I’m officially sick.
But instead of thinking about how many therapy sessions I will require when this semester is over, I wonder… “How hard can the first test be?”
Mateo actually laughs.
I love laughing Mateo.
“You’re gonna pass that one, Shannon, but it won’t be as easy as you think,” he says, taking in my body with that wolfish gaze he has. “So let’s get started.” He points to the small kitchen table. There are only two chairs, one on each side of a window that faces the driveway. The blinds are up and the curtains are open. The house is sitting up higher than the driveway so if anyone did walk by, they probably could not see me.
“A kid from your high school lives next door,” Mateo says, probably reading my mind. Because that’s when I see the window across the driveway. There’s no blinds or curtains in that one either. “If you sit here too long,” Mateo says, flipping on the lights—I look up at the bulbs dangling over the table—“it will get dark out, and believe me, he will see you. And he’ll see me, my hands fisting your hair, as I fuck your face.”
I look over at him. I want to ask all the questions. Like why? Why do you do this shit?
But I know why. It’s the same reason I let him drag me into this completely insane scenario. He likes it. It turns him on to think of people watching us. It turns him on to scare me into doing the things he wants with the threat of humiliation.
So why bother asking? I like it too. I just nod. “We better get busy then.”
He bares his teeth in a grin. “I hope you’re a quick learner, Shannon.”
“I can be.”
He frowns. “Explain. I hate wasting my time.”
“I’m not good at math, Mateo. I’m good at memorizing things, so I learn the steps to solve the problems and I repeat them on tests. I’m not good at school, I’m just good at tests. That’s how I got through those AP classes. So if you want to waste time teaching me theory, or the reasons why math is the way it is, or force me to understand what I’m doing—then we’re never gonna fuck again. I just learn the steps. If you really want to help me graduate, teach me how to work the problems and let me do it my way.”
“OK,” he says in an uncharacteristically soft voice. “Fair enough. Get out a piece of paper.”
I look at the folder he’s got set up on the table, open it, and take out a piece of graph paper. He pushes a mechanical pencil over to me and I take it and then look up at him expectantly.
“Every section in every chapter has a purpose, and your homework is to read the chapter, find the purpose of each section, and write it down in one sentence on that piece of paper. That’s your cheat sheet.”
“It’s open-book?”
“No,” he says, shaking his head. “Life isn’t open-book, Shannon. You just think it is because you can look up anything you want on the internet. Answers are free these days. But it’s an illusion. You have to work for the answers. And if you’re good at remembering things, then you write down the answers that are meaningful so you can look them up when you need them.”
“I’m not taking a test today, am I?”
He shakes his head slowly. “I’m not letting you off easy. You’re not gonna get this credit without earning it. And I think you’re smart enough to realize that what we do after the test has nothing to do with what we do before it.”
“Then why am I naked?”
“I like looking at you. And after you write down the purpose of each section in chapter one, I’m going to fuck you anyway. Because I like fucking you too, and even if I had the kind of self-control it would take to let you get dressed and walk home, keeping you frustrated until tomorrow, I don’t want to practice it today.”
“You’re the weirdest guy I’ve ever met.”
He smiles. I long for the laugh, but I only get the smile. “I’ll take that as a compliment. Now get to work.”
I read the first section. It’s easy, so I find the purpose in less than a minute and start writing it down, being careful to make it succinct, so it has meaning to me later.
Mateo cooks. He’s making lasagna because he’s got the box of pasta out on the counter with some cans of tomato paste. He starts boiling the water first, and then empties the paste in another pot to make the sauce. I’m intrigued by everything. And he’s got his back to me, so I can stare at the muscles under his t-shirt and the tattoos down his arms as he works. They are mostly stars, I realize.
Stars. He’s a fucking physicist. Or whatever. Astronomer. So that fits. They might even tell a story.
“I don’t hear your pencil moving,” Mateo says, never turning around from his tasks.
I go back to work and he continues cooking. What I’m doing is not hard. Chapter one of any math textbook is mostly stuff I already know, with a few specific additions. I’m smart enough to know the difference. I pick out the points that are important and write them down.