I wait at my laptop, clicking around and stupidly trying to figure out how to say "I think you're pretty" in Klingon. I think it might be a futile effort, though. Do Klingons compliment people that way? Do they even have a word for pretty?

So many pointless thoughts. I'm too wired to sleep because I really want to know what she thinks of the song I just dedicated to her. It says so much about how I feel. Is she going to respond with another smiley face? I'll be crushed if she does.

Ding. New email message!

With eager fingers I open it, hungry eyes devouring.

I lvd it. Tnak yo.

Is that it? I rub my eyes and read it again. Tnak yo? Thank you?

I frown. No wonder she was so hesitant to give out her email address. Are these typos? Is she just a bad typist?

I scratch my head in thought. Maybe she was in a rush. But wouldn't she correct the typos after proofreading? Okay, maybe not everyone manically proofreads their emails like I do, but still. It's just five words. This is pretty bad.

I'm making too big a deal of this. This is what I do. I obsess over dumb little things until they are no longer little things in my mind. I need to stop.

I close the email and shut off my laptop.

Everything is fine. She said she loved it and thanked me for it. Sort of.

Tnak yo.

Why can't I let this go? Am I that desperate for compliments that I was hoping for an email full of gushing about how great my dedication was? Could that be what I'm disappointed with? That I got five misspelled words instead of an eloquent love letter?

Get a grip, Seth. She's not an overeager super-nerd like you.

I push away from my desk and try to shake off the weird feelings.

I need to get some sleep. My brain is probably being reactive or overtired or something. Yeah. Sleep is a good idea.

In the morning, I avoid looking at Jordi's email again. I don't want to set off another chain of crazy thoughts about what it all means. She said she loved it, and that's good enough for me.

I get to the tutoring center where I have an early appointment. It's a boy named Tim, and it's his first time there. He's struggling in his English Lit class, and he wants help figuring out his essay.

He pulls out his orange notebook, which I notice has numerous pages unevenly ripped out, like maybe out of frustration. He turns to a page covered in handwriting as well as several scratched-out words and sentences.

"I don't know if this makes any sense," he says, sliding his notebook over to me. "I mean, I understand the assignment, and I know what I want to say, but I don't if I'm actually saying it."

"All right, let's see what we've got." I start reading the page. I get about partway through the first paragraph and start again. There are so many spelling errors it's distracting.

"It's a mess, isn't it?" Tim exhales and props his chin forlornly onto one hand. "Mrs. Martinez says I just need to slow down, and maybe make a diagram first of what I want to say."

I pause in my reading. "Mrs. Martinez?" The name sounds familiar.

"Yeah, I'm in special ed. Go ahead and laugh. Everyone else does."

I frown at him, displeased by the idea of anyone laughing at someone who is struggling. "Who laughs at you?"

His gloomy face clears a little as he lifts his head off his hand. "Well, uh, no one specifically."

"Special education is for those who learn differently from everyone else. It's nothing to be ashamed of."

"Tell that to my dad," he moans.

I examine the page again, this time with the knowledge that I might be working with someone dyslexic or maybe with some kind of cognitive impairment, and that's when it hits me.

Jordi's brief email looks a lot like this. I mean, it's not a lot to go on, but... could it be that—

"It's bad, isn't it?" Tim laments, peering morosely at his paper.

"A little, but it's salvageable! Here's what we need to do." I proceed to offer suggestions on restructuring his paper, along with some diagramming ideas to go along with his teacher's recommendation.

Tim leaves after our session, hopefully feeling better about himself.

An idea strikes me.

"Hey Bridget, I'm taking my break early!" I call over my shoulder as I push open the door.

I don't hear her reply because I'm already speeding to the main office. After finding out which classroom Mrs. Martinez is in, I bolt over there. The current period just ended, and I want to catch her before the next one starts.

My sneakers screech as I halt in front of the correct classroom. "Hi!" I say in between gulps of air. I hold up a finger before bracing my hands on my knees to finish catching my breath.

The woman is short and brown-skinned with wavy black hair pulled back into a loose ponytail. Her dark eyes hold a note of concern as she surveys me. "Are you all right?"

"Yeah. Sorry." I straighten. "Needless to say P.E. is not my favorite subject."

She stares at me, concern fading into confusion over why some random student is wheezing in front of her.

I clear my throat. "What do you make of this?" I pull out my phone and show her Jordi's typo-ridden email message.

She examines it. The confusion on her face has not dissipated when she focuses back on me. "I'm sorry, but I'm going to need a bit of context. What is this?"

"It's an email that a friend sent me." A twinge of guilt lances through me, like I'm betraying her somehow. I swallow it down. I'm trying to help her. "We've never emailed before, so I was surprised. She seems smart and, well, normal. But I've never seen her write anything, so... I don't know."

She purses her lips and narrows her eyes at the message. "Well, this is very little to go on, but..." She taps her chin thoughtfully. "These are the kinds of mistakes a dyslexic could make. A severe case, if I were to guess." She gives me an earnest look. "Or this could just be lazy typing. I can't say for sure. This sample is much too small. It could mean anything."

I'm so stuck on the possible dyslexia diagnosis that I barely acknowledge the other thing she said. "Dyslexic? But... she seems so normal. She cracks jokes and everything."

When I hear what comes out of my mouth, I want to punch myself in the face. Didn't I just tell Tim that it just means he learns differently? My own bias disturbs me.

"Dyslexia does not mean the person is slow." Her voice takes on the even, commanding tone of a teacher teaching. "It simply means their brains contain a language processing disorder. In your friend's case, perhaps of a visual nature. They may speak eloquently, but their ability to recognize letters is somehow impaired."

I nod mutely.

"Remember, this is not a diagnosis, only a suspicion. We can't know for sure until your friend is tested. Is this person a student here?"

I shake myself out of my thoughts. "Yes. Should I have her talk to you?"

"I would be happy to test her."

"Thanks!" I spin around to leave, only to be stopped by her hand on my shoulder.

"I must warn you, your friend may be resistant to the idea. People never want to admit to having a learning disability, especially to their friends."

This makes no sense to me. If I had a learning disability, I'd want to know about it immediately. I nod at the teacher even though I don't quite agree. "Okay, thanks Mrs. Martinez!"

Dyslexia. I never thought much about it. Could someone as talented as Jordi have a learning disability? According to Mrs. Martinez, yes. Anyone can.

If this is the case, it's a huge discovery.

I can't wait to tell Jordi.

I bet Jordi will be so thrilled to hear this, she's going to immediately vote for Seth's chapter. XD