Heather couldn’t join me for tutoring that Wednesday night. She had a drill team practice. I didn’t get drill team—it wasn’t cheerleading and it wasn’t dance and in all honesty, the videos I’d seen of her doing it were pretty lame—but she loved it and I’m guessing it appeased her mother’s thirst for extracurriculars to put on her college app.
Anyway, it was just me and George that night. As soon as we sat down in the kitchen, he asked me why I hadn’t emailed him any of the work I’d said I would.
“About that . . .” I said. “The dog ate my homework?”
“No dog,” he pointed out. “And it was all on the computer.”
“If I had a dog, I’m pretty sure it would have eaten my homework. Speaking of which, I’d really like to get a pug. Don’t you like pugs? They’re so cute with their old faces and sad eyes. What’s your favorite breed?”
“Nice try,” he said. “But since you didn’t do the work this week, you’ll do it right now, while I’m here.” He brought it up on my computer and then stood behind me.
“You’re looming over me,” I said, glancing up at him. “That can feel very threatening, you know.”
“Really? Good. Consider yourself threatened.” He pointed at the screen. “Get it done, Ellie. Oh, and I’m taking your phone.” He scooped it up and stuck it in his back pocket. “I can’t compete with it.”
“Damn right you can’t,” I said, but I let him keep it.
It took me about ten minutes to answer all the questions he’d assigned and another fifteen to write a five-paragraph essay on the subject “Does social media affect our interpersonal relationships for better or worse?” The writing section of the SATs was theoretically optional now, but the counselor at my school had said anyone who wanted to go to a decent college had to take it.
I looked up from the computer to tell George I’d finished and caught him using his phone. “No fair!” I said.
“Why not? You text all the time.”
“Yeah, but I’m not getting paid to be here.”
“I’m not getting paid enough.”
“Really? How much are you getting?”
“That’s between your mother and me.”
“She paid my driving instructor a hundred and fifty dollars an hour.”
“Let’s look at your work,” he said, sitting and pulling the laptop toward him.
“You’re not getting anywhere near that much, are you?”
“I’m not letting you drag me into a conversation about this.”
“Anything less than a hundred and you’re being robbed.”
“Just shut up, will you, and let me read?”
“On the other hand, that driving instructor never once told me to shut up.”
“He or she must have been a saint. Or deaf.”
I watched him reading through my answers, his grayish-greenish eyes darting swiftly across each line. Something buzzed. “You got another text.”
He didn’t respond.
“It might be important.” I peeked at his phone. “Is Carson a girl or a boy?”
“I’m trying to think of how that might be your business and I just can’t.”
“You kept asking me about Skyler! Exact same thing.”
He shrugged and looked up. “You got all of the questions right.”
“Of course I did. And I already know that Carson’s a girl. First of all, most Carsons are girls, and second of all, she wrote ‘Can’t wait,’ and no boy would ever write that to another boy, even if they were both gay and in love.”
“Do you ever stop talking?”
“You took my phone away,” I said. “What am I supposed to do? Just sit here and watch you read? As riveting as that might be—”
“Reflect on your flaws,” he said. “Resolve to be a better person.”
“It’s not possible. I’m already perfect.”
“Are you though?”
“How about Carson?” I said. “Is she a good person? Or a flawed one?” I was only teasing, but my curiosity was genuine. If George was in love, I wanted to know about it. I felt a little proprietary after all the time we’d spent together this summer, like I should get a chance to review and approve anyone he dated. Besides, talking about his personal life was a lot more interesting than studying for the SATs. “Do we like her?”
“She’s a goddess among women,” he said. “If I give you back your phone, will you stop talking long enough for me to actually read your essay?”
“If you give me back my phone, I’ll leave you alone for the rest of the afternoon,” I said. “Maybe even the rest of the decade.”
“You get ten minutes with it.” He pulled it out of his back pocket and handed it to me, then bent over the screen again.
I sent a couple of texts and checked my Instagram feed. Aaron had posted a selfie with Mia. She was tiny and adorable in his well-muscled arms.
“Okay, done,” George said, looking up. “Why are you smiling?”
I showed him the photo.
“Right,” he said. “Let’s talk about your essay.” He swung the laptop around and hitched his chair closer to mine so we could both see the screen. “So you got the format right—everything’s there, from the introduction to the conclusion. And it’s a good length—you got a lot of words down on the page. You even made some decent points. It’s just the way you supported them that I’m not sure about. You’re a little glib.”
“Glib?” I repeated.
“Slick. Easy.”
“I know what glib means. I’m just hurt you think of me that way.”
“Look at this.” He pointed to a sentence. “You’re essentially making fun of the topic.”
“Just trying to keep it entertaining for my reader. I wouldn’t want to bore him.”
“I want you to take this seriously.”
“I did! I mean, for the most part. Come on! It’s a perfectly fine essay and you know it.”
“It’s not bad,” he said begrudgingly. “What’s this book you reference here? The Smith Saga? I’ve never heard of it.”