Chapter 2: Calculus and Cold Stares
The bell rang, signaling the end of our elective. I was packing up my books when a boy from my class, sitting in the back row, tapped me lightly on the back with his pen.
The room hummed with the usual after-class shuffle—iced coffees sweating on desks, the faint smell of dry-erase markers, someone blasting Drake from their AirPods. I glanced back, eyebrows raised, catching the kid’s anxious energy.
He looked so nervous I almost expected him to drop the book. Guess advanced calculus wasn’t the only thing making him sweat. When I turned around, he looked nervous, eyes downcast:
"Hey, Natalie, uh… could you help me out with this one?"
His voice was barely above a whisper, his cheeks already tinged pink as he held out his advanced math workbook.
I nodded, took his workbook, and wrote out the solution. The numbers and symbols flowed onto the page, muscle memory from countless late-night study sessions kicking in.
"Do you get it?"
After explaining, I looked up at him.
He seemed to snap out of a daze, his ears burning red as he nodded, flustered:
"I got it, Natalie. You’re a lifesaver. Seriously."
His voice cracked a little at the end, making me suppress a smile. He was cute in that lost-puppy way, like a freshman who just discovered cold brew.
I gave him a polite smile:
"You’re welcome. If you have any more questions, just ask."
No sooner had I finished than I felt that familiar, gloomy gaze.
Here we go again.