The Tutor's Clause

"You're not serious." Simona stood in the doorway of the headmaster's office, her bag still slung over one shoulder, like she hadn't decided if she was staying long enough to take it off. Headmaster Voss folded his hands on the desk. "Miss Kowalski, sit down." "I'd rather stand." "Sit down anyway." She sat. "Your scholarship renewal is due for review in the spring," he said. "As you know, it's merit based. Academic performance, and this year, a new component. Peer mentorship." "Mentorship." "Tutoring, specifically." Simona's stomach dropped an inch. "Tutoring who?" "George Ricci." She laughed before she could stop herself. "You're joking." "I don't joke, Miss Kowalski." "George Ricci hasn't done a reading assignment since September. Everyone knows that." "Which is precisely why he needs a tutor." "So get him one. There are people paid to do this." "There are. And you'll be one of them, unofficially, starting this week." Voss slid a folder across the desk. "His grades need to come up by end of term or he loses his place on the rowing team, and his father has made it clear that outcome would be, let's say, unwelcome." "That's his problem." "It's about to be yours too." Voss tapped the folder. "Your scholarship contract includes a service clause. Mentorship hours count toward it. You need forty by spring. This fills them." Simona stared at the folder like it might bite her. "And if I say no?" "Then you find forty hours somewhere else, on your own time, with no guarantee they'll count the same way." He paused. "Or you don't hit forty, and the committee reviews your renewal without them." She didn't say anything. "I'm not asking you to like him," Voss said. "I'm asking you to tutor him. Twice a week. Starting Thursday." "Why me?" "Because you're the top of your year in every subject he's failing, and because I need someone who won't be charmed into letting him coast." A small, dry almost-smile. "You've never struck me as easily charmed." Simona picked up the folder. --- She found George exactly where the rumors said she would, sprawled across a bench outside the boathouse, earbuds in, ignoring the cold like it was beneath him. "George Ricci." He didn't open his eyes. "Not interested." "In what?" "Whatever you're selling." "I'm not selling anything." She sat down on the other end of the bench, uninvited. "I'm your new tutor." That got one eye open. "My what." "Tutor. Twice a week. Starting Thursday." He pulled the earbuds out slowly, like he was giving her a chance to take it back. "Did my father put you up to this?" "Voss did." "Same thing, basically." "I wouldn't know. I've never met your father." "Lucky you." George sat up, stretching like he had somewhere better to be. "Look, no offense, but I don't need a tutor." "Your grades disagree." "My grades are fine." "You're failing two classes and barely passing a third." He blinked. "How do you know that?" "Voss showed me the folder." "That's supposed to be confidential." "Apparently not when it involves me losing my scholarship." That landed differently than she expected. George actually paused. "Wait. Your scholarship's tied to this?" "Congratulations, you're my job now." "That's insane." "I agree." "So tell Voss no." "I did, basically. He said no back, more firmly." George rubbed a hand over his face. "This is such a mess." "Yes." "I don't even want to be on the rowing team that badly." "Then why are you failing everything instead of just quitting?" He didn't answer that. Simona noticed the pause, filed it away, decided not to push yet. "Thursday," she said instead. "Library, four o'clock. Bring your calculus notes, if you have any." "I have notes." "Real ones, or the kind where you drew in the margins for forty minutes?" A flicker of something almost like a smile crossed his face before he shut it down. "Depends on the day." "Great start." "You're really doing this." "I don't have a choice. Neither do you, apparently." George looked at her for a second too long, like he was recalculating something. "Fine. Thursday." "Four o'clock." "I heard you the first time." Simona stood, slinging her bag back over her shoulder. "Don't be late." "Wasn't planning on it." "You were sprawled on a bench during study hours with your eyes closed. Forgive me for not trusting your planning." That earned an actual laugh, short and surprised, like it caught him off guard as much as her. "Noted," he said. "Thursday. Four. I'll even bring the real notes." "We'll see." She walked away before he could say anything else, already dreading how many afternoons this was going to cost her, and already, quietly, curious what he'd been about to say before he stopped himself.