Not Doing

Everyone at Westbrook High had a Leo Moretti story. Mine was three sentences long, and I'd never even spoken to him. Sentence one: he'd put a sophomore's backpack on top of the gym roof. Sentence two: he'd been suspended for a week after a fight behind the cafeteria that nobody could explain but everybody swore they'd seen. Sentence three: he was the best hockey player this school had produced in twenty years, which was exactly why the principal kept letting him walk away from all of it. That was all I knew, and all I needed to know, because I had a plan for my senior year, and there was no room in it for a boy like that. My plan had a color-coded spreadsheet. It had a scholarship deadline, a personal statement in its ninth draft, and a 4.0 I had bled for since freshman year. It did not have a Leo Moretti-shaped hole in it. Which is why, when the guidance secretary looked up at 7:52 on Monday morning and said, "Ms. Hart, Mrs. Alvarez is ready for you," my stomach dropped like I'd missed a step on the stairs. Nobody got called into guidance in October of senior year for good news. "Emilia!" Mrs. Alvarez waved me in with a mug that said World's Okayest Counselor. She was tiny, brisk, and permanently wearing a cardigan the color of oatmeal. "Sit, sit. You're not in trouble." "I didn't think I was," I lied, and sat. "How do you feel about tutoring?" Relief loosened my shoulders. This, I could do. "I'd love to. Is it chemistry? Because Mr. Dunn's exams have that trick on the equilibrium section—" "It's not chemistry." "English? History?" "All of them." She winced, like she was pulling off a bandage. "There's a student in serious academic trouble. His teachers are running out of patience. I think, with the right person, he can turn it around." "Who's the student?" She slid a folder across the desk and let me read the tab. MORETTI, LEONARDO A. I laughed. It came out high and strange. "No." "Emilia—" "No, I'm sorry, but there has to be someone else. Someone who wants to do this. Someone with more time." Someone who wasn't going to get stuffed into a locker for it. "You have the highest GPA in your class," she said gently. "And you're the only student he might not be able to intimidate." "He doesn't intimidate me." "Good. That's exactly what I was hoping you'd say." I'd walked straight into that one. She flipped the folder open to a wall of red ink. "He's failing English and chemistry, and barely holding on in history. If his grades aren't up by the end of the first quarter—" "He can't play hockey." "He can't play hockey," she agreed. I should have felt satisfied. Boys like Leo Moretti caught every break because they could skate fast and look good in a jersey. Maybe a little consequence would do him good. But I'd seen the banner in the gym, WESTBROOK WARRIORS — STATE CHAMPIONS, with his number stitched in the center. I'd heard the school lose its mind on game nights, all the way from the library. Whatever else he was, hockey wasn't a hobby for him. "How long do I have?" I heard myself ask. Mrs. Alvarez smiled like she'd already won. "Six weeks. Three afternoons a week, in the library." "And if he doesn't show up?" "He'll show up. Or I'll see to it personally." The door opened behind me. I didn't turn around. I didn't have to. The room changed the way a room does when a storm walks in. "Mr. Moretti," Mrs. Alvarez said. "You're twenty minutes late." "Traffic." "You walk to school." "Heavy foot traffic." The voice was low and lazy, like every word was a favor. I turned, telling myself I only wanted to know what I was dealing with. Leo Moretti leaned against the doorframe like it had been built for him. Dark hair that looked like he'd run his hands through it and given up. A half-healed split in his lower lip. Varsity jacket hanging off one shoulder, the required tie tucked in his back pocket like a dare. His eyes were gray. Not blue-gray or green-gray. Just gray, the flat color of the sky before it snows, and they landed on me with total, bored indifference. "Who's this?" "Emilia Hart. Your new tutor." He laughed. Not a mean laugh. Worse. It was amused. "Yeah. No." "Leo." "Mrs. A, I told you, I don't need a tutor." "Your report card disagrees." "My report card's got a bad attitude." He crossed the room in four unhurried steps and dropped into the chair beside mine. He smelled like cold air and cedar and something faintly like the inside of a hockey bag. "No offense. I'm sure you're great." "None taken. I'm sure you're not." His eyebrows lifted. Mrs. Alvarez coughed. He looked me over, from my neat ponytail to the pen I was gripping like a weapon, and I had the humiliating impression of being filed under a category. "Let me guess. Honor roll. Never late. Color-codes her notes. Has a five-year plan. Is it laminated?" "It's in a spreadsheet." "Of course it is." "At least I have one." It was out before I could stop it. The room went quiet. Something flickered across his face, sharp and fast, like a match struck and shaken out. Then the smirk returned. "Careful, Hart. You'll hurt my feelings." "I doubt you have any." "Actually," Mrs. Alvarez said, in the calm voice of a woman who had survived twenty years of teenagers, "neither of you is being asked to agree." She set a sheet between us: Westbrook High School Athletic Eligibility Notice. In a box outlined in red was a sentence I read three times. Failure to achieve a minimum 2.0 GPA by the close of the first quarter will result in immediate suspension from all varsity athletic activity for the remainder of the academic year. "Six weeks," Leo said lightly, but his hand had gone still on the arm of the chair. "Coach knows?" "Coach signed it." For the first time, Leo Moretti had nothing clever to say. His jaw worked once, like he was swallowing something he didn't want to taste. I told myself I didn't feel sorry for him. But I'd seen that flicker, and now his knuckles had gone pale on the chair. "Fine," he said at last, to the paper. "Three afternoons. I'll be present." "And you'll do the work." "I'll try." It wasn't a promise, but it was the closest she was going to get. "Library, Wednesday, three-fifteen. Both of you. Go to class." In the hallway, I tried to walk the other way. "Hey." My feet stopped on their own. He was leaning against the lockers, arms crossed. "Wednesday," I said. "Three-fifteen. Don't be late." "I'm always late." "Then be less late." "Is that a rule?" "It's a request." "Huh." He tilted his head. "You're not scared of me." "Should I be?" "Everyone else is." "Everyone else has heard stories. I'd rather see what you actually do." I regretted it instantly, because Leo Moretti grinned, a real one, crooked and sudden and entirely too devastating for a Monday morning. "Careful, Hart," he said, and this time there was no mockery in it. "Curiosity gets people in trouble." He strolled off, hands in his pockets, whistling something tuneless. Behind me, two girls stared with wide, horrified eyes. "Did you just talk to Leo Moretti?" "I'm his tutor." Their faces fell in sympathetic unison. "Oh, Emilia," one said, patting my arm like I'd received a diagnosis. "Don't get too close, okay? Everyone knows how it ends with him." "How does it end?" "Badly. It always ends badly." "Please. I have a spreadsheet. I'm not going to fall for him." They exchanged a look. "Okay. Sure." I walked to first period with my head high, telling myself it was nothing. Six weeks. A little patience, a lot of highlighters, and it would all be over before Halloween. I had no idea that in six weeks I would know the exact shade of gray of his eyes when he was angry, and when he was laughing, and when he looked at me like I was the only thing in the world worth reading. I had no idea I'd already made the biggest mistake of my senior year. I'd told Leo Moretti I wanted to see what he was really like. And he had every intention of showing me.