3. ARAN

CHAPTER 3

ARAN

T his time Strawberry doesn't choke. She does open and close her mouth as if she's forgotten how to use it.

After clearing her throat, she finally says, "Something else. And I'm sorry. That was rude of me."

I lean back in my chair. That was unexpected. The usual responses to something like this would be excuses or vanishing acts. But she doesn't bullshit her way through, nor does she leave. Rather, she takes out a few of the things she'd been packing in her backpack. A strawberry keychain hangs from the pull of its zipper, matching her earrings.

"Um." She tucks her brown hair behind her ears, making the earrings jut out next to her cheeks. Which are just as red. "Could we please start on the right foot?" She sticks her hand out for me to shake.

"That's a hand, though," I say, just to be annoying. When she starts pulling away, I reach out with mine and shake it. "I'm Aran Rodriguez, your new student."

Her eyes are wide. The brown in them looks almost translucent under the sunlight streaming in from the window. Her hand is so cold I'm tempted to lend her my gloves. But she gives a firm, strong pump to my hand and lets go. A good, professional handshake that doesn't make her whither into a fit of giggles like it would the other stalker at the table.

That makes me curious about what the something else was. If it were related to the tutor swap, she'd have easily explained herself with that. But I'm not curious enough to ask, especially if it could make things so awkward that I end up having to find yet another tutor. And I really need to get this new essay started before the next away game.

The only problem is that she's a she. Which goes against Step One of my plan.

"Madeline Berkley. You can call me Maddie." She lowers her eyes to her phone screen. "So, Aran?—"

She mispronounces it, so I interrupt. "It's not pronounced Aaron. It's Ah-ran, with emphasis on the ran part."

"Oh." She tests it on her tongue without spewing a sound for a moment, then attempts it. "A ran ? Is that correct?"

Not quite. She's as American as apple pie and the Spanish r sound will never come naturally to her, but at least she has the a 's straight.

"Good enough," I concede.

Her lips stretch into a smile that reaches all the way to her eyes. It transforms her face from that of a meek little mouse into something I can't describe. Something blinding and alluring like the sun is. Something I have to fold my arms to resist.

Okay, so what? Strawberry's cute. But I don't do cute. My type is girls who are looking for a good time and only a good time, which this girl is the antithesis of. So even though I specifically requested a dude for a tutor, this swap shouldn't put Step One of my plan at risk.

"So, Aran," she continues with more confidence. "I'm afraid that with the last-minute change, I haven't been able to look at your profile in detail to find out what your needs are. And on top of that, I know we're starting this lesson twenty minutes after the agreed time?—"

Eighteen, but I don't interrupt this time.

"Which is why I'm wondering what you'd prefer to do. I could take a few minutes to review your file and come up with a lesson plan, and then we could start today's session but do the full forty-five minutes. Or—" Here she pauses to draw in a breath. "We could just meet for our first session tomorrow. I can try to work around your schedule if that's what you'd prefer."

I run a hand over my head. Is she always this chatty, or is this just the standard introduction?

"How many minutes is a few minutes ?"

"Ten to fifteen?" She cringes a bit and, without pressure from me, says, "I can try to keep it to ten maximum."

"Fine."

There's the smile again. "Great, I'll get right on it."

I grab my kale shake and take another big gulp as she fires her laptop back up. The smile naturally fades as she focuses on my file.

I had to explain why I needed someone to tutor me in essay writing when I approached the student center, which meant showing my essay in all its embarrassing glory. My profile probably contains interesting tidbits like: total bonehead, lives up to the reputation of a stereotypical jock, can barely string together a coherent sentence in English—and often chooses not to, anyway—code red: needs to be sent back to elementary school.

Strawberry scribbles in the yellow journal she was poring over before. When she does, she leans forward so much her long hair falls over the table like a curtain. I stretch a bit to see if I can catch what she's jotting down. Or whatever she wrote before when she was observing me. But her hair ruins my plan.

Another whisper comes from the eavesdroppers at the table, and it mispronounces my name. No matter how many times I explain the correct way, people still botch it. At least tutor-girl made an effort and got it mostly right.

Her pen flashes against the light as she taps it against her chin, and lo and behold, the end cap is shaped like a big strawberry. I snort, and the sound makes her look up in a panic.

"Oh, is the time up already?"

I glance at my laptop's clock. "Nah. You have two minutes left."

"Okay, thanks."

Her face scrunches up as she tries to speed write the rest of her ideas. She looks fiercer than some of my teammates.

The right corner of my lips twitches. How interesting. Attitude comes out when she faces words. But when she's up against people, she retracts.

I polish off the last of my shake and stuff the bottle back into my backpack. Next, I close my auditing textbook and set it aside. She's gone over a minute already, but fortunately for her, I'm free for the next two hours. Unfortunately for her, I'm not generous enough to share that info.

Just as I'm about to cut her off, the crease on her forehead grows until she comes up for air like the Little Mermaid. She even pushes her hair back and away from her face as if she's been underwater. "So here's the plan. Take a look." With a flourish, she turns her journal upside down and slides it over to me.

Two forty-five-minute sessions the first week. The first would be centered around the general methodology for writing essays, and the second one would help me flesh out the content of my current class assignments. Then from week two and on, we'd alternate. One week, she'd correct last week's essay, and the next, she'd help me revise it or flesh out the new one, per my class assignments. At the bottom, she lists the time slots she has available per week. There are so many that this girl either has no social life or isn't taking many courses this semester.

"What do you think?" she asks.

"I honestly have no clue what I'm doing here," I admit with a shrug. "You tell me. Is this what I need to pass this elective?"

"I think so." She nods at her computer screen. "The ideas in your essay look pretty solid. It's just that you basically put zero effort into fleshing them out the way professors want. That's probably why Melinda—that's my boss, by the way—assigned you to Wyatt and now to me. We're English majors, not business ones, you know? You don't need help with the concepts, but with the execution."

A few giggles echo off to the side. My so-called admirers seem to be finding this amusing. No doubt I'll wake up to a fresh round of hockey-players-are-knuckleheads comments in the morning.

But Strawberry's expression holds no trace of mockery. In fact, if anything, she thinks I'm lazy. Which I've definitely been with this class.

I pick my mechanical pencil back up and circle the two time slots that work for me. One is this one, Tuesday morning, and the other one is Wednesday afternoon before practice. As I slide the journal back to her, the page blows over, and I catch the letters TDH underneath, where she was scribbling while she was snooping on me.

Tutor-girl smacks the page back down and jerks the journal back up to her.

Sus.

I force my lips to stay in a straight line as I ask, "What's TDH?"

She sucks in air through her teeth, and at the same time, her eyes go wide as saucers.

Well, that confirms that it has something to do with me. I place my forearms on the table and lean closer. I won't ask again. This is usually enough to get people to spill.

"Nothing," she says in a high-pitched voice.

I narrow my eyes slightly, and all she does against the pressure is press her lips tighter. Strawberry has some spine. I'll give her that.

Faint but frantic steps distract me for a moment, as if someone is running in the library, which I know not to do, even though this is like my second time here. A guy rounds the corner around a bookshelf and immediately locks eyes with me. I recognize the blond mop of hair from the tutor profile I got when I was signed up for the service.

"Aaron, I'm so sorry I'm late!"

I grit my teeth.

Strawberry turns around. "Wyatt! You made it." I'm not sure if that's relief or disappointment laced in her words. But they're charged with something.

"This morning's been a mess." He plops onto the chair next to Strawberry with a huff. His coat is askew as the strap of his bag slides off his shoulder and he drops the whole thing to the carpeted floor. "Some jerk rear-ended me at a red light. Can you believe that?"

"That sucks. Are you okay?" Her forehead creases as she scans him down and back up.

"Yeah, I'm good. Getting the insurance stuff sorted out just took a while." Finally, the dude faces me. "Sorry about that. I can talk with Melinda and switch you back to me if you want."

"Oh." Strawberry whispers this word, and this word alone. This time, the disappointment is clear.

I tilt my head. She scratches one finger over the surface of the journal containing a neat little timetable written in rounded loops in blue ink. She put that together in hurry after a whole hockey player was added to her plate out of the blue. She's crafty and surprisingly direct. Not to mention, her rating from previous students is a whopping 4.9, compared to this dude's 4.7. I'm a numbers guy, and the choice is pretty obvious. So even though I requested a dude, I think this girl is better suited to the task of getting me out of the flunk zone.

"Nah," I say loud and clear. "I already agreed on a plan with Strawberry, here."

She splutters, "Strawb?—"

"But," tutor-dude says. "It's really no big deal. Right, Maddie?"

"Um, actually?—"

"I mean, don't you already have three other students on your plate?" He gives her a cringey smile that is as clear as if he were begging with words. "I only have two right now if I include Aaron."

"Actually," she says firmly before I'm able to correct the other guy. "Melinda just swapped our new students, so you will still have a second one, even though it's not going to be Aran. Pronounced as Ah- ran , not Aaron."

I raise my eyebrows.

"Oh, cool. Should've said so from the beginning." The fight leaves the guy, and he deflates on the chair before glancing at me again. "So, I guess we're cool, Aaron."

"Not if you keep calling me by the wrong name."

Something in my voice makes him pale.

"Yeah, dude. That's rude." She whispers the admonishment to him and then turns to me. "But so is calling someone else by something that is not their name."

This time I don't fight the smile. The amusement hits me harder than a slapshot.

"Look at that!" someone whispers aggressively, pointing a cell phone at me.

My lips flatten right back. I turn to the cohort of giggly girls and snap, "Take your damn pictures once and for all and go."

One of them squeaks. Another one pulls at her two friends until they scramble and go.

"Yikes." The tutor-dude mumbles as low as his voice can go. He stands back up slowly, as if I'm a feral animal that could jump at him any minute. And I will if he dares call me Aaron again.

Sighing, I face my new tutor again and find her blinking rapidly, like her brain can't process me.

Bienvenida al club, fresita , I think to myself.

"So, Maddie." My voice comes out gruff with residual annoyance. "Are we getting to work?"

"Uh, right." She clears her throat, fills her lungs with air, and launches into the first lesson.