Resentment Page 2

  “No, this does not.” I slide it back.

  “Wait, what’s the problem here?” He shakes his head. “I said I’d pay you for three hours. You just got paid for one—for not doing a goddamn thing by the way—and once again, as you can see, I’m always looking out for you. But you’re mad because we’re only going to have two hours to spend together?”

  “Oh my fucking God!” I can’t hold it in. “That’s not the point, Dean!” I’m seconds away from really going off, but a varsity cheerleader steps right between us.

  “Hey, Dean.” She smiles, batting her long eyelashes at him. Then she looks over at me. “Mia,” she says, looking unimpressed.

  “I’m leaving.” I step away and head for the door.

  “Wait, Mia. Don’t leave.” Dean rushes in front of me and blocks my exit. “I promise to do better next time.”

  “There won’t be a next time.”

  “Okay, well just give me today. If you honestly can’t deal with me after today, then we won’t have to do this anymore.”

  “See, that’s the thing, I don’t want do this at all. Especially not today.”

  “Please, Mia?” He smiles hard at me, trying his best to coax me into staying.

  “Ugh. Please don’t smile at me like that.” I roll my eyes, giving in. “We can sit over there in the back, by the computer lab.”

  “Good,” he says, walking by my side as we make our way to the secluded section.

  I take out my notes on our current assignment, Beowulf, and slide them across the table to Dean. “We have to write a three-page analysis of this. Did you start yet?”

  “No.” He smiles. “Why would I have started that?”

  “Because you want an A. Because you’re paying me to tutor you so you can get an A. Did we not go over this a few minutes ago?”

  “Mia,” he says, his dimples on full display. “I haven’t done it because it’s not due for another six weeks. Not everyone works on assignments months before they’re due.”

  “And not everyone has a 4.0 GPA either. I wonder what that correlation is.”

  “Not having a life? Being boring as hell all the time maybe?”

  “I do have a life.”

  “I’m sure you do.” He smirks. “How about we start on the assignment that’s due tomorrow?”

  “Tomorrow?”

  “Yes.” He smiles. “I haven’t started that one either.”

  “You are unbelievable.” I shake my head. “Okay, the three-page reflection letter about where you see yourself ten years from now. So...” I grab a notebook and turn to a clean page. “Where do you see yourself ten years from now?”

  He hesitates and the smile slowly disappears from his face. “How about we take a different approach?”

  “I’m listening.”

  “Can you let me see what you wrote first?”

  “No. We’ve been down that road before. You’re not copying what I want to do.”

  “Don’t worry, I don’t want to be a librarian ten years from now. I’m just trying to see how you structured your paper.”

  “For your information—not that it’s any of your business—I don’t want to be a librarian. I want to be an artist.”

  He raises his eyebrow, looking surprised.

  “And also,” I say, sliding him my essay. “From here on out, for every insult you throw my way, I’ll be increasing my hourly fee.”

  “I can afford it.” He laughs, but then he gets serious. “Do you think I should start with personification?”

  “No, I think you should start really simple. Just free write and we can worry about the structure at the end.”

  “Okay, done deal.” He picks up his pen and starts to write.

  To my surprise, he doesn’t say anything else sarcastic for the rest of the session, and before I know it, our two hours have come to an end and we’re packing up our things.

  “I can give you a ride home,” he offers as we walk toward the parking lot.

  “No, thank you. I’ve had more than enough ‘Dean’ for today.”

  “But what if I haven’t had enough Mia?” His eyes meet mine as his lips curve into a smile. “What if I want a little more?”

  “Goodbye, Dean.” I power walk to my stop, thanking the bus gods that I make it two minutes before departure.

  ***

  The next afternoon, a heavy rain is pounding hard against our small city, so I find myself trapped in the school’s cafeteria. The outdoor bench where I usually eat, is blocked off for the day, so I have the “pleasure” of sitting in the massive cafeteria where everyone else is.

  I wish I could say that our high school is nothing like those B-grade teenage movies, and that everyone gets along. But no, Central High School is just as predictable as Dean Collins. In the center of the room are the quintessential popular students; athletes, varsity cheerleaders and beautiful people. In one corner of the room is where the social outcasts all convene, no matter their background: band geeks, academic club members, and foreign exchange students. In the opposite corner of the room are the slackers; the students that miss more days than they attend, and spend most of their time in detention for skipping or sneaking illegal smokes in the bathrooms.

  Unlike most other schools in small towns, though, Central High is like the Taj Mahal of high schools. With our state of the art library that’s four stories high, our Olympic-sized swimming facility that includes a sauna and steam room for our award winning swim team, and our multi-vendor cafeteria that features a knock-off Starbucks and buffet bar, Central High’s offerings are second to none in any of the surrounding counties.

  “So, how was tutoring with Mr. Popular, yesterday?” My best friend, Autumn, takes a seat across from me and passes me a cup of coffee.

  “Now you want to know?” I take a slow sip. “I tried to tell you about it yesterday, but you didn’t pick up the phone.”

  “I have a boyfriend, Mia.”

  “So? What does that mean?”

  “It means that if you call me past a certain hour, then I’m probably on the phone with him.” She smiles.

  I roll my eyes. Autumn hasn’t been the same since she “proudly” lost her virginity eight months ago. Although she’s still the most amazing friend I’ve ever had, and we’re almost polar opposites when it comes to social events, I’m hoping her current obsession with all things sex and romance will soon come to an end.

  “Well, he was actually an hour late,” I say. “But I think he might have a brain somewhere in there. I guess.”

  “What about his cock?”

  “What?” I nearly scream, but then I quickly lower my voice. “Who are you right now, Autumn? Who are you?”

  She laughs and lowers her voice, too. “Tell me, Mia...How big was it?”

  “I don’t know. How exactly would I know something like that? And don’t you have a boyfriend?”

  “I do, but I also have fantasies. You’re telling me that you didn’t look?”

  “No, I didn’t look! I have no reason to.”

  “You have to look, Mia. If not for yourself, do it for me.” She fans herself. “It would be torture for him to be born so hot and not have the matching goods to go with it, wouldn’t it?”

  I shake my head, in utter disbelief at her right now.

  “So, you’ll look next time, right?” she asks.

  “No.” I scoff. “Can we please not talk about Dean’s penis?

  “What about Dean’s penis?” he asks, suddenly stopping right in front of us.

  Words stall at my lips and I can’t get a single one to fall out. I just stare at him, along with Autumn.

  No guy should be allowed to be that attractive...It’s just not fair...

  “Nothing.” I get it together within seconds. “No one is talking about your ‘penis’.” I insist. “Do you really think either of us would say that?”

  “I said Dean’s penis.” Autumn smiles.

  He laughs, winking at me before walking away.

  “Ser
iously, Autumn?” I’m going to kill her.

  “Lighten up.” She nudges my shoulder. “Now seriously though, even though you’re pretty biased, is he really a jerk in private?”

  “You mean, besides the fact that he was an hour late and didn’t see any problem with that?”

  “Yes, besides that.”

  “No, he’s not a jerk. He was actually quite tolerable.”

  “Great.” She takes my coffee and downs the rest of it. “Does your mom know you’re tutoring him yet?”

  “My mom doesn’t know anything anymore. We haven’t spoken since Saturday.” I cringe at the very thought of my mother. I know I’ll have to talk to her eventually, but I swear if there’s ever a casting call for “Real Life Mother from Hell” or “Woman Who Gives the Devil a Run for His Money” I’ll be signing her up for the part.

  I sigh and start to tell Autumn about the latest thing my mother did, but the school’s PA system suddenly comes on.

  “Hear ye, hear ye!” Our DJ, a senior who’s been trying to make his voice sound ten times deeper than it really is, since freshman year, clears his throat over the speakers. “The official start of our football season is this Friday night! Now’s the time to get tickets to attend the bonfire. Also seniors, make sure you submit your nominations for the homecoming court! Voting starts in a few short weeks!”

  Everyone in the cafeteria cheers and the DJ rings three bells to let us know his announcement is over.

  “Are you going to act like an actual senior this year and go?” Autumn crosses her arms.

  “Not at all. I’ll be too busy counting down from two hundred and sixty-eight.”

  “Two hundred and sixty-eight? What’s that?”

  “That’s how many days we have left in our Central High careers.”

  And in my case, the end can’t come soon enough...

  Chapter 2

  MIA

  When I arrive at Dean’s any my spot in the library the following week, I’m surprised that he’s already there waiting for me.

  Impressed, I take a seat. “Is there a catch to today’s session? Is that why you’re here early?”

  “No.” He smiles. “I was actually going to ask you if we could we do an extra hour today? I got an A minus on that last essay.”

  “Is that not good enough for you or something?”

  “It is, but I told you I needed an A, a flat one.”

  “Really though?”

  “Yes, really though.” A brief look of concern comes over his face, but it’s gone within minutes. “I really have to make an A on all of my next papers to make up for the Cs I made on our first few papers.”

  I nod, still feeling completely caught off guard.

  “Where should we start?” he asks.

  “Well,” I say, taking out my folder. “Since you’re not caught up on the reading, we’ll do the work that’s currently due and pick up everything else later. Which piece did you pick for the assignment?”

  “Macbeth.”

  “What? You’re joking, right?”

  “Not at all.” He arches a brow. “What’s wrong with Macbeth?”

  “Nothing, I just...” I pause. “I never would have thought you were the Shakespearean literature type. That’s all.”

  “Well, why is that?”

  “Because Shakespeare had a very strange tendency of killing off all of his cocky characters. That, and Macbeth is one of my favorite plays.” I admit.

  He’s silent for a moment, but then he looks at me. “What’s your favorite novel?”

  “I love way too many to choose just one.” I try to direct the conversation back to Macbeth and our assignment, but he stops me.

  “Tell me,” he says. “What’s your favorite novel?”

  “I’ll have to write you a list. I prefer essays. Such, Such Were the Joys by George Orwell is my top re-read. What’s your favorite novel?”

  “I don’t have one either.” He reaches into his bag and pulls out a book. The Art of the Personal Essay. “I read this a lot, though. For pointers, of course. That Orwell essay is actually in here...”

  “Okay,” I say, stopping myself before I actually continue this line of conversation because there is absolutely no way that we have that in common. “I swear to God, Dean, if this is your attempt to get into my pants—”

  “It isn’t.” He laughs, putting the book away. “Trust me, when I attempt to do that, you won’t have any doubts and you’ll know for sure.”

  I’m not sure what comes over me right then, but I actually laugh out loud.

  He laughs even louder, and then we can’t help but ask each other about our other favorite things, completely ignoring the time. I’m not sure at what point it happens, but we get onto the topic of music and he pulls out his iPod and hands me his earbuds, insisting that he introduce me to some of his favorite bands.

  We share all the same ones except two.

  It’s not until the librarian lets us know that the study room is closing, that I realize we didn’t accomplish anything today.

  “How about we make it up on another day this weekend?” he asks, helping me put my books away.

  “Don’t you have football practice?”

  “I do.” That strange look from our first session crosses his face again. “But I’ll make the time afterwards. Let me give you a ride home.”

  “You really don’t have to keep offering to do that. I’ll be fine.”

  “It’s eight o clock, Mia. There are no buses, and I’m not about to let you walk home or call someone when I’m right here.”

  This time I don’t bother arguing with him. I simply walk by his side as we leave the building.

  When we make it to his car, he completely surprises me by opening the passenger door for me.

  “What?” he asks. “Why are you looking at me like that?”

  “You opened my door.”

  “Yes.” He smirks. “That’s the only way to get inside of the car. Do you know an alternative?”

  I hold back a laugh and get in.

  After shutting my door, he slips behind the wheel and cranks the engine. Then he speeds out of the parking lot, going the wrong way.

  “Do I need to remind you where I live, Dean?”

  “No, but there’s construction that way. That’s why I’m going this way.”

  There’s definitely no construction that way, and there hasn’t been any new construction in our city for years. But when I see him pull onto the main road that leads directly to my neighborhood, I let it go.

  He’s taking the super long way to my house—passing Donnellson’s where the varsity team is currently hanging out with their letterman jackets on full display, the movie theater where me and Autumn worked our very first jobs last summer, and the hidden cover where couples go at the end of their dates to make out.

  When he finally pulls up to my house, I don’t get a chance to unbuckle my seat belt before he gets out the car to open my door. “So, you really are a gentleman, huh?”

  “When it comes to you.” He extends his hand with a grin, making me blush against my will. “See you tomorrow.”

  “See you tomorrow.” I rush inside and shut the door behind me. I place a hand over my heart to see if it really is beating as fast as I think it is, or if it’s a figment of my imagination.

  Shit, it’s real...It’s real...What the hell?

  “Why are you standing there with your hand over your heart like that, Mia?” My mother walks into the foyer. “Have I unknowingly installed an American flag in the hallway? Are you pledging allegiance?”

  My heart rate instantly returns to its normal pace, to the beat of “Fuck my life.”

  “Is that Dean Collins?” she asks, peering through the window. “Did Dean Collins just drop you off at home?”

  “Yes, he did.”

  A smile crosses her lips and she pulls me into a hug. “Good. You’re finally learning how to be social and you’re dating.”

  “We’re not dating. I’m his
tutor.”

  “What could he possibly use tutoring in?” She looks confused. “What teacher at Central would be dumb enough not to pass him? Especially with a third state championship on the line?”

  I bite my tongue before I can say something smart, something really smart.

  Fortunately, she doesn’t notice the look on my face. Instead, she pulls me into a hug that makes me feel hundreds of degrees colder. “Have you heard back from Harvard yet?”

  “No, not yet.”

  “You did apply, didn’t you?”

  “Yes.” My eyes veer toward her framed degree that hangs on the wall. (She has like twenty copies of it hanging all over our house.)

  “Well, if you haven’t heard anything back in four more weeks, let me know and I’ll make the call.” She lets me go. “What about the bonfire and homecoming? Also, prom? I know you’re planning on going to all of those events this year. At least, you better be.”

  “I’m still thinking about it.”

  “Let me know when you look for a dress for homecoming. We’ll make an event—a mother daughter type of thing. It’ll be good for your development.” She smiles as she walks away from me and into the living room. Just like that, I know our numerous arguments for the past month are now forgotten.

  Especially since this is the first time she’s spoken to me in a while.

  All of our arguments end the same way, with her holding a grudge until I do something that makes her smile. While most moms get upset over bad grades, drug experimentation, or serious shit that actually affects a life, my mom gets upset over my inability to like the things that really matter in life. Things like wanting to be homecoming queen, having a great high school social status, and dating.

  Two hundred and fifty-five days...

  Before she can ask me to do anything, I run up the stairs to my room and shut the door. I plop onto my bed and groan as I take in the pale and bleak ugliness that surrounds me.

  If anyone else saw my room right now, they’d think I was trying to imitate a cell in a psych ward. My walls are covered in a near-colorless eggshell color, my bed spread is taupe, and all of the furniture is the color of coffee cream.

  If that’s not horrible enough, the only pictures that hang on the wall are those of gray and brown rocks. Oh, and sand. Lots and lots of sand.