You Asked for Perfect(15)

“It’s life-altering when you realize your parents are human.”

Amir’s gaze connects with mine, and I’m startled by its intensity. But eventually, he looks away, straightening the stack of photos. “So—”

“So—”

We both smile. Amir continues, “We should study. My family will be back in a couple of hours.”

“Oh, right.” I pause. “Could you not tell them? About the tutoring?” He almost looks hurt, so I quickly continue. “Sorry, it’s those human parents of mine. I don’t want them finding out I failed a quiz and getting all parent-y.” I pick at my nail. “Do you mind? I mean, it’s not really lying, more like omitting, but I don’t want to get you in trouble.”

He’s silent for a moment, then says, “Sure. No problem.” Tension eases from my muscles. “It’s not like we’re sneaking around doing drugs or having sex.”

My cheeks burn. Amir said “sex” so casually. I mean, I guess there’s a good chance he’s had sex. He dates older guys, which means college guys now. And plenty of people have sex in high school, too.

Even though I want to have sex in the abstract, every time I think about actually having it, I go into a panic spiral, which tells me I’m not ready. I mean, I know how to put on a condom, but what if it’s more difficult than it looks? What size do I buy? And do I buy them, or would Amir? I mean, not Amir. I mean—who would buy them? And how do you know your parents aren’t going to show up while you’re doing it? And—

Yeah, way too stressful. I’ll figure it out in college.

I open my textbook and stare at the page. “Where should we start?”

“Math builds on itself, so we need a solid foundation. Let’s start at the beginning.”

Amir’s we is generous since he obviously has the foundation down.

“Okay, from the beginning then.”

I slip my phone out of my pocket and turn off the buzzer so we aren’t disturbed. I have three email notifications. What if they’re from colleges? No, I need to study. I resist the urge to touch the icon. I’ll check when I use the bathroom or something.

We flip to page one. “A heads-up, I’ve never done this before.” Amir sounds confident. It’s more a perfunctory notice. “I looked up some how-to guides and—”

I bite back a smile. “You did?”

He shrugs. “Sure.”

“That was nice.”

“It’s no problem. Anyways, tutors make good money. If I take to it, I can charge other people, maybe save some for college.”

Oh. Right. “That’s good,” I say. “Smart.”

“I’m going to teach through doing. I’ll talk through my work as I complete the problem. Stop me if you have any questions. We’ll do a few problems like that and then work on one together. Then you’ll take over. That work?”

My pulse races, and my hands grow damp. This is happening. A minute ago it was iced tea and conversation, but now it’s on. There’s a test in three days. If this study session doesn’t work out…

It has to work out.

I grip the edge of my chair and nod, trying to keep my voice level. “Yeah, cool.”

Amir angles his notebook toward me and brings his pencil to the page. I don’t recognize the brand. It’s nice. Like it’s from an art supply store, not Office Depot. The graphite slides across the paper. His flicks numbers on the page with ease, his voice soft and steady, explaining each step as promised. I’m so entranced, it takes me a few seconds to realize I’m paying attention to the cadence of his voice not the actual lesson.

“Wait, can you go back?” I ask.

He glances at me. “Sure, to which part?”

I’m too embarrassed to say, “To the beginning,” so instead I say, “That last part, the uh—”

“Reversing the inequality?”

“Yeah, that.”

He goes back and scrawls the numbers again. “Got it?”

I grip my pencil. “Yep. Thanks.”

“I’m glad this is working out.”

My grip tightens. “Yeah, me too.”

*

Twenty minutes later, I’m completely lost, but Amir thinks all is well. He flips the page and says, “Okay, so why don’t you work through this one, and if you get stuck, I’ll help.”

I nod. “Sure.”

Yeah. Sure.

I take my time copying the problem, checking each and every number before writing it down in my notebook. Then I nibble the end of my eraser, looking it over. My foot shakes up and down.

“Okay,” I say. “So apply the quotient rule.”

“Right.”

Right…

Wait, what’s the quotient rule?

Amir just did this. Like, five times in a row. So I can, too. It’s only math. I’ve been doing it forever. One step at a time.

First step, first step…

Oh, right. I deconstruct the first bit of the problem. “Good, right,” Amir says.

I pick at my nail. Then bite at my nail.

“Next you’ll want to take out the constant,” Amir says.

My brain hurts. It actually pulsates.

I take another sip of my tea, but the cup is empty. “Want a refill?” I ask Amir. “I’m kind of thirsty.”