I roll my eyes and give her a look. Charlotte has recently rekindled a middle-school crush on Josh and she flipped out when she heard I was going to be tutoring him. But honestly, there is no Venn diagram between his social circle and ours. Josh’s friends are football players and cheerleaders, kids who go to parties that involve cases of beer, kids to whom homework is an afterthought, an optional side effect of education. Charlotte and I hang with the straight-A orchestra geeks and mathletes, whose parties involve intense games of Catan and cans of Monster instead of beer. Really, our circles only intersect in Josh’s far-reaching olfactory cloud, which isn’t saying much because kids in Minneapolis might actually be able to smell him. His scent is a phenomenon that crosses state boundaries.
Charlotte hesitates a moment longer, hoping for more, but I have another kid due any minute. When she realizes I won’t be indulging her any further, she shrugs nonchalantly.
“Cool,” she says. “Text me.”
She turns to go, bumping her shoulder roughly against the door frame and then tripping into the hall. Clumsy as hell, that one, but unlike most girls, Charlotte is pretty without even trying. She’s all long, lean legs and flat stomach, symmetrical features, toothpaste-commercial smile. Her thick blond hair is cut in a cute short pixie, the anti-haircut of every other teenage girl in a hundred-mile radius. You’d think her supermodel good looks would be enough to make her popular, but when they vote for things like homecoming court, quiet, smart, statuesque Charlotte is overlooked in favor of loud cheerleaders with big boobs. So boys like Josh don’t really pay much attention to her. One of my frequent and fervent wishes is that boys get smarter with age.
I have the sinking feeling I’m going to be terribly disappointed.
I’m overlooked by boys, too, but not because I’m taller than they are or unnervingly beautiful (which I’m not), or because I’m unusually unattractive (also not). Mostly it’s because I’m a little weird and love math the way most girls love Starbucks. Plus, as I mentioned, I don’t create a welcoming atmosphere with my seemingly germaphobic tendencies. I don’t place my hand flirtatiously on muscular arms and giggle. I don’t hug everyone for no reason or push at firm chests in mock aggression. I keep my hands to myself, and I know for a fact that that’s not where teenage boys generally want a girl’s hands.
Chapter 2
I start on my homework while I wait for my next customer. The kid is already a few minutes late, but I’ve learned not to expect … well … anyone to be as prompt as I am. After giving him another ten minutes, I figure he’s probably forgotten. Math isn’t exactly something normal people look forward to on a Friday afternoon. Me, I save my math homework for last, like it’s dessert.
I take off my glasses and rub my eyes and try to remember if this kid was going to pay me, like Josh, or if he was part of my looks-good-on-college-applications-pro-bono-client list. If he was supposed to be a paying customer, I’m out twenty dollars on top of my wasted time.
Great.
I squint down at my phone again, decide he’s not coming and start packing up my books. I jump when the door bursts open.
The guy stops short when he sees me, maybe surprised that I’m still waiting.
“Sorry,” he blurts, slightly out of breath. “I’m late.”
I look up at him but without my glasses I can’t make out anything other than a human-shaped blob — maybe a grayish T-shirt and dark hair. I’m tempted to say something sarcastic to let him know my time is just as valuable as his, but I’ve been trying to work on my warm fuzziness. Instead I mumble, “That’s okay.”
Sadly, that’s about as fuzzy as I get.
I slip my glasses back on and, since I don’t want to let him off the hook too easily, I avoid any polite eye contact.
He drops his trig book on the table with a heavy thump. Out of the corner of my eye I see him take off his jacket and hang it on the back of his chair. He wipes his forehead with one hand and I guess I have to appreciate that he rushed enough to break a sweat. He plops down and rubs his hands on his thighs and, since I’m still avoiding eye contact, that’s what I notice first.
His hands.
Tan, sturdy wrists, scratched-up knuckles, long and calloused fingers. His fingernails are fairly clean, but I suspect it took some effort to get them that way. His hands look a little like they’ve been tumbled around in the washing machine with gravel and then put out in the sun to bake to a golden brown.
They make me look up and notice the rest of him.
Well, hey.
He’s not bad. Better than not bad, actually. But not at all in the same way as Josh.
His very short, nearly black hair reminds me of an animal pelt: so shiny and thick that I wonder if maybe water would bead up on it, like it does on an otter or a seal. His eyes are dark, but more of a deep gray than a brown, with impossibly long, thick lashes. He blinks once, twice, and I realize that if I had been wearing my glasses, I definitely would have noticed his eyelashes first. Holy crap.
The overall darkness of him is striking. My eyes have to adjust after the Scandinavian golden glow of Josh and Charlotte. Like Josh, this kid is objectively attractive: symmetrical features, straight nose, full lips. But like Charlotte, he’s not trying too hard. No hair flipping. No overwhelming body spray. Just the lucky recipient of a desirable gene pool.
Unembellished. Nothing fancy.
He inhales and lets it out in a heavy sort of sigh — the kind my mom makes after a day when my siblings have sucked every last ounce of maternal instinct from her exhausted body — and then he inhales again. He probably smells the remnants of Josh’s cologne.
“The kid before you,” I say. “He’s pretty fond of his Axe.”
His mouth twitches in a near smile and he rolls his eyes. “Let me guess: Josh Mooney?”
I can’t help but laugh. “How’d you know?”
He shrugs. “He’s in my gym class. Has a gallon-size tank of that shit in his locker. I’d know his stank anywhere.”
I feel my guard lowering. “Someone needs to tell him that more is not necessarily better.”
“To a kid like that? More is always better.” He shrugs again. “Unless it’s IQ points.”
I like that this kid isn’t impressed by Josh’s brand of High-School-Musical popularity. The fact that Mr. Sexy Hands is not the president of the Josh Mooney fan club makes me think that he and I might just see eye to eye. Late or not, he’s forgiven.
I don’t even smell the cologne anymore. All I smell is a soapy mix of Safeguard and Tide, and maybe a hint of mint emanating from my new pupil. His clothes are clean but not new or trendy: just a gray T-shirt from Judson College (which became Judson University several years ago) and jeans that look worn out from actual overuse rather than some Hollister marketing strategy. The green canvas army jacket he hung on his chair looks about twenty years old, probably a Goodwill purchase. You can still see where a name patch was once attached to the chest.
He scrubs one beat-up hand over his close-cropped hair, which looks like maybe he cut it himself with clippers. He also has a small scar, a tiny crescent moon like a baby’s fingernail, just under his left eyebrow.
“Did you bring your calculator?” I ask.
“Huh?” He looks up at me. Again with those eyelashes! “Shit,” he murmurs. “I forgot. Sorry.”