Izzy

On my first day of tutoring, I felt sick to my stomach. I'm unsure if it was how Mason looked at me when I entered the library—his gaze lazily drifting from my head to my toes—or because I knew I was about to embarrass myself. And I really shouldn't care. Mason and I haven't known each other long at all. I shouldn't worry about how smart or dumb he thinks I am, but my hands and palms are shaky as I reach the table in the back. He's in his usual school uniform—khaki pants and a polo—but his curls look more tamed today than unruly. Like he actually tried to do something with it.

An arrangement of books surrounds the desk and an open seat next to him. Aside from Ms. Kleinfeld, the librarian on the other side of the room organizing a book cart, we're the only people here.

"You're late," he says. "Will this be common?"

I plop into the wooden chair beside him and roll my eyes. "No. I had to call my mom and tell her to pick Everett up since someone sprung this study session on me at the last minute."

Almost as if he feels guilty, he sends me a sympathetic grin. "Right. Sorry. Debate team practice was canceled, so I had some free time. You could have said no."

"And risk you tattling on me? I'm good. Let's just get this over with."

He nudges a textbook in my direction, which is already opened to the page he wants. "We have to write a paper on The Civil War next month, but there's a test on the material we've already studied next week."

"How do you know that?" I ask.

"It was literally on the board yesterday, Izzy. And she told us before the bell rang."

Right. This was before lunch when my world came crashing down around me. Normally, if there were a test I'd find out the day of via Mari, another girl I give money to in order to pass. I'd have the answers written on my hand before class started since she had History in the morning and would have already taken the test by then. I didn't have to worry about studying. I never had to worry about things like this, until today.

"I'm going to have you do the homework assignments we were assigned last week since I'm assuming you didn't do those either, correct?"

I reluctantly nod, but thankfully, he doesn't give me a speech like he did yesterday. Instead, he points to the start of the chapter and instructs me to read it, which is probably the worst thing he could have suggested. I gulp loudly and stare down at the page, and in seconds, I'm brought back to the third grade when I sat in on a conference with my teacher and my parents when she relayed the information that I wasn't reading at the standard I should have been. She suggested I be held back a year. I begged my parents not to do it, but it was in my best interest, they had said. They seemed worried. Disappointed. They thought they failed me, but it had nothing to do with them. I was the stupid one. I'm the one who can't fucking read a paragraph without it taking me a million years.

I'm not going to let Mason know about any of this, so rather than tell him, I nod and attempt to read the chapter, gritting my teeth when I can hardly make it past the first sentence. Words keep jumbling up, and I have to repeat them in my head three times for them to make sense. It takes a good five minutes before I see Mason glance away from his book, realizing that I'm still on the first page, which only has three paragraphs. In seconds, my cheeks grow hot, and I quickly flip to the second page even though I haven't finished the first.

How am I supposed to be tutored? He's never going to be able to do it. I'm a lost cause. Thus the reason I've resulted in paying people to do the work for me. I know for a fact that I'd never be able to do it myself.

I can't do it.

Screeching the chair back to quickly stand up, I stuff the textbook in my backpack, earning another sympathetic stare from Mason. Fuck. Does he know? He's not an idiot. He probably already put it together that I'm stupid and can't do a simple homework assignment.

"I'll do the assignment at home," I tell him. "I won't cheat. I promise. I just...can't do it here."

I'm expecting a fight or a sarcastic, witty remark from him, but all he does is nod and scribble something down on a scrap of paper. "Okay. I'll come up with a quiz that we can practice tomorrow to be sure you read it. Text me your number so I have it. You know, in case I need to reach out to you for the tutoring stuff."

I pull out my phone and shoot off a quick text to him without a word, and slinging my backpack around my shoulder, I head to the bathrooms to change back into my long jean skirt.

***

I'm still angry at the world by the time I get back home, but I'm a little less upset when I smell spaghetti sauce flooding in from the kitchen. That must mean Mom is home early from work. A rare occasion.

"Hey!" She says over a pop song blaring through a speaker. She's wearing an apron and stirring the tomato sauce on the stove with a huge grin. "How was studying?"

Horrible. Terrible. "Great," I lie. "I have no doubt that I'll ace the test next week."

"I have no doubts, either, honey. You're a smart cookie."

My stomach practically bottoms out as the words leave her lips. Little does she know.

A part of me wants to tell her, to tell both of my parents, but I've dragged this lie out for so many years that I know when I finally do come clean, it's going to be utter hell for me. I'll be grounded until I move out of the damn house. At this point, it's easier for me to just play along despite Mason now holding this information of my cheating over my head.

"Your father is coming home in three weeks," she says. "He might be able to make it in time for the basketball game."

My eyes shoot up to hers, a cheesy grin falling on my face. There's no one I love more on this earth than my Dad. I miss him so much when he's gone. It's a gaping hole in my chest that only he can fill. "Seriously? That's great! Maybe we can grab pizza."

She rolls her eyes. "You know with a bat of your eyelashes your father will say yes to anything you want, Izzy."

Connor, my nine-year-old brother, comes into the kitchen with a baseball bat and a ball in hand, a pleading look on his face. I'm a sucker for my brother. He's nothing like Everett. Connor is sweet and funny and the most kind-hearted boy I've ever known. He looks up to me, and with Dad not being here most of the time, he doesn't have anyone else to play with. Mom is always working, and lord knows Everett won't do it, so it always falls on me. I'm grateful for it though. Having this relationship with Connor means the world to me.

"Will you play with me?" He asks.

Letting out a sigh, I lean over to ruffle his brown curly hair and let out a laugh. "Yeah, come on. We have a few minutes before dinner."

***

Connor successfully hit almost every ball I pitched to him. I think he's going to make it far in baseball. My Dad tried getting him into football, but it never stuck. He loves to watch it, but recently, he's been fascinated by baseball, and this summer he's going to join his first summer league.

I'm exhausted after dinner, totally beat, but I know tomorrow I'm going to have to take the pop quiz, and I don't want to look stupid in front of Mason. I don't know why I care about impressing him so much. I shouldn't. But I also don't want him leaking my secret and getting me expelled or something. That's the last thing I need.

My phone dings, a text from Zane.

Zane: Come over? My parents are gone and I can't stop thinking about my head between your thighs.

I inwardly groan, those same thighs clenching together in response to his words. I told Mason I'd study, though, and ruining my image to my parents is a lot more important than an orgasm I could easily get tomorrow night.

Me: Sorry, but I can't. Tomorrow night?

Zane: Since when have you ever denied my head between your thighs, baby?

Ugh, never, because I know just how talented he is at it.

Me: Tomorrow. Promise :) Trust me, I'll make it worth the wait.

I don't get a response back, but that's typical Zane. If our conversation isn't about orgasms, there isn't a conversation at all. We use each other for sexual pleasure, and that's all it ever will be.

Opening the textbook on my bed, I stare at the chapter in front of me for another five minutes before I finally give in and start to read. I don't even make it thirty seconds before my phone chimes again. Mason sent me a video, which is odd since this is the first message he's ever sent me. I reluctantly open it, confused as hell when I hit play and watch him open up the same textbook that's currently sprawled out in front of me. He flips to the same chapter, a highlighter in hand, and my heart picks up speed when he uncaps the highlighter, puts it on the first word, and begins to read, highlighting each word that leaves his lips. I don't fucking cry, ever, but tears are threatening to pour down my cheeks at the kind gesture. He knows. He definitely knows.

And he took time out of his day to record himself reading this entire chapter for me.

My hands are shaky as I snap a photo of my textbook back to him.

Me: I don't know what else to say other than thank you. This might just be the nicest thing anyone has done for me. How did you know?

Mason: No thanks necessary. I tutored students a few years ago before I took up the debate team. I know the signs, and it's okay. Dyslexia is really common, Izzy. You have nothing to be ashamed of.

Me: I don't really want to talk about it. All you should know is that I'm unteachable. You'll quickly figure that out.

Mason: Is that a challenge?

Me: Nope. Just a fact.

Mason: Challenge accepted. Now less talking, more listening. Try not to get worked up at the sound of my voice. I know it's sensual.

I let out a laugh and roll my eyes.

Me: And you say I'm the conceited one???? Don't worry. My panties will stay dry. I can assure you.

Mason: Happy studying, Izzy :)

I place my phone down beside me and hit play again on the video, hating that now I'm trying not to notice just how sensual his voice really is. It's deep and low, and I stiffen when I picture how that voice would sound in my ear.

Oh my god.

I quickly snap out of it. The man is talking about Ulysses S. Grant for crying out loud. There's no way I'm getting turned on by this. I won't let myself.

Mason is my tutor. He is a smarty pants 4.0 GPA student who is part of the debate team and just so happens to be good at basketball. He is nothing special. He is certainly not a boy who will turn me on just from listening to him recite facts about The Civil War.

I won't allow it.