“For that, you should talk to Mr. Sutton Davis,” Mr. Hirsch says, closing his briefcase with a thud so forceful both Laine and I straighten. “Good day, Miss Rodriguez.”
He gives me a curt nod on his way out of the room. And then it’s just me and Laine.
She rocks back on her heels a few times before plopping down in the seat beside me and leaning her chin down on her palm. For a minute, she doesn’t speak. Instead, she waits for my eyes to meet hers. Despite myself, they do.
She leans over to see what I’m working on. I slam my laptop shut before she can see that my typing has been utternonsense. “Hi,” she whispers, the corners of her mouth lifting a touch.
“Hi,” I echo.
Please don’t ask me to—
“Can I schedule a tutoring session with you?” Laine asks, as if she can read my mind.
“No.”
“No?”
“I don’t have any availability. All my tutoring appointments are booked,” I explain. It didn’t take long for Mr. Hirsch’s students to realize how tough he is. Laine opens her mouth, but I quickly add, “For the whole semester.”
Laine’s rich olive skin takes on a pinky tint, a subtle wash the same color as her sweater. When she looks at me, I can almost see my reflection in her eyes, which are so dark the irises and pupils blend. She has a scar above her lip, not unlike my own.
It’s never easy for me to turn a student down. I remember what it was like to be drowning in schoolwork, looking for any sort of life preserver. But I can’t be that life preserver for every student, or I won’t be able to stay afloat myself. Still, with those big, dark eyes and bright smile, there’s an even stronger draw than usual that’s begging me to help Laine.
“I need to pass this class,” she says, her chest rising and falling with quick breaths. “I need to graduate. And something tells me next week’s exam is going to kick my ass. And maybe every exam after that. Don’t you haveanyopen sessions?”
I study Laine for a few moments, and she fidgets, uncomfortable with the silence.
“No,” I force out again. The thought of taking on yet another student makes my anxiety climb. Heat gathers under the collar of my button-down. “I’m sorry. Aside from my own classes, I have dozens of students I’m working with, my TAresponsibilities, a job, and my internship. So, no. I don’t have any availability.” My words come out colder than I intended.
Laine pulls back a few inches, shocked by my frankness. She pushes a stray lock of hair under her jaw. “Well, if anyone cancels…”
Her defeated expression is almost enough for me to add another thing to my plate.
Almost.
But not quite.
Not when I’m so close to finishing school, closing the end of a hard-fought chapter in my life. “I’ll put you on the waitlist for tutoring,” I offer.
“Thanks. See you next week.”
I nod, and she accepts defeat, taking sluggish steps out of the room. I feel so bad about turning her down I nearly call out to her. Instead, I check the calendar on my phone again, something that has become habitual. I’m met with a screen chock-full of colorful little squares that will dictate my life for the coming months.
School. Work. School. Work. Tutoring. Counseling. Repeat. Repeat. Repeat.
I double-check the room to be sure everything is tidied before sloshing through the remnants of snow outside. Though I should be thinking about my endless to-do list, my mind circles back to Laine. To the furrowed brows as she copied notes down. To the deflated look when I told her no…three times.
When I get to my next appointment, a one-on-one with the professor overseeing my thesis, I’m welcomed by theAlthea Carretching on the frosted glass door. Thanks to the cold, my nose is running and my lips are chapped. Feeling—and likely looking—worse for the wear wouldn’t be so bad except for the blur of bright pink I see through the frosted glass.
Ms. Carr's voice, sharper than usual, is muffled by the door. “Do I even want to know why you’re not in class right now, Laine?”
“Do you?”
“Do I need to remind you that if you drop a single class, you won’t be eligible to graduate this spring?”
“My sixty grand in tuition is reminder enough. Thanks, Mom.”
“It’s not my fault you didn’t take advantage of your four years of free school. If you had graduated on time—”