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I placed his leather jacket on the table with rosy cheeks.

“Thanks for letting me borrow it.”

“Anytime, Ms. Bennet.”

Neither of us spoke as he dug around in his backpack before placing stapled pieces of paper on the table. His essay on The Scarlett Letter. As I read through it, I couldn’t help but think someone else wrote it. It seemed impossible for someone who’s failing to have written it, given how perfectly structured and well-written it was.

“Did you write this?”

His puzzled gaze searched for clarity.

“Of course I did,” He said. “I’m top of my class for a reason.”

“I thought your mom said you’re failing.”

“I am, just not in English Lit.”

I gnawed on my bottom lip.

“You’ve lost me.”

He sighed.

“Look, I could tell you everything there is to know about molecular genetics or polynomials in depth.” He said. “I just choose not to.”

“Why?”

“None of that matters to me.”

I couldn’t fathom what he was trying to say. He could be valedictorian from what he’s telling me. Why would you choose not to?

“So, you care about English Lit?”

He nods. Our eyes met, acknowledging a shared significance.

“Tutoring you is pointless, then.”

“I would agree.” He said. “Although, aren’t I supposed to get a treat or something?”

“For what?”

“Well, my essay was phenomenal, wasn’t it?”

It seemed his confidence reached more than his personality and appearance, but found its way into his academic capabilities, too.

“It was,” I said. “But I told my mom I would tutor you.”

“Do you always do what your mom says?”

What is he on?

“I do.”

He slouched in his seat and folded his arms across his chest. His demeanor etched defiance.

“Come on, Ms. Bennet.” He said. “When was the last time you ever did something fun?”

Never. I would not admit that, though.