Page 21 of Lessons in Faking
“I’d guess about just as much as Shaw on a bad day.” My brows rose. “Right?”
Unfortunately, McCarthy’s attention was already on the source of my demise for the next sixty minutes:Statistical Interference I.
“Have you read this before?” He held the book out to me, a brow raised critically as he sat.
“Sure.” I leaned back, and the gesture made him drop his hand with a theatrical sigh. He knew that the honest answer was a big fatnope.
“It was required reading last year.” He made a point of opening, turning, and placing the book in front of me. Went on without checking to see if I was even looking.
Then again, if I weren’t looking, I wouldn’t know he wasn’t checking.
“It’s got a chapter on everything you’re failing to understand.” His finger slowly ran across the table of contents, giving every relevant chapter a purposeful tap. The null hypothesis:tap. Calculating probabilities:tap. Confidence intervals:tap.
I didn’t know why my eyes were practically glued to the book.The book—not the ringed finger running across it.
McCarthy turned the page slowly, continuing to run his finger across every chapter of the table delicately. A-B tests:tap. Correlation coefficients:tap. I noticed a vein that ran from his knuckle upward, and my eyes followed it mindlessly. Regressions:tap. They were nice hands. Firm, tough-looking, veins running across the back. He wore rings too. Three silver ones.
My eyes jumped up to his quickly. I wasn’t quite sure how long he hadn’t said anything, and I was even less sure of how long his hand had remained on the page. When our eyes connected, his twinkled in amusement, waiting for any kind of reaction. I huffed as I stalled for time.
“The thing is also, like, a hundred pounds, McCarthy,” I finally retorted. “There’s no way—”
The book snapped shut, and I was sure the only reason he closed it was to keep me from talking. His patience was already wearing thin, five minutes into the whole ordeal, and I wasn’t sure whether to feel proud or a little guilty. Being Shaw’s TA must be hard enough without the burden of having to teach statistics to a hopeless case like me.
“What is your problem with this?” he asked, with an equal mix of aggravation and confusion in his voice. “You’re not dumb, Pressley, but somehow, you don’t want to understand.”
“That’s probably the nicest thing you’ve ever said to me,” I quipped, and McCarthy’s eyes rolled in annoyance.
“I’m being serious.”
“And that might be the problem.” As the silence that followed my statement lingered, I dared a glance at the man opposite me. A hand ran through his dark-brown hair, eyes on the wooden table. In a wave of unprecedented guilt, I sighed. “I don’t know,” I admitted.
“You’re not even trying,” he pointed out.
He wasn’t wrong. Iwasn’ttrying. And I didn’t know why I wasn’t trying. At the very least, I always tried.
Perhaps it was the fact that, no matter how hard I’d try with this, I’d never be my mom. I’d never be Naomi Yung, the woman who had changed the way we applied statistics in business today. Way past her death, her success was a lingering presence. Last semester, I’d stumbled over her name three times trying to study for this damn class.
I’d never be her.
The thought made me sick.
Henry was basically Dad, living up to his name and the reputation of a Pressley in soccer. He’d go pro after college, just the way he was supposed to. The draft was but a month away, and I wasn’t even worried. Everyone knew he’d make it.
Why couldn’t I be just a little more like either of our parents too?
Could I be—if I just tried a little harder?
I wasn’t quite sure what trying in statistics looked like, but the following tutoring session with McCarthy was not it. The bounce in my step and the smile on my face were wiped away by the end of it.
I watched as his nose scrunched, trying to decipher the notes in front of him. His brown hair fell into his face as he read through the words, as unsure about them as I had been. His tongue poked the inside of his cheek, he squinted, then flicked his eyes toward me.
You’re totally staring at him, the voice inside my head blurted out as soon as our gazes connected. It was right. I was staring.Why was I staring?
He held our eye contact steadily, though. So technically, was he staring at me too?
The smile he gave me was all dumb and teasing and uncontrolled, and the dimple in his cheek was a brief reminder that he was irritatingly attractive. It was a fact. Probably one that contributed to why I disliked him so strongly. Probably one that contributed to why Henry did too.
I shook my head to snap out of it. “So—” I began. I didn’t get very far.
