Page 24 of Unloved

But she’s lying because she wants to help me. Without embarrassing me or calling me out.

“Okay.” I nod, swallowing tightly. “I’m listening.”

CHAPTER 9Ro

“And everything is going well with your friends? What about that bowling class you said you were taking?”

I take in a deep breath, shoving a hand through my hair as I spin around in my desk chair slowly.

It’s my weekly phone call with my mom, though I’ve called her twice this week. Tyler thinks I call her too much, that I’m “too attached to her” for my age.

“I ended up dropping it before summer, actually. I needed more time to focus on my research paper for Tinley.”

I hear my mom starting up her usual argument about balance and enjoying my time at school, but I cut her off quickly because this entire conversation will inevitably lead to a confession that I don’t want to make. Especially not at ten o’clock at night before the first day of school.

“I’m really tired,” I whisper, ignoring the ache in my chest that even the idea of ending the call with her brings.

She sighs into the phone, and I clench my eyes.

“All right,yavrum,” she says softly. She’s called meyavrum—which is Turkish for “my little one” or “my darling”—since I was young. My dad always chides her lovingly for babying me—meanwhile, he called me jellybean until I started high school. Hearing the endearment over the phone when I’m so far away always feels like she’swrapping me in a warm blanket. “Call me soon, please. I love hearing your voice.”

“I love you,” I say, hoping even a fraction of how I feel manages to come through. The words don’t feel like enough. “And tell dad I love him, too.”

“I will. We love you. And remember,” she says, her voice filled with deep love, “your father and I are so, so proud of you.”

“Good night, Mom,” I choke out before ending the call and tossing myself onto my twin bed, burying my teary eyes in the sleeves of my dad’s Waterfell hoodie.

It feels almost cathartic to let myself cry. I spent half the summer with my parents, but it’s never enough time to be with them. And knowing I won’t go home until Christmas is almost too overwhelming to think about now, so I don’t.

Instead, I wait for the tears to stop, wash my face, and braid my hair before setting my alarms and laying out my clothes for the first day of fall semester. I double- and triple-check my schedule, pack up my backpack—anything to distract from the pressure on my chest.

Eventually I manage to exhaust myself. I reach for my phone on the desk, where it’s currently playing “striptease” by carwash from one of Sadie’s playlists. As the singer croons softly from the speaker, I notice a text notification.

Unknown

Still on for tomorrow? This is Freddy btw.

There’s an entire line of random emojis beneath it, with multiple fiery hearts and winky faces, as well as several stacks of books.

I type FREDDY into the New Contact name line—before biting my lip and erasing it. Texting my students isn’t something I do, choosing email to keep professionalism in an environment where I’m often the same age or younger than who I’m tutoring. If Sadie,or god forbid, Tyler, saw his name on my phone, they’d have more questions than I would ever have answers for.

RO

Yes, before class. I’ll go over everything for the pretest again.

STUDENT

That sounds like cheating… I love it.

RO

It’s not. Just test prep like I would with any student. See you tomorrow.

STUDENT

Aren’t you going to ask how I got your number?

Butterflies roar to life in my stomach, harder and more insistent. Texting with him doesn’t feel like part of my job, it feels like flirting. Like excitement and inside jokes.You’re his tutor,I remind myself.Not his friend.

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