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“What happened to you?” He isn’t laughing any more. He takes my chin in his hand and turns my face to catch the glare of the lamp. “Who hit you?”
“No one,” I say, trying to push his hand away from my face. “I fell.”
“Bullshit,” he barks at me. “Who?”
“It’s not a big deal,” This time when I push, he lets me go. “I just bruise easy—it’ll be gone by Monday.”
“Who, Henley?”
Something about his tone tells me he’s not going to let it go. I sink back down onto my bed. “My mom.” I put my hands up because I don’t know what he’s going to do or where he’s going to go. “She’s not even here. She came home, showered and left again. I doubt if I’ll even see her again before Sunday.” She’s been doing that a lot lately. Staying gone for long stretches of time.
“Was it because of me?” Conner drops his hand. When it falls against his thigh, it’s clenched into a fist. “Does she know about us?”
Us. The word, hearing the way he says it, so casually like there really is such a thing, makes me angry. “Why do you keep saying things like that?”
“Like what?” He looks genuinely perplexed.
“Us. We,” I hiss up at him. “There is no us. We aren’t friends. You don’t even like me. Not really.”
“Yes, I do,” he says.
“No, you don’t,” I shoot back. “You like girls like Jessica. Pretty girls who trip all over themselves to impress you. You don’t like girls like me, Conner. You need girls like me. You’re using me. There’s a difference.”
“Using you?” the words fall, hard and flat, against my ears. “Using you for what, exactly?”
I shoot up off the bed to stand in front of him again. “Yes. Using me.” I focus on his fist when I say it, the way it clenches and relaxes, beating against his thigh like a heart. I force my eyes to his face and meet his gaze. “You came here to butter me up so I’ll keep tutoring you so you’ll pass calculus and get your precious car.” I lift the backpack and jab at him with it like it’s a weapon. “Nice try, but giving me your backpack was a bit much—maybe you need someone to tutor you in subtlety.”
He swats the backpack out of his face and takes a step toward me. “Seriously?”
“Yes, Conner—seriously.” I drop my hand and shake my head. “And I already told you, I don’t want to tutor you anymore.”
“Okay.” For some reason that makes him laugh. “What will people think if you use my backpack?” he says, switching gears on me so fast I can feel my brain scrambling to catch up.
“You know what they’ll think,” I say, my face flushing red, I can feel the dose of blood color and tighten the bruise on my cheek. “They’ll think… They’ll think you feel sorry for me.”
“Wrong answer,” he says, his tone drawing my gaze to his face. He looks angry. “Try again.”
He’s going to make me say it, just so he can laugh at me. Tongue glued to the roof of my mouth, I shake my head, refusing to be played with.
“What are you so afraid of?”
“I’m not—” I say loudly before lowering my voice. “I’m not afraid of anything.” Just because my dad is so drunk he’s practically dead, doesn’t mean our neighbors need to hear me yelling at 3AM.
“Then just say it,” he says, challenging me. “Say you don’t want to carry a backpack with my name on it or people seeing me walk you to class or carrying your books because you’re afraid people will think that I like you. That we’re together.”
“They will,” I say, shaking my head. “That’s exactly what they’ll think.”
“And?” He’s not laughing. He’s just standing there, staring at me like he’s waiting for me to catch up.
“And you don’t want that,” I say, my jaw tight. Throat aching. “You don’t want people to think that, Conner. You don’t.”
He stares at me for a few seconds before turning away from me. I think he’s going to leave, but he doesn’t. He picks his way across the cramped room to my desk where he roots around until his finds a piece of paper and a pencil. Stooping over, he starts to write, the tip of the pencil flying across the paper without hesitation.
Just when I’m about to ask him what he’s doing, he stands up straight and tosses the pencil back on my desk. Picking up the paper he comes toward me again.
“Don’t tell me what I like and don’t ever tell me what I want, Henley,” he says softly, all but shoving the piece of paper into my hand. “Because you have no idea.”
I don’t look at the paper in my hands until he’s gone. Out the window, the angry clang of his feet echoing off the metal ladder of the fire escape.
Uncrumpling it, I smooth it out flat across my lap to reveal a mathematical equation. One that’s light years ahead of our simple high school calculus class. I stare at it, try to grasp its meaning but I can’t. It’s nothing but a bunch of numbers and letters and symbols, grouped together in ways I can’t even begin to comprehend.