Page 45 of Teaching the Teacher's Pet

“There was a spot right in front of the building. It wasn’t handicapped.”

Why did he have to be so attentive? “I don’t want to park there.”

He tilted his head. “Do you not know how to parallel park?”

“Of course I know how to parallel park.” I made a right back onto Gunther Avenue, muttering a curse when I spotted the same empty space. “The perfect parallel parking job can be found using the Pythagorean Theorem. A squared plus B squared equals C squared. Mathematically, it’s easy.” The execution, though…that sucked.

When his silence stretched long enough, I glanced over at Connor, finding him rubbing his palm across his mouth. He might’ve hidden a grin, but it lit up his eyes, the amusement like a ray of sunshine. “You have a math-related answer for everything, don’t you?”

“Not foreverything. Probably about seventy-five percent of the time, though, yeah.”

“That was technically a math-related answer.” As we approached the art gallery once more, Connor popped his seatbelt undone in a swift movement. “Stop the car.”

“What?” I looked over to find his fingers curling around the door handle, tugging against the lock. “Hey, wait!”

I stomped on the brakes as he unlatched the door, grateful there weren’t any cars behind me. Before he shut the door, he waved a hand at me. “Get out and I’ll park.”

The sheer ludicrousness of his demand and the fact that we were parked in the middle of the road had me fumbling to unbuckle my belt. “You’d win the award for world’s most annoying person,” I muttered, begrudgingly opening the door. “Seriously.”

Connor was unfazed. I was sure he’d been called worse. “I’ll A square plus B square equals C square this parking space.”

“Don’t hit another car,” I warned him as he rounded the coupe, appraising the front end as he did so. I stepped onto the sidewalk. “I’ll make you pay for my hiked insurance.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

Connor looked squished behind the steering wheel, and though his legs must’ve been cramped underneath the dash, he didn’t edge the seat backward. Instead, he put the car into drive and aligned perfectly with the car in front of the parking space. He twisted the wheel sharply, expertly easing the coupe into the empty space before straightening out.

The whole process probably took five seconds.

Show off.

Once he climbed out, Connor leaned the front seat over to reach into the back, grabbing his backpack and my satchel, the neon orange fabric a shock of color in his grip. Instead of offering it out to me, he fit the strap over his shoulder. “Well, Ms. Matthews, shall we?”

Center Inspire had the industrial vibe going on without feeling empty, with exposed ductwork and studs. To me, it always smelled like wet paint and Caribbean Waters air freshener. The displays and exhibits were constantly rearranged, which meant new coats of paint would be layered over the drywall for a new feel. The last exhibit Mom prepared for was jungle-themed, and they’d painted the walls a tan color. Before that, the postmodernism exhibit had called for the walls to be a sky blue.

I understood none of it, but apparently picking out the correct color scheme was almost as important as the art itself.

We checked in at the front with the bright-faced girl who gave us pamphlets with artist information on them.

“What made you think of this place?” Connor asked, glancing up at the ductwork.

“My mom works here. She’s a curator.” Among other things. Her job description was like a laundry list of art-related tasks.

Connor’s lips twitched. I knew what he must’ve been thinking—she has to be adopted.

I led Connor through the maze of artwork without glancing at one piece, but his head kept going back and forth periodically, eyes tracing every canvas he had time to admire. I studied the line of his jaw when he wasn’t looking, examined the interested way his attention was drawn to nearly every hanging piece of art. Connor liking art wasn’t out of the realm of possibility, but it struck me then that I didn’t really know much about him. Was there more to his life than football?

You know there is, the angel on my shoulder whispered, trying to remind me to cut my cynical ways. Maybe later.

There were two tables available to guests in the back area of the gallery, set up between a huge sculpture of a mermaid going fishing and a sculpture of a mother and her ducklings, except the ducklings had human feet. I never understood the two—especially the feet—but they were two of Mom’s favorite sculptures. “We can sit in here.”

I watched as Connor took care to unpack the Algebra II notebook filled with notes and math equations we’d worked on last week. In this setting, with how focused on the task he became, it was easy to be swayed by how different he seemed.

“So what’s your grand fix-all, oh dearest tutor? You said you had an idea for helping me.”

I angled the Algebra II book toward Connor. “I want you to copy this entire page.”

“Copy?” he echoed, disbelieving stare going from me to the page in front of him several times. “Like, write everything on this page down?”

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