Chapter 17
I’m slightly nervous to go to Calculus on Monday after Romeo’s apology and his knowledge about my mother. Luckily, Kendra stayed off Romeo topics during lunch so her chatter was annoying as standard, but didn’t reach nails on chalkboard level. I feel like a tool eating with her every Monday, but I don’t want to eat alone, and although I could just grab something quick and head to a hall couch or outside, Kendra would be mortified to eat alone. So to the cafeteria I go and let our grating friendship escalate.
Early to class as usual I’m reviewing last week’s notes as Romeo strolls in the half empty room. Dressed in a gray t-shirt with a darker gray button up flannel open over it, he looks like his normal dark and sexy self. Since I took Jamie to school today, I whipped my hair in a quick ponytail, brushed on a bit of mascara, and threw on the first pair of jeans and sweat shirt my fingers found in the closet. I probably don’t even reach my normal cute.
Romeo leans over after setting out his books. “How’s you mom?”
“Better,” I say, flicking the pages of my notebook. When I meet his concerned gaze, I add in a hushed tone, “She says it was mistake. She took some sleeping pills but doesn’t remember how many.” Each time I think about her explanation, it grows conviction. But sharing it, has my belief skyrocketing. My mother did not try to kill herself.
Romeo’s dark eyes search mine. “You believe her?”
I rear back and snap, “Of course.”
“Hey,” he says in response to my angry tone and leans closer. “You’re taking my question the wrong way. I meant as her daughter you’d be able to judge if she was concealing anything.”
My anger deflates. “The divorce has been really hard for her but she’d never do that to my sister or me.”
“Sounds like she needs help coping with the divorce.”
I can’t help a sigh from escaping, but I don’t feel guilty revealing anything about my mother to Romeo since he was part of the drama that went down on Saturday night. “She thinks counseling is too expensive.”
“A price should never be put on a person’s mental health.” He reaches for his notebook and scrawls across a clean sheet of paper. “Here,” he says after ripping it out. “They have a variety of therapists and offer services with a sliding scale, even free to some.”
There’s a phone number on the paper and over it the heading, ‘Child and Family Services.’ “Thanks,” I say, folding it then stuffing it into my pocket. I’m grateful for the information, but I’m wondering how he knows so much about the place. And the fact that he has the number memorized must mean something. Though I want to ask him about it, I’m aware of how invading that question would be.
“So you’re not quitting?”
I shake my head. Playing drums keeps me sane.
He gives me a half smile. “Good.”
Suddenly the girl—I think her name is Sharon or Sheena or something close to one of those—from the table over is directly in Romeo’s line of vision. A muscle ticks at Romeo’s temple, but he smiles slightly and offers a greeting.
I pretend to review my notes while she leans over farther and turns chitchat into an informal request for a date. Romeo smoothly and regretfully explains how busy he is this weekend. Sharon/Sheena tears out a piece of his notebook paper and writes her name and number on it in pretty loops. Romeo takes the paper with a grin and a thanks.
Professor Hill strolls in swinging his brief case and Sheena—I caught the name on the paper—stands, removing herself from our table. Romeo shoves the paper into his Calculus book without looking my way while the professor silently takes role. The normal flurry of note taking commences within minutes.
The usual pings of lust—it’s easier to ignore Romeo behind a drum set than while crunching the area of curves—that bombard me during class are almost absent. I’m too occupied with the thought of what he’s going to do with that number. Then there’s his knowledge about counseling. It’s almost like he broadcasted he goes there. But what would this perfect specimen sitting next to me need therapy for?
After two hours—I knew a four-hour class would be a bitch—of note taking, we’re rewarded with last week’s quiz. I stare at my quiz with dread. A red seventy-three glares at me from the top. Each quiz has been lower than the last. This one is a major plunge. With the exception of a B in Geometry and that stupid online course, I’ve always gotten A’s in math. Though most people find Calculus III easier than II, I’m finding out Calculus III is like Geometry on crack. I can handle a B. I’d rather have an A. But B’s are doable. Contemplating my downward trend and imagining what a graph of my future scores would look like, I’m an envisioning a C or worse by the end of the semester.
Shit. Shit. Shit.
I glance at Romeo’s quiz. A ninety-six shines from the top. The grip on my paper causes my quiz to crease. Why is this stuff so much simpler for everyone else? Guess I’m just not a three-D girl. Two dimensions make more sense.
Romeo notices the crinkle of my paper and his eyes widen slightly at my score. I slip the quiz under my notebook and pretend immersion in the calculations of our last problem on my graphing calculator.
“I’m going to be studying over the weekend for next Monday’s test,” he says nonchalantly as he stuffs his quiz in a folder. “We could study together.”
Thoughts tumble through my head. He didn’t offer to tutor. He offered to study together. Knowing my pride, he probably phrased it that way intentionally. Studying with him would be torturous for my hormones. Getting a C or a D in this class would destroy my GPA and knock a chunk out of that pride. He’s gotten high nineties on all of his quizzes. My quizzes show an apparent need for help. I suck up my pride, shove down my hormones, and say in a matching nonchalant tone, “I’m busy on Saturday, but will you be studying on Sunday?”
“Sure. I do laundry on Sunday though. So if you don’t mind me running out to change loads, you could come by the dorm.”
Visions of his dorm room, or rather visions of us in his dorm room, almost have me backing out. Yet the presence of alcohol will be absent, it will be in the middle of the day, and mostly if I don’t get some help, my test grade will blow. “I could come over around one?”
“That will work,” Romeo says in an even more nonchalant tone than before, but his dark chocolate eyes look intense. My gaze goes back to my calculator.
Done handing out quizzes, Professor Hill announces the break.
Swallowing my pride, I mumble a ‘thanks’ before hightailing to the bathroom. Coming back, a ping of jealously or guilt—I’m going with guilt—hits me in the hallway when I see Romeo talking with the beautiful April. I rush to my seat. I haven’t stood out in the hall and watched them since that first day. However, the more I get to know Romeo, the more I’m leaning toward the opinion that him and April are casually dating. He doesn’t seem like the type to cheat. Now Justin…him and the word girlfriend should never be spoken together. But still, why would April want to date someone in a band? Surrounded by willing women, they’re all players to a certain degree.
Recalling their heads together out in the hall, I toy with the idea of coming up with an excuse—something that somehow slipped my mind—for Sunday. But with the corner of my quiz sticking out from under my notebook and a strong determination to ignore Romeo’s hotness, I decide to keep the study date. Really, what could possibly happen between Calculus and laundry?