Make Me Pass

All my hopes and dreams crash the moment Ms. Carter slams the test onto her desk. The scarlet ‘F’ practically sneers at me from the page. “You couldn’t have made that any bigger?” I mutter. Ms. Carter peers at me over her navy blue glasses. “You failed.” No s**t. She gives me a second to stew in self-loathing before twisting the knife. “You can’t stay on the cheer team.” My stomach plummets. “One more chance.” “You’ve already said that,” she says flatly. Like a hundred times, okay, fine. “But I mean it this time,” I say. “One more test.” Ms. Carter shakes her head. “Blake—” “You know I can’t quit cheerleading.” “Then maybe you should’ve studied. I only asked you to pass one test.” My hands curl into fists. She’s not wrong. I just… don’t do studying. I try. I get bored. I wander off. My brain is like a cat chasing laser pointers made of TikToks and snack cravings. But this? Losing cheer captain? No. I’d rather die. “One more chance,” I plead, letting the desperation bleed into my voice. She sighs the sigh of someone who’s already given too many second chances. “This is it,” she says. “One. Last. Chance.” I nod like my life depends on it—because it kind of does. “If you fail again, you’re out. And this time, Blake?” She raises a brow. “You need a C. No more scraping by with D’s.” “C?” I gape. “You said D last time!” “Yes. And you bombed.” “But that’s so unfair.” “Life’s unfair,” she says with a sugar-sweet smile. “Also? It’s Ms. Carter.” I narrow my eyes. “I thought you were my favorite teacher, Cara.” “Ms. Carter,” she repeats, gathering her papers. “C’mon. I passed that one test two weeks ago,” I protest. “You cheated.” “But I passed.” She sighs. “Why don’t you get a tutor?” “You?” “No.” “Where am I supposed to find one?” “I don’t know, Blake. Try using those ‘magic charm powers’ you brag about.” “Who even charms someone into tutoring them? Did you get charmed into teaching?” “Ask someone in the library.” “None of my friends are passing either.” “Language,” she warns, before shrugging. “Then find someone who is.” “Suggestions?” She points vaguely toward the door. “Library.” “You’ll bump my grade if I pass?” “If you get a C.” “Okay,” I mutter, grabbing the test. “But I’m not happy about this.” She nods like she’s heard it all before. “Welcome to high school.” I swear the air changes when I walk into the library. Like I’ve crossed into a different universe. A quiet one. A judgmental one. Where the smell of books is stronger than the will to live. Heads turn. People stare. It’s not even subtle. I might as well be wearing a neon sign that says Cheerleader Seeking Academic Redemption. I ignore the wide-eyed gawks and scan the room. Everyone here looks either terrified of me, confused by me, or actively trying to pretend I don’t exist. Awesome. I spot a girl curled in the corner, nose buried in a fantasy book with a cover darker than my mood. Her hair’s braided into two neat Dutch braids, and for a second, I wonder if I’d look good as a brunette. I walk up and smile. “Hey.” She glances up—and instantly freezes. Elbows her friend. Both sets of eyes lock onto me like I just threatened their GPA. “Uh… me?” the braided girl squeaks. “Yeah. Would you tutor me?” Her eyes widen to dinner plate size. I swear I can see her soul leave her body. “I… uh…” Never mind. I already know this look. She’s about to run or faint. I turn away, not bothering to wait for her answer. Behind me, whispers fly. “Was that Blake Everhart?” “Did she just ask you to tutor her?!” “Good thing you didn’t say yes. She’ll end your life if you mess up her notes.” “Remember when she threw that guy’s smoothie in his lap for saying she—” Nope. Not listening. Not today, Satan. I try again with some guy near the window. Same reaction. He nearly drops his pen in fear. Okay, wow. Am I that terrifying? I mean, sure, I’ve got a bit of a rep—loud, dramatic, maybe slightly aggressive when provoked—but I’ve never gone full psycho. Well, not recently. I’m about to give up when someone decides to speak up. “Could you not stomp around like an angry Barbie? You’re making it hard to focus.” I turn, already gearing up for a smart comeback, but pause when I see who said it. He’s sitting a few tables away, leaning over a thick textbook like he actually enjoys it. His hood’s up, shadows hiding most of his face except a sharp jawline and a little dark hair peeking out from under the hood. He looks up—and meets my gaze. Whoa. His eyes are this intense blue, the kind you usually only see on magazine covers or storm warnings. And they’re not impressed with me. “Your shoes,” he says, voice dry. “They’re loud.” I glance down at my pink heels. “They’re cute,” I counter. “They’re also echoing through the library like a marching band.” “You want me to go barefoot?” I raise a brow. A tiny flicker of panic crosses his face. “No. Just… maybe walk quieter?” He looks back at his book, muttering something under his breath. So, no. Definitely not my future tutor. But points for the guts to call me out. I move toward the librarian’s desk. She’s talking to a guy, tall and lean, dressed in all black and radiating Broody Academic Energy™. “I’m telling you, I can handle it,” he says. “Accounting. Filing. Data entry. Anything.” “I’m sorry,” she replies. “There’s nothing open on campus right now.” He sighs, rubbing the back of his neck. “I just… never mind. Thanks anyway.” He turns—and walks straight into me. I stumble, nearly toppling in my heels, but he reacts fast, grabbing my shoulder to steady me. “Oh. Sorry,” he mutters. “Didn’t see you.” I look up. Oh. Damn. It’s him. The broody blue-eyed guy from earlier. His eyes narrow the second they meet mine. Definitely remembered me. He lets go quickly, stepping back like I’m contagious. “Excuse me,” he says coolly, then walks away without another word. I watch him settle into a corner, tug out earphones, and crack open a new textbook. He doesn’t even glance back. Interesting. I turn to the librarian. “Who is that?” She doesn’t answer. Just keeps writing. “Okay, whatever,” I sigh. “Listen, do you know anyone who can tutor me?” She blinks up at me. “Come again?” “I need a tutor.” “Blake Everhart. Is this a prank?” “Oh, Miss Helen,” I say sweetly, leaning on her desk. “Would I ever prank you?” “Yes. Weekly.” “Fair. But this time, I’m serious.” She eyes me like I’ve grown horns. “And pigs can fly.” “Do you know someone or not?” She sighs, muttering something under her breath. “Try the study groups. Or…” She stops. Then groans. “What?” I ask. She jerks her thumb toward the corner. “That guy. The one you bumped into? That’s Eli Hayes. Top of the senior class. Total genius. He’s tutored people before.” I blink. “Storm Eyes?” “Excuse me?” “Nothing. Thanks.” I don’t waste another second. I turn and head straight for the table where Eli Hayes sits with his earbuds in and his whole vibe screaming go away. Well. Let’s see how long he lasts.