Page 32 of On His Schedule
He shrugs. “Well, no one said you had to buy me a notebook and label it with my name. So, we’re even.”
“We are not even. That notebook is for math.” I chuckle.
He’s watching me laugh with a small smile playing on his lips. His face does something I can’t read.
“Pick one,” he says.
I look down. “Say less.” I grab the KitKat and push the bag aside.
His face softens as he looks at it. “That would’ve been my first pick.”
“Yeah, right,” I say automatically. “You’re just saying that.”
He shakes his head. “I’m not.”
I look up at him, and I don’t think he’s lying. I tear open the wrapper and split it in half. “Here.”
He shakes his head, pursing his lips. “That’s for you.”
“Don’t be ridiculous. You bought me six candy bars. Come on.”
He inhales, leaning back. “If you insist.”
I laugh. “You want it, just admit it.”
He chuckles. “I actually shouldn’t but––” he takes it from me, “thank you.”
“Thank you.”
I take a bite, and then he slides the packet towards me. “I did it.”
I look down at the papers.
“I did all of it. The homework for this week. And the extra credit I had to beg Markham. He gave in after I explained to him that I was just reading the questions wrong.”
“You must’ve been very persuasive,” I say and pick up the packet.
I look it over while eating my KitKat. He leans back, finishing his. Our chewing fills the silence.
He’s done it. All ten problems. Notation correct. Decimal versus percentage flagged in pencil at the top of the page like a reminder. Work shown. The handwriting is loose and angled and entirely his. I flip to the second page. Same. I pick up the extra credit. Three problems, harder than the regular set. He’s done them. They’re correct. I set both packets down.
“You did all of this on your own.”
“Yeah.”
I don’t know what to do with myself. He doesn’t even need a tutor. I am, for the second time this week, unneeded by someone I came in expecting to need me. The next six weeks of my life are going to be sitting across from a hockey player who could be doing this homework at home.
I keep my face neutral, trying to process what this means. He watches me for half a second longer than he should. He doesn’t say anything.
I clear my throat. “Okay. So.” I pause awkwardly. “Should I report that you don’t need me? Really, I could say that you didn’t need me in the first place.”
He shakes his head. “No, Coach Fuller wants me to see this through. He’ll think I fabricated it or I’m trying to get out of it or something.”
“But that’s not something you would do. Are you just assuming that?” I lean forward, resting my elbows on the table. I can just tell that it’s not in his character to lie. “I don’t want to waste your time if you don’t need me. I’m sure you could use your Tuesdays and Thursdays for something else.” He pulled out his planner on Tuesday, and I got a whiff of what his schedule looks like. He’s a busy man.
He keeps eye contact while he thinks. “I have to be honest. I can’t say that I’ll know the rest of the material for the class. I mean, before Tuesday, I was failing,” he says, convincing me that I’m wrong. “I don’t want to cancel these tutor sessions and then need you.”
My face heats. I look at the table, and in my peripheral vision, I notice his veins popping out of his large hands. They crawl up his forearm and hide under his shirt.
