I’ve even texted him about his lateness three times: When he was fifteen minutes late, I messaged “Are you still coming?” and he said he was on his way. When he was thirty minutes late, I sent “Have you somehow gotten lost in the school you’ve been going to for the past four years?” And just now, at forty-five minutes past the hour, when I sent him an, “I think we need to try this another day” message, he didn’t even send me an apology. His response? “I don’t. I’m in the hallway.”

Ugh! I should’ve known better than this....

I pack up all my books and push my chair away from the table so I can leave. Just as I’m standing up, Mr. Popular strolls through the door looking unfazed as ever.

“Hey,” he says, walking over to my table. “Why is all your stuff packed up? Where are you going?”

“I’m off to see someone who respects my time.”

“Who is that?”

“It doesn’t matter. You’re damn near an hour late.”

“So?” He shrugs, looking genuinely confused.

“So? No, not ‘so.’ We agreed to meet at four o’clock, Dean. You pay me twenty dollars an hour and I’ve just wasted one of those hours. I’m not going to waste anymore.”

“I’m sorry you feel that way.” He finally offers. “I mean, don’t you have homework of your own? Maybe if you would’ve been working on that while you waited, it would have kept you distracted from looking at the time. Maybe you wouldn’t be so unnecessarily angry right now.”

Is he SERIOUS?! “You know what?” I take a deep breath, refusing to let him get me riled up any further. “Thank you for that terrible half-hearted apology. I guess that makes up for everything, doesn’t it?”

“No,” he says, reaching into his pocket, placing a twenty-dollar bill on the table. “But this does.”

“No, this does not.” I slide it back.

“Wait, what’s the problem here?” He shakes his head. “I said I’d pay you for three hours. You just got paid for one—for not doing a goddamn thing by the way—and once again, as you can see, I’m always looking out for you. But you’re mad because we’re only going to have two hours to spend together?”

“Oh my fucking God!” I can’t hold it in. “That’s not the point, Dean!” I’m seconds away from really going off, but a varsity cheerleader steps right between us.

“Hey, Dean.” She smiles, batting her long eyelashes at him. Then she looks over at me. “Mia,” she says, looking unimpressed.

“I’m leaving.” I step away and head for the door.

“Wait, Mia. Don’t leave.” Dean rushes in front of me and blocks my exit. “I promise to do better next time.”

“There won’t be a next time.”

“Okay, well just give me today. If you honestly can’t deal with me after today, then we won’t have to do this anymore.”

“See, that’s the thing, I don’t want do this at all. Especially not today.”

“Please, Mia?” He smiles hard at me, trying his best to coax me into staying.

“Ugh. Please don’t smile at me like that.” I roll my eyes, giving in. “We can sit over there in the back, by the computer lab.”

“Good,” he says, walking by my side as we make our way to the secluded section.

I take out my notes on our current assignment, Beowulf, and slide them across the table to Dean. “We have to write a three-page analysis of this. Did you start yet?”

“No.” He smiles. “Why would I have started that?”

“Because you want an A. Because you’re paying me to tutor you so you can get an A. Did we not go over this a few minutes ago?”

“Mia,” he says, his dimples on full display. “I haven’t done it because it’s not due for another six weeks. Not everyone works on assignments months before they’re due.”

“And not everyone has a 4.0 GPA either. I wonder what that correlation is.”

“Not having a life? Being boring as hell all the time maybe?”

“I do have a life.”

“I’m sure you do.” He smirks. “How about we start on the assignment that’s due tomorrow?”

“Tomorrow?”

“Yes.” He smiles. “I haven’t started that one either.”

“You are unbelievable.” I shake my head. “Okay, the three-page reflection letter about where you see yourself ten years from now. So...” I grab a notebook and turn to a clean page. “Where do you see yourself ten years from now?”

He hesitates and the smile slowly disappears from his face. “How about we take a different approach?”

“I’m listening.”

“Can you let me see what you wrote first?”

“No. We’ve been down that road before. You’re not copying what I want to do.”

“Don’t worry, I don’t want to be a librarian ten years from now. I’m just trying to see how you structured your paper.”

“For your information—not that it’s any of your business—I don’t want to be a librarian. I want to be an artist.”

He raises his eyebrow, looking surprised.

“And also,” I say, sliding him my essay. “From here on out, for every insult you throw my way, I’ll be increasing my hourly fee.”

“I can afford it.” He laughs, but then he gets serious. “Do you think I should start with personification?”

“No, I think you should start really simple. Just free write and we can worry about the structure at the end.”

“Okay, done deal.” He picks up his pen and starts to write.

To my surprise, he doesn’t say anything else sarcastic for the rest of the session, and before I know it, our two hours have come to an end and we’re packing up our things.

“I can give you a ride home,” he offers as we walk toward the parking lot.

“No, thank you. I’ve had more than enough ‘Dean’ for today.”

“But what if I haven’t had enough Mia?” His eyes meet mine as his lips curve into a smile. “What if I want a little more?”

“Goodbye, Dean.” I power walk to my stop, thanking the bus gods that I make it two minutes before departure.

***

The next afternoon, a heavy rain is pounding hard against our small city, so I find myself trapped in the school’s cafeteria. The outdoor bench where I usually eat, is blocked off for the day, so I have the “pleasure” of sitting in the massive cafeteria where everyone else is.

I wish I could say that our high school is nothing like those B-grade teenage movies, and that everyone gets along. But no, Central High School is just as predictable as Dean Collins. In the center of the room are the quintessential popular students; athletes, varsity cheerleaders and beautiful people. In one corner of the room is where the social outcasts all convene, no matter their background: band geeks, academic club members, and foreign exchange students. In the opposite corner of the room are the slackers; the students that miss more days than they attend, and spend most of their time in detention for skipping or sneaking illegal smokes in the bathrooms.

Unlike most other schools in small towns, though, Central High is like the Taj Mahal of high schools. With our state of the art library that’s four stories high, our Olympic-sized swimming facility that includes a sauna and steam room for our award winning swim team, and our multi-vendor cafeteria that features a knock-off Starbucks and buffet bar, Central High’s offerings are second to none in any of the surrounding counties.

“So, how was tutoring with Mr. Popular, yesterday?” My best friend, Autumn, takes a seat across from me and passes me a cup of coffee.

“Now you want to know?” I take a slow sip. “I tried to tell you about it yesterday, but you didn’t pick up the phone.”

“I have a boyfriend, Mia.”

“So? What does that mean?”

“It means that if you call me past a certain hour, then I’m probably on the phone with him.” She smiles.

I roll my eyes. Autumn hasn’t been the same since she “proudly” lost her virginity eight months ago. Although she’s still the most amazing friend I’ve ever had, and we’re almost polar opposites when it comes to social events, I’m hoping her current obsession with all things sex and romance will soon come to an end.