I drag my pencil against the binding of my math composition journal. The class is going over some inequalities. I finished the problems around fifteen minutes before, and my mind is already shut down. My eyes flutters, ready to close and fall asleep. The bell rings, my arm twitches in shock, and I accidentally draw a line across the entire page.

"Wendy. Can I speak to you for a moment?" Mrs. Miller says with her back towards me. She's short and has to get on her tipsy-toes to erase the board. I feel like students purposely write at the top just to mess with her.

"Um, sure." I shove my journal and pencil into my backpack. Crap. She knows I wasn't paying attention in class.

"Don't worry. You're not in trouble." Thank goodness. "I was wondering if you would be willing to tutor my son."

"I don't know. I'm not that good at any subject besides math."

"Actually, I want you to tutor him in math."

"But, you're a math teacher. I don't mean to be rude, but wouldn't it be easier and better if you teach him?"

She chuckles, "Yes, well, he would prefer to have me as just a mom, not a teacher. I've had you for the past two years, and you are an exceptional student. You could also use the practice with discussions. I notice that you rarely talk in class."

I show her a weak smile. Why am I so awkward?

"I'll write you a letter of recommendation. I know you just started your Junior year, but you can just tell me the college whenever you're ready, and I would love to write it for you. Just do this as a small favor for me."

I'm not a teacher's pet. I never talk in class. I'm pretty sure most of my teachers hear one sentence out of my mouth a month. There isn't much they could write for me in a letter of recommendation. This is probably the only chance I have of getting a letter that says more than "she is a nice and hardworking kid". I give her a nod.

"Great, I hope you can start tonight. I won't be at home, but just go to this address and ring the doorbell. My son will let you in." Mrs. Miller quickly scribbles her address on a sticky note and hands it to me. On another sticky note, she writes me a late pass. "Just in case I made you late to your next class." She gives me a wide smile and gets back to erasing the board.

On my way to Mrs. Miller's house, I stop by the grocery store and pick up a bag of gummy worms and a can of iced tea. Remembering seeing a picture of a little boy on Mrs. Miller's desk, I figured her son was around 8. Hopefully, he likes gummy worms. The tea is for me; I'm on the verge of laying on the sidewalk and taking a nap.

As I approach her house, it's a lot bigger than I expected. Don't teachers get underpaid? There's a flower bed along her driveway and plants hang in front of her porch. I walk up the steps slowly, and I start to get a bad feeling. This is weird. I'm about to enter dangerous territory, a teacher's house.

I sigh and press the doorbell. One minute, two minutes, three minutes, no answer. I ring it again, and again, and again. The door swings open when I'm about to ring again, and there's a tall figure standing in front of me. Shoot, it's her husband. He must be pissed I rang the bell so much. I was wrong about the husband part, but I was right about the pissed part.

Vincent was glaring at me, his hand running through his wet mop of hair. His white t-shirt was damp at the collar.

"Oh, I'm at the wrong house. I'm looking for Mrs. Miller's house." I turn around as quickly as I spoke.

"This is it."

Stopping dead in my track, I slowly turn back around.

"What are you doing at her house?"

He coughs, "I live here."

Vincent Miller! Same last name! Why am I so dumb? Miller is a common last name though. "Oh. Sorry, I didn't realize you two were related."

"I told her not to tell anybody at school."

"Oh, cool." Cool? Really? That's the best you can come up with? "I'm here to tutor your brother."

"I don't have a brother. Only a sister." He raises an eyebrow at me, probably thinking I'm on some sort of drug.

"She said something about a son..."

"That would be me."

"Right..." Gosh, I'm an idiot.

Vincent presses his back against the door frame to let me in. Awkwardly shuffling in, I look around the house. It's cozier than I imagined. I've always had the ideas that most teachers are organized, and that their house would probably be spotless. However, there are some dolls and stuffed animals spread out in front of the TV. Pillows on the couch are disheveled, and there are pictures of her family hanging everywhere on the walls.

"You can wait for me in the kitchen." Vincent walks up the stairs and disappears out of my sight. I wander through a door way and find the kitchen. There are a bunch of empty coffee mugs and cereal bowls in the sink. Boxes of corn flakes and some fruity, artificially flavored cereal still sit on the counter, some of it spilling out. Guess she's in a rush in the morning.

I sit myself at the kitchen table and start taking out my textbook, homework, and pencil. I start to doze off, so I take out my can of iced tea and take a few gulps. Vincent walks into the kitchen with his materials in hand, his hair a bit drier, but it occasionally drops water on his shoulders. He pulls up a chair next to me and we start doing the homework. It's pretty silent with the exception his occasional questions.

I sneak glances at him when I finish my problems early. I usually keep my head down in class or at the teacher. I never noticed why so many girls liked him. I totally get it now. He has a muscular build, but is still slender and tall at the same time. His hair is dark like chocolate, and his eyes are green like grass. I don't think I ever saw green eyes before. He has the desired tall nose, high cheekbones, pouty lips, and sharp jawline. His eyebrows knit together while he concentrates on the problem.

I dart my eyes back to my journal and pretend to be solving an equation. I glance back at him, he hands running through his nearly dried hair. Hesitantly, I open my backpack and slide the pack of gummy worms towards him.

"Here. I thought I was tutoring an eight-year-old. You can give this to your sisters you don't want them." I keep my head down and try to focus on my homework. I'm pretending to read the problem, but the words look like a blur to me.

"Thanks," he smiles and rips open the pack. His hands picks up a couple of them, and he pops them into his mouth.

I sigh in relief. He doesn't look like he's pissed at me anymore, and actually seems pretty nice. It's dark by the time we finish, and he offers to take me home in his car. Hopefully things start more smoothly tomorrow. Boy, was I wrong.

*****