I don’t blame her.
I could ask my sisters, Cecilia and Emily, for help, but they’d ask too many questions, and I don’t want to explain to them why I’ve suddenly changed my mind about looking more polished, as Cecilia puts it. I could also do without the comments and jokes they would most definitely throw into the mix should I ask my sisters for help.
Law takes a sip of his soda. “So a makeover, huh? You probably have a plan for what you’re going to do?”
I scratch my cheek and knock my glasses in the process so that they almost slip off my nose. I adjust the frames and look at anywhere but Law. “Sure. I have extensive knowledge about makeovers.”
“You sure about that?”
“Yes,” I say, but it sounds more like a question than an answer.
Law calls me out on it immediately. “You don’t sound like it.”
“Fine,” I say, throwing my hands in the air dramatically. “I know nothing. I’m a fraud. I’ll probably go to a hair salon and let them give me a buzz cut and color what little hair is left turquoise. And don’t even get me started on the clothes I plan to buy. Hammer pants are still in style, right?”
I admit, I excel at sarcasm, but there’s a very strong possibility that’s exactly how it’ll all play out. My only consolation is that Hammer pants look almost as comfortable as sweats, so at least there’s that.
“I could help with that,” Law offers.
I’m immediately suspicious. It’s what growing up with siblings who love pranks does to you. “Why would you do that?”
He grins. “I’m a nice person. And as you said, we’re friends, and I don’t know about you, but as far as my experience goes, friends help each other out.”
He just wants you to work for him.
But that’s not all it is. He looks laidback. It doesn’t feel like he’s here, suffering through every minute spent in my presence. His pose is casual, feet stretched out and whole body relaxed. Spending time with me doesn’t seem to be a chore for him. I could be wrong, but it almost feels like Law Anderson might enjoy my company.
Maybe.
I think.
Man, I really wish I was better at reading people.
It’s not like I haven’t tried. Once, in high school, I even took an online course on body language. The instructor sent us all these pictures and video clips with explanations about how to interpret things like blinking and arm-crossing and so on, and for a while, I thought I was getting it.
But then things became super uncomfortable when, based on my newfound knowledge, I drew the conclusion that Mrs. Diaz, my seventy-year-old Spanish teacher, was flirting with me. She kept eye contact and had her toes pointed at me and her pupils were enlarged. Of course, the eye contact and the toes turned out to be because she was standing in front of me, talking to me, and the enlarged pupils were the side effect of taking Atropine. I quit the class after that. It was not a well-spent six hundred bucks, and my parents were not happy with me when the principal called them in for a meeting to discuss my behavior. So much for trying to subtly hint to Mrs. Diaz that I wasn’t interested.
So yeah, I’m not that comfortable trying to read body language, but Law’s smile doesn’t feel fake like he’s forcing himself to tolerate me and will bolt the first chance he gets.
“So, what do you say?” Law prompts.
“I don’t know?” I say, because apparently I’m now only capable of speaking in sentences that have question marks tacked at the end of them.
“Can you do it yourself?” Law asks point-blank.
I slump in my chair because, no, no I definitely can’t.
“Then let me help,” Law says.
“How exactly would you help?”
Law leans forward, excitement shining in his eyes. He seems awfully confident that he has something that will change my mind about this whole tutoring ordeal.
“I’ll pay for a stylist to help you with your makeover,” he says.
I blink. Okay. Did not expect that.
Already I’m tempted to abandon all common sense. It doesn’t take a genius to do the math and figure out that I will never be able to transform myself like a professional stylist would.
“But wait, there’s more,” Law says in a voice that is eerily similar to the guy from the shopping channel who my grandma stalks on Facebook. “I’ll also lend you my expertise on how to deal with Asola.” Law continues his sales pitch. “You want him? I’ll help you get him.”
I’m envious of his easy confidence as he says the words. I’d never be able to make promises like that. I mean, I could say the words, but the moment they were out of my mouth, I’d start to doubt myself and try to take them back.
I cock my head to the side as I replay Law’s promise in my head. This is actually good stuff. Maybe I should take notes? Law is definitely nobody’s sidekick, so I should treat spending time with him as a learning opportunity. I wonder if Law would mind me filming him so I could study his mannerisms later? Okay, so Project Hero might be lagging, but I’m right on schedule with turning into a psycho. I should buy a bigger freezer for all those body parts I’ll need to fit there.
All creepiness aside, I take note of Law’s confident delivery. Maybe I can adjust it a bit and make it my own?
You want to hire me as a tutor? Sure, I’ll tutor the heck out of your team. They won’t know what hit them when those A’s start flying in.
“Andy? You still with me?”
I blink, trying to get Law back into focus. “Sure. Absolutely. That was my listening face.”
“Uh-huh.”
Note to self, learn to lie better.
“So how about it? Personally, I think you’re getting a hell of a deal. Think about it, you get paid, you get a stylist, and you get the man of your dreams, and all that for some light tutoring, two times a week.”
I sigh. This is going to be embarrassing, but then again, it’s not like my deep, dark secret is that deep and dark to begin with, so I might as well just explain it to Law.
“I have stage fright.” That phrase sounds too tame, so I add, “I’m deathly afraid of public speaking.”
Law cocks his head to the side. “It’s seven people,” he says slowly, looking confused, probably trying to remember the time he told me I’d be tutoring eight thousand people on a stadium tour. It’s the same reaction most people have.
Logically, I get it. Speaking is so basic that most people don’t have any trouble with it. We all speak in front of people every day. I do, for that matter. It’s the performing part that does me in. It doesn’t bother me if I have to tell my roommates not to leave their dirty dishes in the sink. But whenever the attention of the room is on me, and I’m supposed to perform with everybody’s eyes on me, my brain showers me with images of my fourteen-year-old self puking on stage of Woodbury Middle School, the whole school laughing at me, and the months that followed. I got to relive the humiliation because, with the invention of smartphones, everybody had a super easy way to show me clips of that event over and over again. I feel queasy just thinking about it.
“No, that’s the thing. I can’t speak in front of large crowds, sure, but you know the saying, three is a crowd? Yeah. That absolutely stands in my case. Speaking in front of people... I’ll faint, or I’ll puke, or I’ll cry with great, heaving sobs, or there’ll be some kind of combination of the three. Either way, it will be a horror show for me and for whatever poor souls have to witness the thing.”
Law looks suspicious. “And you’re not just saying it to get rid of me?” he asks.
I roll my eyes. “I’m capable of saying no.”
“I’ll take full responsibility for sounding like a dick, but have you tried lately?”
I flush and look away. “Kind of,” I say. “Shaw offered me the position of his TA in spring semester. It did not go well.” I panicked and ran out of the room when I had to introduce myself. I went full-on Forrest Gump for a moment there as I sprinted out of the building and ran home. Good times.
>
We sit in silence for a while. Except for the noises of the restaurant, but neither Law nor I say a word. Eventually, I gather my stuff, preparing to leave, because it doesn’t seem like I’m needed here any longer. But as has become a tradition of sorts for us already, Law grabs my hand and stops me.
“Not so fast there. I’m trying to figure something out.”
I dutifully resume my position next to him and fiddle with my water glass and the utensils as Law squints and frowns, deep in thought.
“I can ask around and help you find somebody,” I offer.
“I’ve already done that. Most people in your department pointed me straight to you.”
I frown and open my mouth to start protesting, because how is that possible when I’ve tutored none of them? Most people in my department barely know anything about me other than my major and my library seat.
“Don’t even try and argue. I’ve got stories, dude. Michelle… something, I can’t remember her last name, tells me you’re the reason she understood electromagnetic field theory. Then there was a dude with a tattoo of an electrical circuit on his bicep who said you helped him ace thermodynamics. Liam… I want to say Wamboldt? It was something that I remember sounded vaguely like wombat,” Law says thoughtfully. “Anyway, he gives you credit for helping him with”—Law’s eyes go all squinty—“tensor fields in general relativity. Is that a thing?”
I nod mutely. I remember discussing those things with people, yeah. But I figured it was just us making friendly conversation. I distinctly remember the relief I felt in my freshman year when I got to talking with a girl from my Introductory Physics class after a study group because, for the first time in my life, I felt like, Yes, that’s the kind of small talk I can get behind.
“Hear me out,” Law says. “You can’t deal with seven people because it’s too much like your performing in front of a crowd, right?”
I nod. “That’s the gist of it, yeah.”
“What about one person?” he asks.
“What do you mean?”
“What about tutoring one person?” he asks.
I hesitate. Surely I could do one? Then again, who the hell knows? It’s not like my anxiety is only about the size of the crowd. In fact, it’s the smaller factor of the two. The main thing is still the performance part of the whole deal.
“Maybe,” I hesitate. “With only two people present, it would probably be hard to make me feel like I’m on a stage,” I joke.
Law nods, taking this whole thing completely seriously. “Probably,” he agrees.
“But I can’t give everybody individual lessons twice a week. I don’t have enough time for that. That would be like a full-time job, not a temporary tutoring gig.”
“No, I get it. The guys have summer jobs and we still train together a few times a week, so scheduling all those separate sessions would be a nightmare. That’s not what I had in mind.”
“So…” I hesitate because I’m not sure why I’m entertaining this whole thing. “Let’s say I can do one person, how will you decide who gets the privilege of enjoying my shaky teaching skills?” I ask. “Because, let me be clear, you say you need me, but it’d be like… like… you’re buying a pet in a bag.”
I straighten myself, pleased with the analogy I came up with. “See, you think there’s a dog in there. People say it’s a cute one and knows lots of tricks, but you won’t really know until you buy the bag and look inside and see that even though you might have been hoping for a golden retriever, you’ve ended up with a Chinese Crested and bulldog mix that can’t do anything other than sleep and pee on the living room carpet. It’s a dog, sure, but it’s butt ugly and makes your neighbors wince when you walk the poor sucker around the block. Think about it, my alleged teaching prowess might very well be a myth, and you won’t know until you’ve seen me in action.”
“You’ll be teaching me,” Law says, unbothered about my rant, completely dismissing my awesome dog analogy.
His answer confuses me again, which leaves me to question Law’s judgement in his tutoring pick, because let me tell you, I’m not coming off as particularly bright in this whole situation.
I squint my eyes at him. “Because you think it’d be fun to go over Freshman Physics again?”
He laughs. It’s a nice sound. Deep and warm and friendly. It almost feels like Law enjoys talking to me. Like he’s not laughing at me but with me.
It’s been a long time since I was the outcast of my high school, not since Falcon moved to my hometown and took me under his wing, but every time I meet somebody new, there’s still that moment of uncertainty. Is this person here to make me feel bad about myself? will there be taunts and ridicule? It takes a conscious effort to dispel these thoughts.
Even with Falcon, it took time to learn to trust him. For a long time, even after we’d become friends, I was suspicious about his motives and analyzed his laughs and teasing comments to death, trying to discover the hidden barbs beneath. Sometimes, late at night in my bed, I’d worried that the next day would be the day Falcon would reveal his true colors and turn out to be like everybody else at my high school. He hadn’t. And after a while, I’d learned to trust him. Each new person in my life, though, usually presents the challenge of forcing away negative expectations. Coming to college has been a real test in that regard.
With Law, all those inclinations have disappeared. I don’t look for hidden thorns in Law’s words that could prickle me, make me bleed if I’m not careful enough and don’t keep enough of a distance between us.
It’s disconcerting.
Law looks all business now as he straightens himself. There’s an excitement in his eyes because he’s come up with a solution.
“You will tutor me. We’ll go through each topic before the actual tutoring, and you’ll tell me what to say to the guys. I’ll take notes. We’ll go through all the problems and solve them, and you’ll tell me what to say to make the material comprehensible to people who might not be the next Richard Feynman.”
There are ideas that are so good in the planning stages that later, when they fail spectacularly, you’re left gobsmacked because you’re so surprised something that good in theory could fail in real life.
This is not one of those times.
Law’s plan is shaky at best on paper. There are so many ifs and buts that I can’t even figure out which one to address first. I don’t particularly want to be the one to rain on Law’s parade since he looks so hopeful and excited. He’s given the phrase going the extra mile a whole new meaning, which must mean that he feels like his position as assistant coach is on the line. I really don’t relish disillusioning him.
My mouth seems to agree, since the next words that come out of it are, “That could work.”
Wait! What?
“I could probably write you some sort of a list with bullet points to follow, and I can show you how to solve problems step by step.”
Abort! Abort!
“It sounds doable.”
It sounds bonkers, and I have officially lost my mind.
But Law smiles, and it’s nice that he thinks of me as someone essential for his team’s success, so I shut up and hope to god I won’t turn out to be a mutt whose only talent is chasing its own tail.
6
Law
It’s that time of the month again.
Lunch with my parents.
I’ve been dreading this thing for a week now, just like every month.
The thing about my parents is, they love me. In their own judgmental, controlling way. So we get together once every month and do our best to end the time we spend together on civil terms.
Today, I’m not as apprehensive as usual. Today, I’ve got something to look forward to. This afternoon, Andy is going to drop by and we’ll have our first tutoring session, and I’m pretty excited about it. Fuck if I know why. There’s something about Andy that is addictive. On the outside, he’s so damn awkward, but he’s also sarcastic and fun and just genuinely nice,
and I can’t even remember the last time I enjoyed just hanging out with somebody this much.
Maybe it’s the fun factor Andy brings because, in my life, everything is about goals and fulfilling them. It’s been like the goddamn Soviet Union in our house ever since I turned three. I had weekly goals and monthly goals and yearly goals. There were even five-year plans to follow, to give you the whole suppressive-experience package. The plans weren’t theoretical. There were actual files and Excel tables involved, to track the progress, and family meetings where we discussed how well we were keeping up with our schedules. There might have even been awards for those who fulfilled their five-year plan in four years, not that I would know since I usually had trouble doing everything within the five-year schedule.
See, my parents are self-made, and they swear that they owe their success to rigorous adherence to schedules and religious following of the almighty plan.
It’s too bad I threw a wrench in their plan for me by falling in love with hockey.
The thing with trying to force your kids into a mold is that at one point or another, most of us rebel, and when the parents are as pig-headed as the kid? Well, let’s just say it goes to hell really fast. My parents and I barely spoke through my high-school years. They hated my dedication to hockey, and I hated their insistence that I should concentrate on school because I needed to follow in my father’s footsteps. Somebody needs to take over the family business, but to keep the peace, none of us mentions it.
They wanted me to drop hockey and go to a respectable college and major in finance or business or law. I wanted to play hockey. After endless negotiations we compromised on Baril.
And then I got my diagnosis, which ended my hockey career before it had really even taken off. My parents were relieved as hell. And sure, they tried to hide it, but they both did a shitty job.
Project Hero Page 5