Chapter 2 The Golden Boy Who Doesn't Try

Mason's POV What Viv doesn't know is that I wasn't randomly assigned to her. I asked for her. My advisor gave me several tutors to choose from, and after looking through the list, I gave him one name. Vivian Castellan. Even Jules thought that was suspicious. Worse, he might be right. The first time I noticed Viv wasn't today. It was a few weeks ago in the library, when she was arguing with a professor about a grade. She didn't cry. She didn't raise her voice. She just stood there and laid out her argument point by point until the professor was the one who stopped talking. I watched a little longer than I needed to. After that, I noticed her at the coffee shop. Then in the library again. Once near the tutoring center. I'm not even sure what shift she works at The Grind, only that she always looks tired and like she'd rather die than admit it. Worn Converse, hair twisted up without much effort, usually carrying books from one place to another the second she finishes whatever she's doing. The strangest part is that she barely seems to notice me. That sounds arrogant. At this school, though, it's unusual. So when my advisor asked which tutor I wanted, I gave him her name. I told myself it was because she was the best. That's what I told Jules too. He said I'm a terrible liar. Now that I'm sitting across from Viv, I'm starting to wonder if I really did create a problem for myself for no good reason. She gives me absolutely nothing. If I'm wrong, she tells me I'm wrong. If I don't know a formula, she makes me work it out again. If I make a joke, I'm lucky if I get half a glance before she pushes the problem back toward me. It's new. And somehow still easier than the phone call I got from my father this morning. At six-thirty sharp, he calls. The first thing he asks is why I'm not at the house. The second is whether I'll meet the Hendricks' daughter. The third is finally what he actually cares about. My D-minus in Statistics. To him, it isn't just one bad grade. It's another thing that could cost me my place on the team, hurt my draft chances, and embarrass the Hale name. He's not entirely wrong. I'm one semester from graduation, and if I screw this up badly enough, it could affect everything that comes after. But Statistics isn't what I'm really worried about. My right elbow is. It's still aching from practice. Three months ago, when the pain first started, I could tell myself I'd simply thrown too much. Now it's happening more often. Today one of my pitches went badly wide because the pain hit at exactly the wrong moment, and I had to grit my teeth and throw again until Coach was satisfied. I haven't told him. I haven't told my father either. Jules knows something is wrong, but not how bad it might be. Because if the diagnosis comes back wrong, I won't just lose a game or two. I could lose the one future I've actually chosen for myself. Compared to that, Statistics feels simple. If I don't understand something, I learn it. If my grade is bad, I fix it. At least this is a problem with an answer. Viv slides another question toward me. "This time, don't rush into the math. Read the conditions first." I glance at the problem, then at her. She frowns. "Why are you looking at me?" "Trying to figure out if you're this mean to all your students." "You're not the first person to ask." "And the answer?" "Do the problem." I look down and laugh. Fine. Jules got at least one thing right. I really did choose my own problem. Halfway through the question, I realize Viv is watching me. Not my face. My right hand. I loosen my grip on the pen automatically. My elbow must have twinged, and I probably moved it without noticing. "What?" I ask. Her eyes shift away almost immediately. "Nothing." For some reason, I don't believe her. She goes back to checking my work, and I don't explain. We've known each other for less than an hour. She doesn't need to know about my arm. Just like I don't need to know why, when she first saw my file, she stared at the name Hale for so long. But I noticed. And the look on her face wasn't the usual recognition that comes with my family name. It looked like she was trying to remember something. "Viv." She doesn't look up. "Stuck again?" "No." I hesitate, then let it go. She finally raises her head and gives me a suspicious look. I slide the paper toward her. "Finished." She scans it, picks up her red pen, and circles two answers. "Two wrong. Better than I expected." "Is that a compliment?" "You can take it as one." I laugh. She's already looking down at the next problem. And suddenly I have the feeling that this tutoring arrangement, which is only supposed to last until I drag my Statistics grade back from the dead, might not be as boring as I expected. What I don't know yet is that the thing about Vivian Castellan that will matter most won't be whether she can save my D-minus. It'll be the one thing she can't remember herself. Hale.