Extra Credit

by Sarina Bowen

  He tells me the exact type, but all I catch is “multi-variable.”

  “I see.”

  Pepe shrugs. “I take all math and science last year, plus beginning Italian and French lit. First year in a new country. Seemed like English could wait. But now I’ll have English every term until I die.” He grins. “Please don’t quit your job, chaton.”

  Chaton. The second syllable drops from his throat sounding low and purely French. It’s his nickname for me, and it means “kitten.” I’ve never asked why he calls me this, because I don’t want to hear him say that he uses it for all his female friends.

  My raging crush knows no bounds.

  I go back to editing his essay, feeling sheepish. Pepe is a hockey jock and math genius. And—me being me—that knowledge makes both my shame at dismissing him and my lust burn brighter.

  He sits back in his chair and folds those muscular arms across his rippling abs. I can see them in my peripheral vision whether I want to or not.

  “It’s not that bad,” I say quickly. “And the professor didn’t give you much to work with. Let’s just review all the forms of the present tense in English. And I think gerunds are tripping you up.”

  “Thank you, chaton,” he says ruefully. “It will be a long semester. I hate writing. Even in French.”

  “Really? I love it, because writing gives me the chance to say exactly what I mean. It’s easier than talking, because I can edit out the stupid shit. It’s so much less embarrassing.”

  I know I’ve said too much because his bushy eyebrows lift in surprise. “Talking is embarrassing?”

  “It can be.” Like right now.

  He shrugs. “Talking I can handle. Writing makes me sweat.”

  I try not to think about Pepe sweating, because the image is entirely too appealing. “What comments did the professor make on the last one you turned in?”

  Pepe chuckles. “He said I need to broaden my vocabulary. That I use the same words too often.”

  “Yeah? That’s an easy fix. Here.” I root around inside my book bag for a moment until I find my old, battered paperback Roget’s Thesaurus. “Here,” I thrust it at him. “Use this.”

  For a moment he just stares at the cover. “It’s yours.”

  “Sure. But you can have custody for the semester.” It’s a strange offer. My father gave me that thesaurus in ninth grade, the year before he died. It’s not something I should give away. But Pepe and I are becoming friends. At least I think we are. I can loan him a book in his hour of need.

  And Pepe looks touched. He opens the front cover, where he’ll spot my father’s name printed in faded pencil. Joseph Allister, Iowa State U.

  “Use that if you’re feeling stuck,” I add, “Look up a word. Find a fun way to say whatever you need to say. Even one good one can change the whole piece.”

  “Thank you, chaton,” he says with a big smile. “You make essay writing better.”

  The praise shouldn’t light me up as much as it does. Did I mention I’m somewhat pathetic?

  Three weeks later, I’m sitting in the student center with Nadia. This is our idea of a big night out—studying in a public place. Tonight we got here a little too late to grab the prime real estate. We managed to snag two armchairs, yet no coffee table. So we’ve turned our chairs to face one another and propped our stocking feet up on each other’s seat cushions.

  It works.

  Shakespeare’s Twelfth Night is open on my lap, but I’m skimming YipStack. My latest post is: The real “walk of shame” is cutting in the snack bar line at the Student Center.

  Funny ‘cause it’s true. I have 76 likes and 12 comments already.

  As I skim all the other action, something catches my eye. Men’s Hockey Wins Exhibition Game At Northern Mass. Let’s do it again for points, boys!

  I sit up a little straighter in my chair. It’s just dawning on me that I could watch Pepe play hockey. I’ve never been interested in sportsball. But attending a hockey game sounds like a fun new way to drool over Pepe without him noticing.

  Even though we’ve seen more of each other lately, I still turn into a babbling maniac whenever he sits down across from me in the tutoring center.

  How does a girl find the hockey team schedule, anyway?

  I’m poking at my phone, trying to answer this question when Nadia nudges my thigh with her toe. It’s subtle. Like she’s trying to tell me something.

  I raise my eyes just as a group of guys wearing Harkness Hockey jackets approaches us, heading for the sandwich counter. Nadia knows something of my crush, but she’s never met Pepe.

  But there he is walking towards us, as if I’ve conjured him. He’s laughing with his friends, though, and doesn’t see me. My gaze locks on him like a laser, because I’ve never been cool.

  “Nice,” Nadia whispers. “Wow. He’s the one with the super dark hair, right?”

  “Shh,” I hiss, nudging her leg with my foot.

  But something about our exchange catches Pepe’s eye. I watch with growing alarm as his gaze lands on me.

  And then he smiles.

  “Oh, my,” Nadia whispers. “Now there is a hunk of man.”

  I can’t even shush her because I’m frozen like Bambi in front of a speeding eighteen wheeler. Pepe slaps one of his friends on the back and points at me.

  “There she ees!” he yells. “Smartest tutor at Harkness!” He sort of gallops in my direction. I don’t even have time to brace myself before he leans over my chair, scoops me up into his giant arms and sort of whirls me around in a circle two times.

  Holy god. It’s a Pepe hurricane. I claw at his arm in fear, but he just laughs.

  A moment later I’ve been set back onto my feet. But I’m blinking up at him, my glasses askew, and taking in the sight of three highly amused hockey players behind him.

  Also, I’m flushed from head to toe from that incidental hug. Any bodily contact with this boy makes my heart race. If he actually kissed me I might just pass right out. “Hi,” I manage to squeak.

  “Dude,” one of the hockey players says from behind Pepe. “This is your tutor?”

  If possible, my blush deepens.

  “She must be a saint to put up with your ass.”

  “Oui,” Pepe says with a broad smile. “Very patient. Jhosephine is the reason I have a B in the writing seminar, not an F.”

  “Buy that girl a beer,” says another player.

  “At least,” says another. “Pepe—are we gettin’ in line, or what?”

  “Goh,” he says, waving them off. His accent is strong even on the one-syllable word. “I’ll be right there.”

  His friends give me a wave and move toward the snack line, but Pepe is still standing here in front of me, blowing up my brain. “This is my friend Nadia,” I remember to say, but only because she’s standing beside me now, smiling like a lunatic.

  “Bonsoir, Nadia!” he says. “I have a favor to ask, chaton.”

  “Whatever it is, I’m sure it will be nooooo problem!” Nadia chirps.

  I’m going to have to kill her. It’s a shame because she was a pretty good roommate. Never leaves her dirty laundry on the floor.

  “Can I give you my essay right now? We are looking at tape tomorrow and I don’t theenk I can get to you until right before your shift ends.”

  “Sure thing,” I say, not looking at my roommate. The wattage of her smile is giving me a sunburn.

  “So lucky I ran into you,” Pepe says, digging into his backpack. He roots around, finally emerging with two sheets of paper. “Thank you for this. And maybe I can buy both of you ladies a beer this weekend. Our goalie is having a party after the game against Princeton.” He grins. “You know where the hockey house is? Off campus?”

  “We can find it,” Nadia chirps.

  “Awesome.” He nudges my elbow. “Do I sound like an American if I say awesome?”

  “Totes,” I say in a more or less reasonable voice. But my brain is shorting out as I try to imagine myself at an off-
campus hockey party.

  “See you soon, chaton! I’ll text you the address.”

  And then I’m watching his muscular glutes power away from us, wondering what just hit me.

  “Sit,” Nadia hisses, nudging me toward the chair.

  I land on top of my Shakespeare book and have to stand up again to grab it from under my butt.

  “A party!” she squeaks. “This is going to be epic. That’s the night Pepe will help you out with your little problem.”

  “Nadia!” My stomach is suddenly full of buzzing bees. “Please don’t refer to my virginity as a problem.”

  Her eyes widen. “But that’s exactly how you referred to it yourself last night.”

  “Oh. Right.” Whoops. But in my defense, I hadn’t meant my virginity in and of itself. I’d meant my inability to speak in sentences to any man I was attracted to.

  “I have a good feeling about this.” She lets out a happy sigh. “He’s so nice. Like a big man-puppy.”

  Before I met Pepe, I wouldn’t have thought that could be a compliment. But I know what she means. He has a kind of happy enthusiasm that’s sexy without ever being scary.

  Unless you’re me, and everything is scary.

  “We are going to that party,” Nadia says, picking up her Spanish book again. “And I’m going to do your makeup.”

  I can’t even think about the party. Lots of people in a loud room? That’s just not my event.

  But, hell. I want it to be.

  Could it be?

  The whole idea makes me break out in goosebumps, and I can’t tell if they’re from fear or excitement. Probably both.

  I pick up Pepe’s new essay. I get out my red pen—a new one, because I used one up already, probably on Pepe’s work.

  This week’s Sophomore Essay topic is “When I Get Home.”

  And when I read the first sentence, all the tingling, zinging hope inside me dies.

  Chapter 3

  November

  I’m racing across campus in the rain, almost late for my six-thirty dinner date. Okay, it’s not a dinner date. I’ll be on the clock for the Student Help Center.

  But I really don’t want to be late to meet Pepe.

  Naturally, I failed to bring an umbrella when I left my dorm room this afternoon, and I’m regretting the oversight. I’m sporting a style we’ll call the Wet Dog as I dash through the gates to Turner House. “Thank you,” I call to the student who’s let me in. Then I get another dousing of rain as I cross the courtyard toward the dining hall entrance.

  Once inside, the race is over. But my hair is dripping on the old oak floorboards. I should try to find the ladies’ room and blot the rain water from my hair…

  “Oh, noh!” Pepe’s deep voice exclaims behind me. I turn around, and he grabs my bag off my shoulder, giving it a little shake. “Take off your coat, chaton. You’re soaked.”

  Face burning, I do as I’m told. He ducks into a shadowy alcove and I see him hang my dripping jacket on a hook.

  “Bon,” he says when he returns. “Shall we?” He’s still carrying my bag as well as his. They both look small on his big frame. Also notable—my bag is pink with black polka dots. It’s totally girly. And Pepe carries it without objection.

  He is the perfect man. And he belongs to someone else. I’ve been a little depressed since reading his “When I Get Home” essay. She was right there in the first line. Marie. His girlfriend goes to school near their hometown in Canada. Pepe misses her.

  He was quite eloquent at describing how much. It was his best writing yet. I hated every word.

  Coincidentally, I didn’t force myself to go to that off-campus party he invited us to. Why risk humiliation to impress a guy who’s already taken?

  I follow him through the common room, towards the hubbub of dinner hour. We still have our tutoring sessions, at least. And the crazy thing is that I’m better at it now. Since I know I don’t have a chance with Pepe, my tongue doesn’t get so tied anymore. I can string sentences together reliably. It’s much better.

  But it’s also worse.

  The dining hall is busy, as always. But I love this room. Turner House is built in the Georgian style, with intricate white plasterwork and chandeliers hanging from the high ceilings. The tables are long, gleaming oak with tall, carved chairs pulled up to them. We join a short line of students waiting to enter the serving kitchen and I grab a tray off the stand, taking a moment to flick locks of wet hair off my shoulders.

  “Thank you for meeting me here, chaton.” Pepe smiles at me. And the way he cups my elbow for a quick squeeze makes me feel a little light-headed.

  It still takes me a few minutes to settle down in his presence. I’ve still got it bad. “No big deal,” I stammer. Last month he let it slip that he was sometimes forced to choose between tutoring and dinner. So now I often meet him at whichever dining hall is scheduled to be open late.

  True to form, this room is full of hockey, soccer and football jackets, because the jocks all have lengthy practice sessions six nights a week. It sounds grueling as hell.

  “How’s your week been?” I ask as the line inches forward.

  “Not the best.” His face sort of shuts down then, in a very un-Pepe-like way. I’m trying to decide whether or not to ask why when the guy behind the counter says, “next.”

  Pepe steps aside to let me order first, and my cheeks heat for no reason at all except that I’m charmed by his old-fashioned manners. A quick glance at the offerings informs me that it’s Chinese night. “I’ll have, um, the chicken and broccoli, thanks. That’s all.”

  After my plate is passed over the counter, Pepe gives the server a grin. “Hit me hard,” is all he says.

  “No problem, man.” The guy in the paper hat begins piling food onto a plate. A layer of rice, followed by a mountain of chicken. Two egg rolls are wedged precariously onto the rim. “That’s all I can fit,” he says, passing the plate into Pepe’s waiting hands.

  “Bien. You are the best.”

  At the beverage counter Pepe fills four glasses with milk while I fill one with diet soda. I wait for him, because I don’t know where he wants to sit. Another guy in a hockey jacket walks up and claps Pepe on the shoulder. “I heard the news, man. So sorry.”

  “Noh, it is fine,” Pepe mutters. He picks up his tray and lifts his sculpted chin, indicating that I should follow.

  We cross the dining hall to find an empty little table tucked into a corner. We always dig in first and tutor last, so I take a couple of bites and watch Pepe. There are circles under his eyes. “You look tired,” I say before I think better of it. His smile is flat tonight. That never happens.

  “Eh.” He shrugs off the comment. “Listen, Jhosephine. I don’t know about this new essay. I wrote it late last night, and now I want to tear it up.”

  “It can’t be that bad,” I say quietly. “You’ve been doing great.” In truth he still makes a lot of the same mistakes in his writing. But he works so damn hard that I have nothing but empathy.

  And then there’s my crush on him, size XXL.

  Now he reaches into his book bag and pulls out his folder. When he hands it over, though, he looks nervous. Then he grabs his fork and shoves another bite of chicken into his mouth.

  Something makes me hesitate. “Pepe,” I ask quietly. “Are you sure you want me to read this?”

  He sighs. “I was very upset when I wrote it. I can’t decide.”

  “Do you want to think about it?” Essays can be so personal. I know a lot about him from reading everything he writes for this course. Last month I read about the recent death of his Italian grandfather. Pepe had learned of his passing while riding the bus home from a hockey game in Boston. He’d cried all the way back to Harkness, apparently.

  The theme of that essay was unexpected behaviors. Pepe hadn’t expected his hockey teammates to understand his sadness. But apparently the entire bus had become misty eyed. Coach had asked the bus driver to pull off the highway at a Friendly’s so he coul
d buy them all ice cream to cheer them up again.

  “Listen,” I tell him. “Just because your professor encourages you to write personal things in these essays, it doesn’t mean you have to do it.”

  “Noh. I don’t care if the professor reads. It is not so great, though, to have my pretty tutor hear all the dumb shit in my life.” He gives me a sad smile.

  The compliment catches me off guard. Our gazes lock, and his expression is both vulnerable and still unreadable. “If it helps, there’s plenty of dumb shit in my life, too.”

  He smiles, but it’s a little sad. Then he points at the folder. “Just read. It is okay. I need the help. This one is very rough, I think.”

  “What was the prompt?” I ask, opening the cover.

  His chuckle is dry. “Something that angers us.”

  I read.

  Liars are the thing that angers me. Some lie for politics. Some lie while selling soap on the television. Those are impersonal lies, at least. But sometimes it is much worse. A woman can say she loves you and then take your best friend to bed while you are here at school, working for a better life, trying to keep all your promises.

  My eyes fly to his, and he winces. “I should not write essays on the day I break up with Marie.”

  “I’m sorry,” I say quickly. “Maybe you’ll get back together, though.”

  Slowly, he gives his head a shake. “I am finished trying to make her happy. It cannot be done. Each time she feels like hooking up, she dumps me. That’s the pattern. Only this time she skipped that step.” He heaves a sigh. “For a year I try to make long distance work for us. She breaks up four times, but then begs to have me back.” He rolls his eyes, and I smile because it’s so cute to see a big man do that. “Yesterday my buddy texts me a picture of her making out with my old roommate from Montreal…”

  The noise I make isn’t very glamorous, but it’s heartfelt.

  “Oui. So that is it for her. I cannot make her wait for me. She has to want to.”

  I have no idea what to say. Who would cheat on this sweet man? He’s both attractive and genuinely nice. “That sucks,” I whisper. “I’m sorry.”