The Wish(34)

I shook my head, thinking, I need to get hold of myself. Starting toward the kitchen, I veered to the cupboards near the sink. “Would you like some water? I’m going to get a glass.”

“That would be great, thanks.”

I filled two glasses and brought them to the table, then sat in the spot that was usually my aunt’s. I was struck by the thought that the house looked entirely different from this angle, which made me wonder how it appeared to Bryce.

“Did you see the paper I wrote?”

“I read it,” he said. “He’s one of the most prominent justices ever to serve. Did you choose him, or did the teacher assign it?”

“The teacher picked it.”

“You got lucky there because there’s so much to write about.” He folded his hands in front of him. “Let’s start with this. How do you think you’re doing in your classes?”

I hadn’t expected the question and it took me a second to answer. “I’m doing okay, I guess. Especially considering that I’m supposed to learn all this on my own without having a teacher. I didn’t do all that great on my recent quizzes or tests, but there’s still time to get my grades up.”

“Do you want to get your grades up?”

“What do you mean?”

“I grew up hearing my mom say ‘There is no teaching, there is only learning’ over and over. I must have heard it more than a hundred times, and for a long time, I didn’t know what she meant. Because she was my teacher, right? Was she telling me that she wasn’t a teacher? But as I got a little older, I finally understood that she was telling me that teaching is impossible unless a student wants to learn. I guess that’s another way I could have phrased it. Do you want to learn? Really and truly? Or do you simply want to do enough to get by?”

Just like on the ferry, he came across as more mature than other people his age, but maybe because his tone was so nice, it made me reflect on what he was really asking.

“Well…I don’t want to have to repeat my sophomore year.”

“I get that. But it still doesn’t really answer my question. What grades would you like? What would make you happy?”

Straight A’s without having to do the work, I knew, but I didn’t think it would do me any good to say it out loud. The fact was, I was normally a B or C student, with more C’s than B’s. Sometimes I got an A in the easier classes like Music or Art, but I’d had a couple of D’s, too. I knew I’d never compare with Morgan, but part of me still wanted to please my parents.

“I think that if I averaged B’s I’d be happy with that.”

“Okay,” he said. He smiled again, dimples and all. “Now I know.”

“That’s it?”

“Not exactly. Where you are and where you would like to be aren’t aligned right now. You’re at least eight assignments behind in your math homework, and your test scores are pretty low. You’re going to need to do outstanding work the rest of the semester to get a B in Geometry.”

“Oh.”

“You’re way behind in Biology, too.”

“Oh.”

“Same situation in American History. And English and Spanish, too.”

By then, I couldn’t meet his eyes, knowing he probably thought I was an idiot. I understood enough to know that West Point was almost as hard to get into as Stanford.

“What did you think about my paper?” I asked, almost afraid of the answer.

His gaze flickered over it; it wasn’t in the folder—he’d placed it on top of the stack of textbooks.

“I wanted to discuss that with you, too.”

*



Because I’d never had a tutor before, I wasn’t sure what to expect. Add in the tutor is WAY cute and I was even more clueless. I guess I imagined we’d work and then take a break and get to know each other, maybe even flirt a little, but the day was nothing like that, other than the first part.

We worked. I went to the bathroom. We worked some more. Yet another bathroom break. Repeat for hours.

Aside from going over my paper—he wanted me to make it more chronological as opposed to jumping back and forth in time—we spent most of the day on geometry, catching up on homework. There was no way I could get through everything, because he made me do every single problem by myself. Whenever I asked for help, he’d go through my textbook and find the section that explained the concept. He’d have me read through it and if I didn’t understand, he’d try to break it down for me. When that still didn’t help—which was most of the time—he’d examine the homework question that had me stumped and would then create an original question that was similar. After that, he’d patiently show me how to answer that sample question step by step. Only then would I go back to the original homework problem, which I had to do myself. All of which was seriously frustrating because it made the whole process slower while simultaneously increasing the amount of work I had to do.

My aunt came home just as Bryce was about to leave and they ended up speaking in the doorway. I have no idea what they discussed, but their voices sounded cheery; as for me, I hadn’t moved from my chair and my forehead was on the table. Right before my aunt had walked in the door, and even after all I’d done, Bryce had given me additional homework, or rather, homework I was already supposed to have completed. In addition to reworking my paper, he wanted me to read chapters in both my biology and history textbooks. Though he’d smiled when he’d said it—as though his request were entirely reasonable after hours of brain-frying strain—his dimples meant absolutely nothing to me.