Page 3 of Movers and Fakers

Aurora gives the briefest of nods and sinks down farther in her seat. I’ve come to realize that the ballerina is allergic to attention, which seems like an oxymoron given her extracurricular choice.

After a parting study or else monologue, Professor Riggins dismisses us. I shut my laptop and slide it into my black backpack. Aurora mirrors my movements, but everything she owns is pink or white.

“So, you’re a tutor?” I ask.

She pauses for a moment before zipping shut her backpack.

“Yes.” Her tone is clipped.

I know her answer before she says it, but I ask anyway: “Do you have any openings?”

“No.”

She brushes past me, the scent of vanilla sugar bathing my senses. I follow her down the risers.

“Are you just saying that because I’m the one asking?”

“If I am?” she throws over her shoulder.

A few girls from class wave as I pass, and a couple of guys nod to me. Someone calls my name, but I ignore them. I know that I won’t have long before Aurora disappears off to wherever she has to go next.

“Then that would be ridiculous,” I say as I follow her into the hallway.

“What would be ridiculous is you pretending to need a tutor so that you can waste my time with games.”

“I’m not pretending,” I insist. “I need a tutor.”

Her long brown ponytail swishes as she shakes her head. She pushes open the door to the building. Crisp autumn air nips at my face. Aurora takes long strides down the leaf-strewn path leading away from computer sciences.

“Please,” I call out, making her stop.

Students swerve around us, shooting curious glances our way. Aurora seems all too aware of them as she turns and hesitantly closes the short distance between us.

“I’m going to fail,” I confess quietly, which earns me a surprised raise of her brows. “I need help.”

“Even if I believed you, what does that change? I saw you in class last year. You don’t try. All you do is flirt and mess around. I can’t work with someone who doesn’t care.”

“Why does it matter?” I counter, because I know I won’t convince her that I’m serious. “I’m guessing you’re doing this because you need money. Mine is the same as anyone else’s.”

Her expression hardens. Apparently, that was the wrong approach. She crosses her arms, somehow managing to maintain her sharp appearance even with the oversized pink sweatshirt draped over her like a blanket.

“I don’t need your money. There are plenty of students who need a tutor that won’t annoy me incessantly.”

I can’t help the smirk that tips my lips.

“Somehow, I doubt that. You’re not much of a people person.”

Her glare is colder than a cryotherapy chamber.

“You know what? I hope you fail.”

“Ouch,” I say, and kind of mean it.

She turns on her heel and sets off down the path again.

“One hundred thousand,” I offer before she can get too far. “If you help me pass, I’ll give you a hundred thousand dollars.”

Her steps pause again. She adjusts the straps of her backpack. The din of conversations around us dulls as I wait with bated breath for her answer.