Page 22 of Teaching the Teacher's Pet

I mean, sure, he had more experience than I had when it came to relationships. Whatever tips Connor could conjure up…what if they worked? Yes, I’d be lowering myself to the bottom of Connor’s stupid football cleats if I took his advice, but what if it ended upamping upmy relationship with Alex?

With a sigh, I grabbed my textbook and satchel and stood up. A promise of love advice or not, it was going to be a long two and a half weeks.

Mom was already lounging on the couch when I came home, her tablet balanced on the arm of the cushion. It’d been a Christmas present from Jozie and me years ago, back when Jozie worked part-time at Sailor’s Cinema, and she’d pitched in more than my meager chore-money piggy bank could allow. The tablet wasn’t the latest model by any means, but Mom cherished the thing like it was her third child.

She tapped her stylus in her grip, analyzing the picture in front of her, her artistic eye no doubt being overly critical. So much was evident by her curved posture.

“I’m home,” I told her as I appeared in the living room doorway, and she turned around.

“Maisie.” Her voice was an exhale of relief at the sight of me, and she waved me closer. “Come give me your opinion on this. Are these colors working? I can’t tell anymore.”

“You know I’m not good at that kind of stuff.” I took a step closer anyway. “Have you asked Dad?”

“He went straight into the shower after work. Covered in paint, I tell you. Like he was painting himself today instead of the wall.” She beckoned me with an oscillating hand. “Come here.”

She had to zoom out from the section she’d been hypnotized by, exposing the whole image of…something. Mom’s passion was “semi-abstract,” but I couldn’t figure out what about it was “semi.” The image was a bunch of dots and different sized shapes in several shades of green, yellow, and orange. “I think it looks fine.”

Mom’s mouth twisted further, my answer clearly not pleasing her, but she went back to dragging her stylus across the screen. “Where’ve you been?”

“At the library. I was tutoring.”

She murmured distantly, her attention only half-present. “Are you doing somethingbesidestutoring and homework? You should have more of a social life balance, Maisie.”

Yeah, this was a conversation Isowasn’t in the mood for. “Yes, Mom.”

I could recite half of my Calculus textbook in my sleep, but watching Mom go through the settings of her little art app made my head hurt. She’d tried to explain the different levels of shading and complexity to me once—or, really, she explained it to both Jozie and me, and Jozie was the only one who understood a single sentence. It had something to do with switching brushes and opacity. She could’ve been talking gibberish and I wouldn’t have known. It was one of the rare times where I realized people probably felt the same way when I mentioned polynomials.

Even though it was still the two of us in the living room, Mom had tucked herself away into her little tablet, consumed by the greens and yellows and oranges. I kicked the edge of the sofa with my socked foot, lightly enough for it to not make a sound but hard enough that it stung a little. “By the way, do you know how much is left in my college fund? Some of the scholarship applications will ask about it.”

Mrs. Diego had been the one to tell me that I should know how much I was going to be able to contribute to paying tuition, so I knew what kind of scholarships to apply for. Even though I loved school, I couldn’t deny that the college stuff went over my head a little.

Mom’s stylus never faltered. “I’d have to check the paperwork. I thought scholarships meant you got tuition for free, though.”

“Not always. There are partial scholarships.”

Much like how she’d beckoned me over, Mom waved her hand again. “Please. You’ll be getting a full scholarship—you don’t even have to worry about it with the grades you have.”

“It’s not all about grades.” My voice started to sound like a wrung-out towel—any ounce of patience effectively twisted dry. Principal Oliphant’s words came back to me.GPA isn’t the most accurate way to judge a student’s performance.“It’s about participation in extracurricular activities—”

Mom cut me off. “Tutoring.”

“Leadership qualities—”

“Tutoring.”

I felt more like the parent rather than the child, and still, she poured over her tablet like I wasn’t even there. I might as well have been a TV she’d forgotten to turn off. “Mom. It’s more than tutoring and grades.”

It kind of felt like the tables were turned in this conversation—usually it was Mom preaching the sentiment at me. She made ahumphnoise of obvious disagreement, but then again, her mind rarely reached into the realm of consequences and deadlines.A free spirit, she’d say,doesn’t limit themselves to time constraints.A true creative cannot work when they’re feeling rushed.

“Maisie, you’re number one in your class. Valedictorian. It promises you a scholarship.”

So I’d thought, once upon a time. Only I’d since realized that nothing in life was guaranteed, not when it came to Brentwood High and college funds. “Colleges like Stanford and Harvard cost more than some expensive, barely accredited coastal art school.”

Now,thatgot her attention, because the blasphemy of my sentence could not be condoned. Mom would’ve been able to swallow me screaming the F-word better than that sentence. These were fighting words in the Matthews household. To the Matthews, thatbarely accredited coastal art schoolwas basically the holy land.

“Do not compare your sister to you,” Mom told me, and in an instant, her authoritative voice blew mine out of the water. I had nothing on the frightening way she controlled her tone, nor the completely flat expression she had when she wielded it. “And do not go off comparing colleges. I didn’t raise you to be condescending.”

“Are they even teaching her the basic courses at that place? Knowing art theory iscool, but so is learning basic courses for a degree.”

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