Twelve Steps to Normal(35)

Great. More math. I take a seat a few desks away from Alex and set my book bag on the ground, then I start digging around in the front pocket for a pencil.

Mrs. Donaldson stands up. She heaves a canvas bag over her shoulder and looks between the two of us.

“I need to make copies for tomorrow’s lesson,” she tells us. “I’ll be right around the corner in the teachers’ lounge. You both are to stay put and work on that algebra packet. Do you understand?”

Alex and I mumble “yes ma’am” and bend over our work. I think of what Peach told me about her mom. How she said the DMV had to be one of Dante’s nine circles of hell. I think another layer includes being stuck in this classroom doing algebra for all of eternity.

I try and concentrate on the packet. Most of the problems are from lessons we learned last week. I’m able to get through a few of the easy ones, but the majority of them stump me.

I glance at Alex. He’s bent over his work, his thick brows furrowed together like he’s deep in concentration. But I notice he completes each problem relatively quickly. It must come easy for him. He’s already on the second page of the packet, which means he could have easily beat me in Radical Races on Friday.

So, why didn’t he?

I set down my pencil. Loudly. “Why’d you do it?”

Alex stops writing, then slowly turns to look at me. He has this expression on his face like it’s obvious, but obviously it isn’t.

He takes a moment before he speaks. “I don’t know… you choked.” He folds his arms and shrugs. “And, I don’t know.”

Humiliation sweeps over me. I can feel the heat starting in my stomach and rising to my cheeks. I shouldn’t care what Alex thinks of my intelligence, but I do.

“So you felt sorry for me? Because I’m stupid?”

Alex sighs. “You’re not stupid.”

I don’t let up. “Then why?”

Alex unfolds his arms. Picks up his pencil. Taps it on his desk. Then he looks at me again. “I was in your algebra class. Freshman year, remember?” I do. We didn’t have seat assignments, so I sat in the back, whispering back and forth with Whitney most of the time. “And no offense or anything, but you weren’t very good at those races then, either.”

So he does think I’m stupid. Shame eats away at me. Why couldn’t I come back from Portland smarter and more sophisticated?

“And I hate how Mrs. D puts us on the spot with those races. She never asks if anyone needs clarification or if we want to run through more examples.” Alex leans over and grabs his beanie from his backpack. He places it on his head. It tames his mass of curls, making his brown eyes seem a little rounder. Softer. “So yeah, maybe I wanted to prove a point. I knew I could deflect the attention away from you if I did.”

I let out a hot breath of air. How dare he think of me as charity. I don’t need anyone’s help, especially not in frigging algebra class.

Alex studies me. “You’re mad.”

“You’re observant,” I snap.

He holds his hands up in defense. “I was just trying to help.”

“Well look where your help landed us.”

“No.” Alex’s tone is harsh now. “This is where your decision landed you.” He leans over in the seat. “You never even saw my answer. You ran out too quickly.”

Dammit. He’s right, and he knows it. This would be so much easier if I could just blame him. Instead I say nothing.

We go back to our work. I can’t help but run his words back through my mind. I just wanted to help. Why? Especially after I ignored his text message all those months ago.

Unless those feelings never went away?

I keep my head down, peering at him through my peripheral vision. He has a pencil in one hand. The other is propped up on his chin as he studies his packet. He’s distant, not exactly the eager freshman who’d find any excuse to talk to me during classes and text me after each new Supernatural episode.

I’m overthinking this. Of course he’s moved on.

“Thank you,” I say.

Alex looks over at me.

I take a breath. “You’re right. I didn’t know what I was doing up there, so… thanks.”

The corner of his mouth lifts.

I turn to my packet. A moment later, I hear him riffling through his backpack. When I look over he goes, “You hungry?”

I give him a confused stare.

Alex sits up in his seat. “Go long.”

He tosses a ball of foil toward me. I catch it.

“Oh,” I say. “Is this—?”

He stands up and moves a few desks closer to mine. As he sets his bag down, I peel away the foil. Inside is pan dulce—a sweet bread his mom always had ready at the restaurant.

“I haven’t had this since—”

I stop myself. I was about to say since Grams bought some from Rosita’s Place for my birthday two years ago, but I don’t want to bring her up. I don’t want Alex to think that I’m giving him an opening to talk about her. It’s still sometimes hard to talk about her without getting emotional.

Luckily Alex doesn’t mind my unfinished thought. “My mom and I made them this morning.”

Alex’s family owns Rosita’s Place—an authentic Mexican restaurant right off Main Street. The recipes are from his great-great-grandmother and have been a huge success in Cedarville.