Page 7 of Tutored in Love
Which is why in this, my theoretically last semester of college, my schedule includes only one class required for graduation: quantitative reasoning.
If I pass, I graduate and claim the perfect job waiting for me, moving into the realm of true adulting.
If I don’t pass? No job, no money, no life.
No pressure.
Mom told me repeatedly that I shouldn’t wait to take this class—mostly, I think, so that I’d be able to repeat it if I failed. She has such faith in my skills. But I ignored her, and now my entire future rests on my ability to pass the one class for which my failure is predestined.
Mom says she’ll pay for a tutor.
I will not ignore her.
Like a dutiful friend and daughter, I called Lupe Navarro as soon as I finished classes yesterday. We connected immediately—she’s from Peru, though not the area where I worked—and spent half the conversation in Spanish. Fortunately, she had one opening left.
I’ve been struggling all morning to repress the memory of yesterday’s math lecture, which rendered me sweatier and more disoriented than the marathon I ran last year. That bucket-list item is definitely something I don’t want to do twice. Kind of like quantitative reasoning.
“Nice swing,” my golf instructor says as he walks by, watching my drive fly. His name is Ethan, and he’s kind of cute with his lankiness and sandy-blond hair and clipboard and official-looking fancy-casual golf attire. He’s completely professional, but there’s something in his tone that draws my eyes back to him a little more than necessary. It’s enough to keep me from thinking about what’s next on my schedule, but it also makes the class fly by.
The sun is shining in a clear-blue, deceptively happy sky, and before I know it I’m on my way up Campus Hill to the doom I can no longer delay. I journey alone to the gates of perdition itself: math lab. Here I will be required to actuallydomath—as opposed to sitting in the lecture hall among the other math losers and striving for anonymity in my confusion as I aspire to nod at the appropriate times. Hopefully, having Lupe as my tutor will make it all better.
Through the outer doors of the math building and past the auditorium, I mosey, casually noting room numbers as I pass and pretending confidence. I turn a corner and see a wall of glass stretching before me—windows into a world I’ve avoided like the plague. Inside, sparsely occupied chairs surround a multitude of round tables, several rows of computer desks stretch along the back of the room, and whiteboards cover the walls. I take the plunge and open the door with a shaky hand.
A pungent ambiance of anxiety and superior intellect assails me as I walk in, but I cover my butterflies with a smile and pretend I’m comfortable here. I’ll assess my environment like I would if I were stranded in a desert and left for dead.
I’d have a better chance of survival there.
Most of the people in the room bend over their homework or stare at computer screens. A couple of workers in light-green vests and name tags meander amid the low hum of conversation, watching for hands and swooping in to help the poor souls who raise them. The only anomaly is a stocky guy wearing glasses in the corner, leaning back in his chair and scrolling on his phone.
An unoccupied vested woman takes pity on me as I stand stupidly near the door. “Can I help you?” she asks.
“Hi, um, Ashley,” I say after a glance at the name tag pinned to her vest. “I’m looking for Lupe Navarro.”
Ashley looks at me like I’m crazy. Maybe I’m in the wrong room.
“She’s a math tutor.” I lower my voice. “I’m supposed to meet her here.”
“Oh, um...” She glances around the room. “I’m sorry, but I don’t think there’s anyone by that name working today.”
My jitters have expanded into sweaty palms, and my heartbeat is surely audible. I scan the room again, hoping for a comforting Lupe to pop up from behind a computer and wash away my anxiety, but the only face looking my way bears the curious gaze of Glasses Guy in the corner. As a cover for my discomfort, I touch up my smile and turn back to my helper, but not before I notice how the guy’s eyes have narrowed at me.
Ashley looks as thoroughly confused as I feel. Maybe, hopefully, it’s her first day on the job and she has no idea what she’s talking about.
“You must have some record of her,” I say, barely keeping the tremor out of my voice. “She helped my roommate with stats last year. Do you have a list or something you can check?”
Understanding lights Ashley’s face. “I’ll bet she’s one of the private tutors. Did you try texting her?”
Duh.“Thanks,” I say, pulling out my phone as I berate myself for being an idiot. “I wasn’t thinking. She’s probably just running late.” I thumb in a quick text and send it as I talk.
Ashley smiles and stays at my side, complimenting my phone case and making me wonder if she’s done some sensitivity training to help her empathize with the mathematically challenged.
A deep voice sounds behind me. “Did you say Lupe Navarro?”
I’m staring at my phone, willing it to displayDeliveredand the three dots that will let me know the tutor who’s supposed to salvage my graduation is responding, but the progress bar is stuck.
Ashley answers him for me. “Yeah, do you know her?”
“I do,” the man at my back says.