Twelve Steps to Normal(61)

“Again, call me anytime you need me,” Margaret says.

“Sure. Will do.” I hope I don’t sound as distracted as I feel.

With a small wave, she shuts her door and starts the engine. Saylor’s only a few feet away when she shifts into gear and drives down the street. I hold my breath, waiting for her to circle around, but she doesn’t. After a few more seconds, the car disappears from sight.

I let out my breath.

“Hey,” Saylor says. “Who was that?”

“No one. Don’t you have to work?” It comes out more accusatory than I want it to, but I’m still stressing from that uncomfortably close call.

If Saylor notices, he doesn’t show it. “I mixed up the schedule. I don’t work again until tomorrow.”

He opens the door. I’m about to pull a disappearing act to my room when he says, “You know, I’m pretty good at algebra.”

Heat boils inside my chest. Peach must have told him about my D in algebra. I can’t have any sort of privacy around here.

“I’m working on it,” I say, avoiding his gaze.

Saylor just shrugs. “All right, then.”

I head to my room and change out of my dance clothes. It’s annoying that Saylor’s forcing himself into my business. He should really be focusing on saving up the money for his yoga profession or whatever.

I plop myself down at my desk, determined to finish all my algebra homework. We’ve only started learning about quadratic functions, but of course Mrs. Donaldson assigned the hardest problems in the textbooks (all even numbered so we couldn’t cheat and get the odd answers from the back index). Lin and Raegan are in pre-calc, so we don’t even have the same textbook. And I definitely don’t want to text Alex for help, because then he’d ask why I haven’t gone to see Ana. It’s not that I don’t want to—Ana is great—but Wavettes practice this week has been even more demanding with the homecoming game on Friday.

I sigh, slamming my book closed. Frustrated with my own incompetence, I walk over to my window. Saylor is lying in the hammock reading a book, the hood of his sweatshirt covering his long ponytail. Before I can change my mind, I begrudgingly grab my textbook and go downstairs.

“You know anything about quadratic equations?” I yell from the porch.

Saylor looks up from his book. The tree leaves above him rustle. “I know a good amount, yeah.”

He gets out of the hammock, and I feel a tiny surge of relief as he follows me back inside. I lay out my textbook on the kitchen table and point to the cluster of problems.

“Give me a sec,” Saylor says, scanning through the previous lesson. “It’s been a minute since I’ve done this.”

I nod, grateful not to feel forced to fill this silence. I sneak a glance toward the living room, but Peach isn’t there. That’s weird. She’s usually here by now. A small part of me feels guilty for the relief that eases in my chest.

“Right, so you first have to make sure the equations are set to zero before you can solve.” Saylor takes my pencil and begins writing down the first problem. “Also, keep in mind that the square of a negative will always be positive. Here, let’s walk through this one.”

I watch as he successfully completes the first equation, but then he lets me take the reins on the second problem. He has to remind me of a few steps, but once I do them in the correct order, I’m able to plot the right intercepts on the graph.

“See? You got this,” he says, and I’m even more relieved that he helps me through every problem until my assignment is done.

“I wish stuff like this came naturally to me like it did to Grams,” I say, surprising myself with the mention of her name.

I’m thankful he doesn’t take this as an opportunity to talk about her. Instead he says, “Well, I bet other people wish they could dance as well as you can.”

“That’s different. I’m decent at best, and that’s only because we have practice every week.”

Saylor grins, tapping a finger on my textbook. “So if you practice more of this, you should be decent at best.”

I roll my eyes, but I feel a smile come through anyway. I walked into that one. “Mrs. Donaldson makes sure we get plenty of practice, as you can see.”

Saylor stands up, stretches, then looks back at me. “Well, if you need any more help, you know where to find me.”

“Thanks,” I say, my voice small. I know he didn’t have to help me in the first place.

Saylor grabs his book from the table—The Spiritual Journey of Yoga’s Healing Powers—and flips through to his dog-eared page. His dozens of leather bracelets collapse upon each other from the movement.

“Why do you wear so many?”

Saylor looks down, then smiles. “They’re intention bracelets. I branded them myself, but I don’t know… I guess they’ve been good reminders for me.”

A few of the words catch my eye. Focus. Strength. Trust.

My gaze lingers on the last one a little longer. I take a deep breath. “Where’s Peach? Isn’t she usually here by now?”

When Saylor’s eyes meet mine, there’s a certain sadness in them. “Uh, your dad drove her to get some of her belongings. Her daughters aren’t really… well, they’re not ready to forgive her yet. I guess.”