Page 63 of A Heart Worth Finding
“Little Brotherby Cory Doctorow.”
“What?” Seb asked.
“We did this exact same unit when I was in high school,” she explained. “And the book I used as a comparison wasLittle Brotherby Cory Doctorow. I actually ended up loving that one, and I think you will, too. Lots of action. Not nearly as dreary as Orwell’s work.”
Seb scribbled the title and author down on his notepad, shooting Jessica a thumbs up. “Thanks, teach.”
“Now, what are we actually working on today?”
“History,” he groaned.
“You’re gonna have to be more specific,” she said.
“We’re focusing on the years and months leading to the American Revolution.”
“Okay,” Jessica said, withdrawing her laptop from her back. “Get out your textbook.”
Seb did as he was told, flipping open to a page somewhere in the middle. “This week’s lesson is on the Boston Massacre and the Tea Party,” Seb said when he scanned the first page of the chapter he opened.
“So what exactly is tripping you up?”
“I guess I’m not understanding the motivation behind dumping a bunch of tea in the water. What was so bad about buying British tea? And like…why are the British blamed for theMassacre when the colonists are kind of the ones who started it?”
Jessica smiled, loving when students started to realize the seedier side of U.S. history, and how it was all about perception. Historians framed it in such a way that made the British look bad, thus giving the colonists the right to rebel. And they did have a right, but it wasn’t as cut and dry as the history books would have them believe.
And so, Jessica began explaining what exactly had enraged the Bostonians enough to destroy so much product, and how a wigmaker caused the deaths of five people. All the while, Seb scribbled out notes, asking insightful questions to help him better understand one of the inciting incidents for the American fight for independence.
Their hour passed in a flash—these sessions always did when Jessica was doing what she loved—and Seb checked his watch, startled by the time.
“Shit, I mean…shoot,” he said, giving Jessica a sheepish grin as he rose to his feet and hastily shoved his stuff into his bag. “I gotta go suit up and get on the ice or my instructor is going to kill me.”
“Instructor?” Jessica asked, confused. “I thought you had practice? Why not call him Coach?”
“He’s technically a coach, but not in the sense that he oversees an entire team. This is my goalie coach.”
All the blood drained from Jessica’s face. “Goalie?” she asked, her words hoarse.
No, no, no. This couldn’t be happening.
“Yeah!” Seb said. “That’s my position. I’ve been starting since last season. Up until then, I played defense, but my actual coach saw something in me and decided to switch me to goalie. It’s been working out pretty well, but since I’m so far behind otherkids my age, I want to get some extra instruction to give myself a better shot at playing in college.”
Seb was only sixteen—a sophomore—but she appreciated his work ethic. Not many kids his age had it, and while the tutoring was certainly his parents’ idea—they were the ones paying her—Seb took it as seriously as if he spent his own money on it. He was always completely present, never on his phone or goofing around. She appreciated that about him, and had come to look forward to these sessions simply because she knew she could focus her energy on teaching instead of wrangling the kid towantto learn.
“That’s great, Seb. Your dedication is admirable.”
“Thanks,” he said. “Hey, do you maybe want to meet my goalie coach? He’s about your age, I think. He plays at Michigan State, actually.”
Unease settled in her stomach, but she couldn’t very well explainwhyshe didn’t want to meet this coach of his, so she simply nodded.
“Great!” Seb said, clearly excited about the prospect of his worlds colliding.
Not nearly as enthusiastic, and quite honestly feeling like she was walking to her death, she trudged from the room after Seb.
And there he stood, in dark green joggers, a black and white Nike windbreaker with the Spartan helmet logo embroidered firmly between his broad shoulders, a ball cap that matched his pants flipped backward on his head.
She’d never forget that hair, though it was longer now than it had been three and a half years ago. Nor would she ever fail to remember that ass, which had only grown juicier and more substantial now that he was a college athlete.
“Coach D!” Seb yelled as he made his way to his coach.
