***
Phoebe
I stand outside the writing lab, hoping this session goes better than the previous two. Not only do Ty’s personality gymnastics exhaust me, but he wasn’t even there on Wednesday. I showed up for our session and Meg said he’d gotten called away to meet with his adviser. But Katie was free, so we muddled through Jane Austen together, though she's only a sophomore and hasn’t yet read anything by Austen. Needless to say, between the two of us, we were lost, and I bombed the quiz. To make matters worse, I just got my paper back, and I was right: it was trash. I’ve never failed anything in my academic career, but I got an F on my literary analysis ofSense and Sensibility. Ugh. And my test is tomorrow. This class will do me in, I’m sure of it. And if I somehow manage to survive this course, then my tutoring sessions with Ty might be the thing that sends me over the edge. Half the time I’m with him, I’m certain I annoy the crap out of him, and the other half, I’d swear he looks at me with interest in those gorgeous blue eyes.
But either way, I have no time for moody, mercurial guys today. There is 19th century literature to be discussed. Resigned, I push the door open and walk inside. Ty’s at the same desk, his head resting in his palm as he reads.
“Hey, there! Back for more?” Megan calls to me from her place on the couch.
“Yep. You know me. I just can’t get enough of this stuff.” I laugh and take the seat across from Ty.
“Phoebe.”
“Ty.” I mimic. “Is this what we’re doing now? Just saying each other’s names? Because as much fun as this is…”
“You’re really doing this? Taking the class? You decided not to drop it after all?” He seems annoyed at the prospect.
He’s unreal. “I never intended to drop it. Believe me, I wish I didn’t have to take it, but I do. I need fifteen credits this semester, and I’m not backing out. But I am begging for help. We had a quiz yesterday, and I bombed it. I came here to study on Wednesday, but you were gone.”
He looks chagrined as he rubs the back of his neck. “Yea, I’m sorry about that. My adviser needed to meet with me about an internship next semester. I figured Katie could handle things.”
“Uh, no. She understands this stuff about as well as I do.”
“Shit. Ok, what’s up next? Do you have a paper due?”
I shake my head. “I just got my character analysis paper back and yea...it’s bad. I didn’t even understand the prompt. So, even if it means putting up with your mood swings, I’ll be here for tutoring three times a week.”
He sighs. “Alright. Let’s get started. Can I see your paper?”
Now it’s my turn to sigh. “Um, do you have to? I mean, isn’t it enough for me to tell you it’s a train wreck? Do you really need to see it in all its black and white and red-inked horror?”
He has the grace to smile. “Actually, yes, if you don’t mind sharing it. Totally up to you, but it’s easier for me to get a sense of what the professor is looking for and where you’re falling short, if I can see what you wrote and the feedback you were given.”
“Fine,” I grumble and reach for my bag. Dr. Barnes is old-school, and insists on both paper and digital copies of our work. She marks them up with red pen and everything. And if I had to guess, I’d say she used a box of pens on my paper alone.
I hand it over, wincing as I do. Surprisingly, Ty takes it with a smile. “Relax. It won’t be that bad. And I promise not to shame you, Scout’s honor and all that.”
I scoff. “There’s no way you were a Scout.”
He smiles, and this time it’s a wolfish grin. “Nope. But I promise not to be too harsh. I just need a baseline, okay? And what are you reading next?”
“Emma,” I tell him. “But what the heck? It’s supposed to be a comedy, but I’m sixty pages in and I haven’t laughed yet, so I’m not too sure about this one.”
He toys with the corner of my paper. “It’s a comedy, no question. But it’s not ha-ha funny, more social commentary than laugh-out-loud. Anyway, why don’t you keep reading while I look over this.”
I open the book and stare at the words. My eyes glaze over, but I give myself a mental shake. I can do this. I can totally do this.
Twenty minutes later, I’ve read three pages, and Ty has run his hands through his hair seventeen times.
I counted.
“Ok, so, it looks like you’re struggling with what she’s asking, yea? Like you’re not quite sure what to focus on, so you put a little of everything in here?”
“Um, I’m pretty sure that’s the understatement of the century,” I tell him.
He rolls his eyes at me. “Look, you’re not going to get anywhere with an attitude like that.”
And we’re back to Grumpy Tutor. Ok, good to know. “Understood. But yes, you’re right. I don’t even understand what she wants me to do. And when I emailed her asking for clarification, she told me to reread the directions.”
