Make Me Believe

by Karen Ferry

  Shaking my head, I answer, “Oh, no, not at all. I wouldn’t do that, I promise.”

  Some time passes in silence, but then he nods, acquiescing. He doesn’t look convinced, though.

  “Well, it doesn’t have to be decided on right now,” I tell him and check the clock on my phone. Our break is almost over, so I hurry to eat the rest and take a few large gulps of my water.

  “Why are you so obsessed with the time?” Daniel asks me as I stand up and clear the table.

  His question makes me pause, considering it.

  “I . . . I don’t know,” I answer hesitantly and look away, taking in the rose bushes blooming not that far away. “I guess I don’t like losing control,” I finally admit to him.

  Standing up to gather the waste, Daniel peruses me for some time. What is he thinking?

  “Control is important to you?” he asks, yet it sounds more like a statement instead of a question.

  “It is to a lot of people,” I reply, and even I can detect the defensive tone of my voice. “Look, enough with the psychoanalysis, Preppy. We should head back.”

  Grabbing the bag, I gather our water bottles and walk briskly away from him.

  “I’m just trying to get to know you, Emma,” Daniel yells from behind me, stopping me in my tracks. “And will you please stop calling me that?” he continues. The irritation in his voice makes me smile a little, and I turn around to watch him draw nearer.

  “Why should I?” I ask him. “It’s fun to rattle you a bit from time to time.”

  Coming to a standstill beside me, he huffs, placing his hands in his pockets again. Squinting his eyes, he gazes intently into my own for a while, and I can feel how I become lost in the depth of them with each second that passes.

  Finally, he relents and asks me quietly, “So what does it take to make you stumble?”

  What an odd thing to ask.

  Taking a deep breath, I take in his boring, black button down shirt he has chosen to wear today, and I frown.

  “Men who don’t know how to dress,” I blurt out.

  Daniel rolls his eyes and then walks away from me, shaking his head. Ooops.

  Chapter 20

  Leaving Emma behind me, I feel slightly affronted, yet amused at the same time. What’s wrong with my clothes? I don’t get it. Still chuckling, I enter the bookshop to find my uncle busy manning the desk. Nodding at him, I walk over to stand beside him and take in the older couple standing in front of me. Listening to them chatter away with the Prof quickly tells me that they come here often.

  “ . . . I can’t tell you how fantastic Emma is,” the woman gushes excitedly to my uncle as he hands her over some change. “That book she found for our son made him so excited!” she continues.

  Hearing the ping coming from the door, I look over and watch as Emma walks inside the shop. When she sees the customers, her eyes light up, making me wonder how well she knows these people.

  “Mr. and Mrs. Sorensen, how lovely to see you,” Emma says and hurries over to them.

  “Oh, Emma,” Mrs. Sorensen says and grabs her hand. “You’re a lifesaver! The book we bought the other day, the one about Greenland?” Nodding, Emma smiles, and Mrs. Sorensen continues, “It was the perfect present. Our son was over the moon about it, dear. Thank you.”

  “I’m so pleased he liked it,” Emma says and turns to Mr. Sorensen when he snorts.

  “You could say that,” he responds. “He hasn’t stopped perusing it, exclaiming about this and that, doing my head in.”

  Despite the harshness of his words, the twinkle in his eyes belies them: it’s evident how pleased he is.

  Emma laughs and says, “Always nice to hear from satisfied customers.”

  Mr. Andersen holds out his hand to Mr. Sorensen and they shake quickly. The formality puzzles me a bit, but I guess that’s just the way of the older generation; politeness is not completely lost even in this day and age.

  Emma moves to pull away from his grasp, but stops when Mr. Sorensen doesn’t release his hold on her hand. Frowning, because I don’t understand why he won’t let go, I walk around the desk to stand beside her. I needn’t have worried, though.

  “Mr. Andersen,” the man turns to my uncle, still holding onto Emma who seems just as confused as me. “If you let this girl return home to England, you’ll be daft. We need to keep her here,” Mr. Sorensen says.

  Chuckling, my uncle says, “I’ll do my best. But you know as well as I do that if Emma decides to leave us, I won’t be able to stop her.” Leaning a hip to the desk, he crosses his arms and looks at an Emma who seems to get more and more uncomfortable about the situation. For some unfathomable reason, this pleases me to no end. Another piece to the puzzle: she doesn’t like to be the cause of too much attention.

  My uncle says, “However, I have a few ideas that might make her stay in the cold north.” Now I’m the one who’s confused, but I don’t get to voice my questions because Emma laughs beside me.

  “Listen, my scholarship doesn’t end until next summer, gentlemen, so don’t talk about me as if I’m about to vanish into thin air, please.”

  Smiling, Mr. Sorensen releases her hand. “Well, that’s good, then. Remind me when we need to have this discussion again, my dear,” he says to her. Before Emma has the chance to agree, he turns to me, the smile fleeing his face immediately. “And who might you be?” he asks me gruffly, his scrutinising gaze causing my breath to still for a moment.

  Where has the jovial old man gone? This one is rather frightening.

  I reach out my hand to him and clear my throat. “Daniel Larsen,” I reply.

  “Hmm?” he says as he takes my hand. Ouch. He’s got some strength in him.

  Nodding, I explain further. “Mr. Andersen is my uncle.”

  “Ah, I see,” he says and releases my hand.

  “Oh, are you working here, too?” his wife asks and comes closer, beaming smile in place.

  “I am, yes. I’ve just moved here,” I tell her, careful to not stumble over my words, wishing with everything that I am that meeting strangers didn’t make me so nervous.

  “Oh, how splendid,” she exclaims, looking from Emma to me. “Emma, how nice for you to be around someone a bit more your own age,” Mrs. Sorensen turns to her. Leaning closer to Emma, she whispers, “He’s quite handsome, isn’t he?”

  Smiling, Emma nods. “Very handsome,” she chuckles.

  “Now, come, come, woman,” Mr. Sorensen butts in. “Enough of that. We need to get home. You’ve got a new book to read.” Nodding at me, he takes his wife’s hand and begins to walk closer to the door.

  “Sorry we can’t stay and chat,” Mrs. Sorensen says as she is being pulled away. Just before her husband opens the door, she pauses to take a final look at us.

  “Such a beautiful couple,” she says, beaming again, and I can feel the flush in my cheeks. Hearing a strangled noise coming from Emma, I look at her beside me. Her befuddled expression causes me to smile widely. This is fun.

  “Bye, Mr. And Mrs. Sorensen,” she manages to get out. “See you soon.”

  We watch the couple walk out the door, and I don’t move for a few beats. Thinking, I finally turn to Emma.

  “What a nice couple,” I say.

  “Hmm, yes, they are,” she replies, looking at the tattoo on her wrist, avoiding my eyes.

  “I hope they come back soon,” I persist, leaning down to catch her eyes, but trying to get her to look at me seems futile.

  “Yes, well, they stop by the shop every week, so I’m sure you’ll see them again,” she answers, then abruptly turns her back to walk to the desk where my uncle is still standing.

  “Mr. Andersen, is it alright if I go in the back room for the rest of my shift?” she asks him. “Some books ordered specifically by customers arrived the other day, and I need to ring them to tell they’re ready to be picked up.”

  “Of course, Emma,” he replies, and she hurries to walk away, still not meeting my gaze burning a hole in her back. />
  I’m interrupted in my musings by my uncle. “Well, Daniel, why don’t you just browse for a bit and become better acquainted with the stock we have?”

  Glad for the opportunity to spend a few quiet moments alone with my thoughts, I nod. “Sure,” I answer and immediately head to the bookshelf containing the classic literature.

  But even though I try to take in what’s there, I can’t help but wonder why Emma just felt the need to flee from me.

  “Such a beautiful couple . . . ”

  The seemingly innocent words replay like a bad record inside my head as I stand in the storage room, sorting the books I need with the lists of customers lying in a tray on one of the shelves.

  I hate the fact that those words have the ability to freak me out like that. I hate that I seem unable to keep from running away from Daniel, putting more than there is into some words spoken by an old woman who, I know, is such a romantic that she probably can’t help herself. I hate that I seem to keep changing my mind about how to handle my attraction towards Daniel.

  One moment, I want to jump his bones, throw caution to the wind and ravish him. And next thing I know, I want to run away, remain in my bubble of safety and never let the attraction amount to anything.

  Rolling my eyes at the way I all of a sudden appear to have become one of those annoying and indecisive heroines that I find so often in the books I read, I sigh and pick up my phone. Taking the first note and making sure that the book the customer ordered has arrived, I dial his number.

  Work is probably the best approach I take right now. This is an easy, but important, task, of course, and immediately calmness fills me up from the inside. Knowing that if I simply concentrate on this for the next hour, I won’t have to delve too much into my reactions -- or actions -- when I am around Daniel relaxes me.

  Denial is a beautiful thing, isn’t it?

  After an hour or so, the door opens and Daniel pokes his head inside the storage room where I’ve been hiding.

  “Are you ready to go?” he asks me, looking rather unsure. The worry in his eyes is plain to see, and when I glance down, his hands are clenched. His body seems wired, strung out somehow. I suppose this tutoring thing isn’t exactly something that thrills him.

  “Absolutely,” I answer him, smiling at him, and sounding oh so optimistic and positive. Ugh. I need to let go of this bad mood I’m in.

  Putting the tray with the notes back on the shelf it belongs to, I say, “Just give me five minutes to grab my things, okay?”

  “Of course,” he responds and ducks out again.

  It doesn’t take me long to finish putting everything in place, and I walk outside and lock the door. I don’t want to keep Daniel waiting and seeing him talking quietly with Mr. Andersen by the entrance to the shop, the worried frown on his face doesn’t escape me, though. A sliver of sympathy about how it must be like to struggle so hard with an ability that merely seem like second nature to me runs through me, and I become determined to become the best damn tutor I can be.

  And if I fail and can’t help him? Well, I’ll just have to help him find a person who can. Simple.

  Picking up my purse from my compartment, I quickly lock it again and walk outside.

  Standing close together, talking in hushed voices, my gaze turns to Mr. Andersen, and I become confused when I see the angry look on his face.

  As soon as Daniel spots me nearing them, he takes a step back from his uncle, clenching his teeth. Mr. Andersen turns to me and quickly smoothes out his features. His lips may be smiling, but it doesn’t reach his eyes.

  What’s that all about?

  “I’m ready,” I tell Daniel, not commenting on the behaviour of my boss. It’s not my place, after all. “Have a good evening, Sir,” I tell him instead.

  Daniel opens the door for me, and as I walk through it, I hear a muttered, “You, too,” coming from Mr. Andersen. I turn my head and smile faintly, and Daniel closes the door behind us.

  We walk in silence towards the train station, and deciding I don’t like the heaviness in the air, I ask him, “Please bear in mind that I have not been a tutor before, okay?” Glancing briefly at him, I explain further. “I mean, I’m not too sure of how to go about this, but I have found all my old notes from my classes last year, and we’ll take it from there if that sounds good to you?”

  Nodding, he replies, “That’s just fine. Basically, my . . . challenge is the reading and understanding part of the different texts. Once we’ve gone over each one, I think I’ll be able to cope. You know, because of my photographic memory.”

  “Sorry?” I ask him as we walk up the stairs to get to our train.

  He looks nervously at me. “My photographic memory. You do know what that is, don’t you?” He trips, and I reach out my hand to take a firm hold on his arm.

  “Of course I know what it is. I just didn’t know that it applied to people who’re dyslexic,” I answer him when we reach the top of the stairs. I check the billboard up ahead on the platform, finding that there are still a few minutes until the next train arrives.

  Meandering down the platform, I look questioningly at Daniel when he doesn’t say anything.

  “So?” I push him. “Please explain.”

  “I don’t know if I can,” he answers slowly and we stop walking.

  “Please try,” I ask him, my patience running a bit thin.

  He looks across the platform, seeming to be lost in thought, and I wait.

  “You know how you learned to read and write?” he starts and I nod. “You were taught the spelling of your name, how to add each word in a sentence so that it made sense?” Looking briefly at me with a frown, he continues, “Well, my teachers did the same, of course, but unlike the rest of my classmates, the way a certain word was spelled did not make sense to me at all. I couldn’t recognise the word, no matter how many times the teacher spelled it out, writing it on the blackboard. The word just looked like gibberish to me. However . . . ” he pauses and looks pointedly at a man standing to my left who’s holding a newspaper but is clearly listening in on our conversation.

  Rolling my eyes, I grab Daniel’s hand and we walk further away from the unwanted spectator.

  “Please go on,” I urge Daniel when we stop again, and I quickly release his hand.

  “Well, this happened for a long time, you know,” Daniel tells me and takes off his glasses to rub his eyes. Putting them back on, he says, “One thing I’ll never understand is why my teachers didn’t catch on about my problems or disability or whatever you’d like to call it, but I guess it just didn’t occur to them. No, instead, they just thought I was slow,” he spits out the words, making it clear that this is an old wound of his. And I can’t say I blame him even though I don’t understand it at the same time; reading is second nature to me. If I couldn’t read, I don’t know what I’d do.

  “Never mind them,” I quickly say. “What about the photographic memory part?” I ask him. This is the fascinating part.

  “I guess that over the years, once my teachers gave me some learning techniques and showed me how to cope, some of my other senses took over. Now, once I get what a text or book means, and I hear the words on a page instead of struggle through spelling them out, because that clearly doesn’t work, I remember everything of said text or book. I can recite it by heart. It’s just the first part -- reading it -- that I struggle through and that I’ll need your help with,” Daniel ends and looks at me again.

  “So what we’ll be doing today, for instance, is that I read the book aloud to you and then we’ll analyse each chapter together?” I ask him slowly, wanting to be sure I understand what he means.

  “Exactly,” he confirms and scratches the scruff on his chin, looking a bit unsure of himself.

  “I see,” I say brightly, because it really does make sense. “Thank you for explaining how your mind works,” I add, bumping my shoulder lightly on his. Or, well, his arm seeing as he’s so much taller than me and I can’t reach it.

&nbs
p; Hearing the train approaching, I say, “Reading “The Canterbury Tales” aloud should be an interesting experience,” I grin at him, and he returns it immediately, causing a tingle in my lady bits.

  Not today . . . I don’t need all those kinds of thoughts when we’re about to spend all afternoon together. I’m actually starting to get excited about this tutoring job . . . as long as I can keep my dirty thoughts to myself, that is.

  Once the train stops, we stand aside and let the passengers leave. There’s always so many at this time of the afternoon, and it takes a bit. All the while, I can feel Daniel’s reassuring presence at my back, and that certainly doesn’t help the tingling in my body. It does, though, make my heart soften even further towards him. Shocking, isn’t it?

  Chapter 21

  Back in my flat, we end up deciding on sitting outside on my balcony because the heat of the sun has made it almost unbearable to stay indoors. While I gather my notes from last year and fix us some drinks, Daniel leaves me alone to get his books and sunglasses.

  Sitting down to my right, Daniel notices my secret stash behind the door and asks, sounding surprised, “You smoke?”

  I shrug as if it’s no big deal and respond truthfully, “Only when I’m stressed out or when I’m clubbing.”

  He frowns, but doesn’t say anything else. It annoys me, but obviously I know that smoking is bad for me. Well, it’s not as if I’m addicted to any dangerous substances.

  Grabbing my water, I take a large gulp and ask him, “Are you ready to get started?”

  He nods, a worried line forming on his forehead, and I continue, “Just remember that you’re the pupil; if there’s something you need me to explain, tell me to stop, alright?”

  “Okay,” he responds, and opens what appears to be a brand new copy of The Canterbury Tales.

  “Okay, then. Let’s begin.”

  And we get down to business.