Page 5 of Attractive Forces
3
Jake
On Thursday, I race home after school to get my house in a presentable state before Logan arrives. I pushed for us to meet in the library, but Logan vetoed that and suggested my place instead. I guess he prefers people not to know he needs a tutor.
Understandable, but my mum has picked up extra morning shifts at the diner, which means my younger brother Aaron and I have to get ourselves to school. It would be different if my sister Annaliese was still here as she puts the freak into the term neat freak, whereas tidiness isn’t a priority for Aaron and me. Ever.
Sure enough, I pick up the wet towel Aaron left outside the bathroom and stack the dishes in the sink, wiping down crumbs and a smear of God knows what from the kitchen table.
Then I spray air freshener around to disguise the dingy smell.
I’ve just finished when there is a firm knock on the door. I swing the door open, and Logan stands there.
“Hey.” He says the word cautiously like he’s testing it out and isn’t sure if it will catch on.
“Hey.” I try for a casual tone, but seeing Logan Madison standing on my doorstep makes me freak out. “Come in.”
I stand aside, and Logan walks in, wrinkling his nose. Okay, so there’s a chance I was a bit too generous with the air freshener.
He looks around the room, and I can only too easily imagine what he’s thinking. I know the Madisons are old money, and Logan lives in one of the nicest houses on the hill. I used to live in a house like his, so I can mentally catalog the differences between his place and mine.
I guarantee his front door will open into an impressive entry, featuring a light fixture that does double duty as a lighting source and a look-how-much-money-I-can-spend-on-a-fixture showoff piece.
In contrast, our front door opens into a kitchen-dining room-living room all-in-one, with a grimy linoleum floor and a stained rug.
“We can head up to my room,” I say.
“Sure.”
My room is actually quite large. If you ignore the fact there’s a huge crack in the ceiling and the closet door doesn’t shut properly, it’s not all that bad.
Because we kept all our furniture, I have my father’s old mahogany desk. It looks completely out of place against the badly painted walls. But it’s large enough that we can both fit side-by-side. I sit on a chair borrowed from the dining room table, leaving Logan to take Dad’s old office chair.
Logan’s eyes dart to the door as he settles in. It’s like he’s plotting an escape route.
“Okay, so chemistry, right?” My voice sounds unnaturally loud, and I fiddle with my pen. “What part are you struggling with?”
“I used to be okay when it was mixing stuff in test tubes. But now it’s all equations.” Logan shrugs. “I don’t really get them.”
“We can work on the quantitative stuff if that’s where you want to start.”
“Okay, cool.” His body language is completely at odds with his casual words. He’s crammed himself at the far end of the desk and shifts in his seat uneasily, avoiding my gaze.
As I start to talk, I seem to catch his awkwardness. I can’t think of a way to make him relax. Tension gnaws at my stomach. I mangle my words as I try to explain how volumetric analysis works.
I don’t understand why I’m so anxious. Maybe it’s because I really want this extra money. Scrap that, I need the money. I’m on track to win an academic scholarship to university, but I still need every cent I can get.
Or maybe it’s because if I do or say something stupid, it will be like committing social suicide. I’ll become the punch line in one of the jock’s jokes.
I don’t know whether I’m going too fast or too slow. The vibe I’m getting from Logan is he’d prefer to be anywhere but here. On a distant planet on the outer rim of the solar system. Having an organ extracted. At a Celine Dion concert.
But he agreed to tutoring, right? He wants to improve his chemistry grade.
Maybe it’s because I’m a sucky tutor?
“Why don’t you give it a shot?” I suggest after I’ve talked through volumetric analysis and am thoroughly sick of the sound of my own voice.
Logan furrows his brow as he picks up the pen. He pauses for a second, then regrips it, clutching it tightly.
