“Working on an outline?” That’s right up my alley. If he’d been doing math, I’d have a good reason to walk away. “What kind of paper is it? Persuasive? Informative?” He doesn’t answer. “Did the professor say if the outline required complete sentences or just subjects?”
He stops writing whatever illegible thing he’s been scratching out in his notebook. “Dallas. I’ve got this. I don’t need your help.”
Stupid stubborn boy.
“Yeah. Riiiight. That’s why you came to the Learning Lab instead of just going to the library. Listen, we’re only open for another”—I checked my watch—“fifty minutes. And both Elizabeths are busy helping other students. You can wait, but there’s no guarantee either will be done in time to help you.”
“Both Elizabeths?”
I point to the other tutor closest to us, a pretty Latina girl with the longest eyelashes I’ve ever seen in my life. “Elizabeth A.” Then I gesture to the petite blonde on the other side of the room. “Elizabeth B.”
“How did you decide which one is A and which one is B? That seems a little unfair.”
I raise an eyebrow and point at the girls again. “Elizabeth Alvarez. Elizabeth Banner.” Then I cross my arms over my chest and give him my best smirk.
The corners of his lips tug up toward a smile for half a second before his mouth goes flat again.
He closes his spiral and his textbook and says, “I’ll just head home.”
“Seriously?”
“I’m pretty tired from practice.” He emphasizes the word, and I know he’s trying to get me to back off.
But . . . well . . . I do stubborn like Lady Gaga does weird, and the fact that he wants me to leave him alone makes me even less inclined to do it.
“Don’t be stupid, Carson.”
His jaw tightens, and he begins stuffing his things back into his bag.
Okay . . . so maybe calling him stupid when he came for tutoring help wasn’t the best word choice, but I’m not exactly known for being sensitive and polite.
“I’m sorry. That came out wrong. Just . . . stay.”
“It’s fine, Dallas. I’ll see you around.”
Then he’s gone.
And I want to punch myself in the jugular.
Chapter 12
Carson
I’m fine with my decision to walk out, right up until the moment I sit down on my couch and attempt to resume working on my outline by myself.
The professor has us doing outlines for an informative paper on a current event of our choice. I picked a random headline off CNN.com, and after I type up all the notes I’d scribbled down by hand, I’m left with a bare-bones outline that I may or may not have done correctly. I still have no idea what to put for all the A and B and C lines, let alone the i’s below those.
And it’s due tomorrow.
That’s a big giant f**k if there ever was one.
I pick up my phone and dial Ryan. He’s taken to showing up during most of my extra workouts, and we talk during those. I’m not sure I would really qualify us as friends yet. But he’s my only choice, really.
It rings and rings, and I’m left with his voice mail.
Damn.
“Hey, man, it’s Carson,” I say into the speaker. “If you get this tonight, give me a call back. Nothing big, I just have a question. If you don’t get it tonight, don’t worry about it.”
I hang up and slump back into my couch, exhausted.
Levi’s pulled off two wins in a row. They haven’t been pretty. Too many errors, but he’s had just enough impressive plays to make my chances of taking his spot even slimmer. And if I’m honest . . . I’m not sure how long I can keep this up.
I’ve almost dozed off when my phone beeps and I jerk upright. My eyelids are heavy as I grope for my phone to read the incoming text.
It’s not from Ryan, but Dallas.
So I’ve been thinking about this whole friendship thing . . .
I blink a few times to make sure I’m really awake.
And?
And I think I can handle it.
If you can.
I can’t tell if her second text is just an additional thought or a challenge. Not that it matters. My response is the same. I didn’t want to embarrass myself in front of her. I’d told her I wasn’t a good student, but giving her a front row seat for it was different. But tonight, I didn’t have much of a choice.
Are friends allowed to help other
stubborn friends with essay outlines?
Sure. I’m working tomorrow morning from
8 to 11 if you want to swing by.
I can’t. It’s due tomorrow, and I
have classes then.
And I’m the idiot who procrastinated. I start typing out a message asking if I can call her when she replies.
What’s your address? I’m already out. I’ll just swing by.
Oh shit. Shit taking a shit on a shit.
I jump off the couch and take a look around my messy living room. There are free weights strewn around the open space on the far side of the room. Sweats and towels and balled-up socks are strewn all over. And yesterday’s dinner still sits on the coffee table in front of me.
I throw the old food out quickly before answering her text. Then I’m in a mad dash to make the place at least somewhat presentable. With sweatpants thrown over my shoulders, my arms full of miscellaneous things, I kick a stray pair of shoes back toward my bedroom and hide it all there. My phone buzzes with another text, but I don’t look at it. There’s too much to do in too little time. I throw the weights in the corner, gathering a few more pieces of dirty laundry to stash in my room. I don’t get time to address the bathroom or the kitchen before a knock sounds at my door.