but acing a quiz will only tip me out of my bad mood scale until the next annoying thing happens.
But three times now, Strawberry has yanked me out of my bad mood and forced me to hold back laughter.
That’s… rare.
“Aran Rodriguez, I need you to focus on the lesson.” She pokes the table with the tip of her index finger in what I assume is meant to be an irritated gesture. She’s been trying really hard to be cool, calm, and collected. Except her face is as red as that fruit she’s obsessed with.
I point at her yellow earrings. “What happened to your strawberries?”
“I assure you I like other things,” she mumbles, trying to push the pencil case decorated with a very predictable motif from my view.
I snort. “I don’t believe you. Even your hand soap smells like strawberries. I bet your shampoo’s the same.”
A little gasp. “Did you look into the shower?”
“I didn’t have to.”
“Do you seriously want to spend the rest of your session talking about my toiletries?”
“Does it get me out of writing this stinking essay?”
“No. Stop stalling.” She points at my computer. “I hope you wrote down everything I said.”
“You know I didn’t.” I’ve been sitting here, staring at her and trying not to laugh. One of my hands was busy pressed against my mouth. The other one was resting on the table.
“Okay, write it down now.”
I comply. She repeats her entire thought process about structuring writing. She must’ve read the case study I sent her in advance, which surprises me. I thought reading it would be part of the work she was supposed to do in-session.
“Wait, you’re speaking too fast for me,” I say with a frown at my laptop screen. My notes are full of typos because I can’t type as fast as she speaks.
“Oh, sorry. Where did you lose track?”
“The part about presenting the thesis.”
She blinks. “You’re a slow typist.”
“Yeah, I am. My hands are fast at other things,” I say in a droll.
“I bet.”
