The following Monday morning, Sarah parked in his driveway. As always, he ran out the door with his oversized shirt and some food-looking item in his hand and settled in the front passenger seat.

  “So,” Sarah began her list of planned questions for Timothy. “Ask any girls to homecoming?”

  “When’s homecoming?”

  Wow, she thought. “In two weeks.”

  “No, I haven’t.”

  She tapped on her phone a bit and began playing the retro wave music Timothy introduced her to, and he nodded in agreement with her new taste. He also pulled out a quiche wrapped in a paper plate with a plastic fork.

  “Breakfast?”

  She’s still surprised his mom is still being so lovely to her, first burritos and now a quiche. “Yeah.” She took it and set it on her lap so she could eat and drive simultaneously. “So, do you want to ask anyone?”

  “I haven’t thought about it and don’t know how to dance.”

  She swallowed a bite. “You can come with my friends and me.”

  “Liam will be there?”

  “Naturally.”

  “And Alicia?”

  “Yup.”

  “I think she hates me.” He grabbed a notebook from his book bag and fiddled with it, turning the pages one by one. It looked like he was trying to take his mind off the subject.

  Sarah looked confused. “What makes you think she hates you?”

  “She told me in music class.”

  Oh. She sighed with a thought, wishing her friends were more congenial. Though she knew they’d never believe her if she told them about Timothy’s heroics. “Well,” she wanted to cheer him up, “if you show up, I’ll save a dance for you. Teach you a move or two.”

  “Ok.”

  They split ways after they parked and walked into the school with a nod. Timothy hustled to math class as usual, ignoring Mr. Witman as he browsed on his phone. Sarah and Liam came in together once the bell rang, and Mr. Witman handed everyone their quizzes back from Friday.

  “Crap,” Sarah said. She got a C-, which can affect her cheer team position if this trend continues. She’d have to review the book's Applications of Derivatives portion again. It’s the start of the school year, and for some reason, her understanding of linear approximations will determine her senior year experience.

  “Is there any way to retake this quiz?” A student asked.

  “No. There’s tutoring available to help you catch up.” Mr. Witman said.

  “We had a quiz on the first week of school,” another said.

  “That’s life,” he responded.

  Their collective audible groan could be heard down the hall. Mr. Witman ignored it and continued with the following math lesson.

  After class, Sarah waited for everyone to leave and smiled at Timothy as he walked by her. Once emptied, she approached Mr. Witman, “Is there anything I can do to change this grade?”

  He looked at the grade he gave her, and back up to her face. His son’s gorgeous girlfriend. “I’m not sure.”

  “I don’t want it to affect me being on cheer. Pretty please?”

  He smiled. “Yeah, sure, I can change it.”

  “Really? I don’t have to take it again or do extra credit?”

  His forearms tensed, getting constricted from the rolled-up sleeves he always sports. Sarah loves the look, and hopes Liam will give up the branded shirts for it one day. Then he loosened, rubbing his clean-shaven face. “Nah. B- seems fair.”

  “Great! Thank you. And I’ll see you and Mrs. Witman later.”

  “Liam invited you for dinner? See you then.”

  She nodded as she backed to the door, and turned out. Asking for what she wanted never failed, but math builds on itself, and falling behind can have real consequences. At least, that’s what her mom tells her.

  After lunch during her free period, she peeked into the large study hall next to the library. Only two students were getting tutored, plenty of desks were open, and she took an open one on the math side of the room. Scrolling through her phone, she waited for one of the tutors to come out.

  And it didn’t take long, a light cough caught her attention. A university student sat down across from her. “How can I help you?”

  She pulled out a book. “Calc 1.”

  “Calc 1,” he mimicked her. “And your teacher is…?”

  “Mr. Witman.”

  “Oh dang. I had him. He’s hard. Quizzes every week.” He continued as she got a notebook ready. “Cute handwriting.”

  The tale has been taken without authorization; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.

  “Thanks.” She turned the page. “Applications of Derivatives. I almost got a D.”

  He scootched around, leaning in over the page, the sleeve of his thin hoodie brushed against her bare arm. “Let’s try something nice and easy.” He pointed to a problem. “Start here and let’s see what you can do.”

  While she worked through it, he leaned in with an awkward intensity. She appreciated the dedication to his minimum wage job, but breath shouldn’t cross a line, and his ran across her cheek.

  He grabbed her pencil, his fingers brushing against hers as he did so, and circled a part. “Retry this portion.”

  After returning the pencil, she thought for a second and tried again.

  He nodded. “That’s right.” He helped her through other problems, detailing as to why. “Try this one on your own,” he pointed at a problem in the book.

  Watching her try his method, the tutor spotted an obvious mistake and scooted closer, his entire arm bumped into hers.

  “You know,” she saw where this was going, “I think I can do this on my own.” She closed her book and got up, stepping to the side to create space from him.

  The tutor stood up as she did. “My name’s Isaac.”

  “Well, Isaac, thanks for the help.”

  He cleared his throat. “My band is playing at the Hickory Coffee Shop this weekend, if you wanted to stop by.” He stuttered. “I play the flute.”

  “I’ll think about it,” she said, leaving the room.

  After the last bell, she met Timothy at her car. He stood awkwardly, staring into the distance before she got his attention. She nodded towards the passenger door, and he got in.

  “Thought about the dance?”

  “Not really.”

  She turned the car on and made way through the student parking lot, waving at friends on the way out. “It’s fun.”

  “I’m sure it is.”

  “Is there anyone you want to ask?”

  “No.”

  She thought of something funny and rolled down her window. “Yo, Harper.”

  A petite girl with short brown hair in a light hoodie, walking with her books held with both arms, turned to face Sarah’s car. “Yeah?”

  “Want to go to the dance with Timothy?”

  “Who the fuck is Timothy?”

  She grabbed his shoulder and pushed him forward so Harper could see him through the driver's side window. He waved at her.

  “Eh.”

  Sarah sighed, rolled up the window, and kept driving. “Whatever, Harper isn’t as cute as she thinks she is.”

  Timothy chuckled.

  “That didn’t bother you?”

  “Least offensive thing I heard today,” he said.

  She stared in front of her as they drove down the street. “I think you’re wonderful.”

  The two remained silent, and to break the silence, she asked, “How did you do on the calc quiz?”

  “Got an A-. Easy.”

  “Damn. I barely got a C-.”

  They pulled up to the driveway, and he stepped out.

  “I’ll pick you up tomorrow.”

  “Is this going to be a regular thing?”

  “Well, yeah,” she said. “Breakfast is the most important meal of the day.”

  Timothy smiled. “See you tomorrow,” and he walked inside.

  She drove to her boyfriend's house, and his beater of a car wasn’t out on the street. Their front door was partially open, and she let herself in, saying hello to Liam’s parents as they welcomed her inside. Those two loved having Sarah over, and she was never too early to stop by, to either chat or wait for Liam while doing homework on their kitchen table. Despite the home being much smaller, occasionally, it’s nice to be in a different environment.

  Dinner at the Witman’s was educational. An interview with NPR was the general vibe. Mr. Witman loved talking about potential science discoveries or sci-fi novels. He’s brought up the dark forest theory and received Sarah’s opinion. Sarah thinks humanity should try to contact alien life. Maybe there are cute little aliens? Like space puppies? Mrs. Witman always brought up the news, like a doomscroller, but more articulately, involving women’s rights and conflicts in the Middle East. Sarah wasn’t sure where to begin on that one. Mrs. Witman at home let her dark hair down, and changed from business attire into more casual wear, loose pants and a shirt that would feel comfortable on a couch, sprawled out.

  After some laughter, Liam burst through the door. “Practice was great.” And Liam talked about practice. He was still sweaty, having to drive straight home from the field and straight to the dinner table so as not to keep Sarah waiting too long. “Sorry,” he kissed her and took a seat. “Coach ran us hard.”

  “So hard, you never need to go to your mom’s class?” Mr. Witman said.

  Ignoring his dad, he grabbed a fork and took a bite of the cooled-off steak. “Some pussies like Rory weren’t hitting hard enough.”

  With an evening of football talk, Sarah drove home and studied the previous section in her Calculus 1 book. Attired in pajamas, listening to light music, and eating popcorn from a bowl by her side, she struggled to understand it, and her focus waned a bit.

  Her phone buzzed. She just about choked on a kernel.

  “You busy?” Timothy texted.

  An initiation. The boy might be turning into a man. She straightened up with excitement. “Doing homework, you?”

  “Not much. Do you need help with math? I can video chat you.”

  She called immediately. His face went bright red, probably from her wearing a pajama shirt and shorts, and her long blonde hair had a disheveled look, all parted to her right. “So glad you texted.”

  He swallowed, loudly. “Yeah. Okay,” he breathed. “What problem are you on?”

  She decided to tease him a bit. She placed her books on her lap and turned the camera to ensure he could see the math book and some skin. Though she didn’t see his reaction, she imagined more red in his face. After a moment, he began asking her questions about what she may not understand and talking through them with her. Not micromanaging, but pointing her in the right direction, congratulating her when she made the right decisions.

  After an hour, she stretched and rolled over, lifting the phone above her so Timothy looked down at her. “Thank you. I’d like to repay you.”

  “You made it easy for me.”

  “You’re not going to invite me to see your band?” She chuckled.

  “What?” He looked confused, and his shoulder stretched outside the frame, and she heard a growl.

  Again, he’s not asking for anything. “Nothing. Is that your poodle?”

  “Yeah, playing tug of war.”

  “Can you show him?”

  He pointed the camera, and Twain’s mouth was tight on a small rope as he tugged against Timothy. Play growling the entire time.

  “Twain is a cute dog.”

  “Thanks.” He pointed the camera back at his face. “Do you need help with anything else?”

  She ignored the question. “I’m glad you have Twain, if not for that dog…”

  He tilted his head.

  She rolled over so now she’s on top. “Nothing. So, need me to pick you up again?”

  “Yes, thank you. I don't know how to repay you.”

  She smiled. “I’ll see you in the morning.”

  They waved goodbye and tapped off. She opened a text message and wrote to him. “You never need to repay me. Gnight.”