3
899 Words
I’m never early. That’s, like, a rule I live by.
Fashionably late? Absolutely. Dramatically late? Preferable.
But today?
I’m sitting at the library table seven minutes early like a total nerd.
What’s worse? I brought an actual notebook. With actual math problems.
Who am I?
I’ve just started doodling flames on the corner of my homework when Eli walks in. He spots me immediately and tilts his head like I’m a rare bird he didn’t expect to see in the wild.
“You’re early,” he says, sliding into the seat across from me.
“Don’t sound so surprised.”
“Didn’t think you’d show up at all.”
“Well, I’m full of surprises.”
“You’re full of something,” he mutters.
I ignore that. “Okay, Einstein, teach me how to not fail.”
Eli pulls out a mechanical pencil, a battered graphing calculator, and a folder labeled AP Calculus: Hope Dies Here.
I’m not sure if I should laugh or cry.
“Alright,” he says, flipping to a blank sheet of paper. “Let’s start with derivatives.”
“Let’s not.”
“Do you know what a derivative is?”
“Something I’ll never need unless I become a robot.”
He blinks. “It’s the rate at which a function is changing at any given point.”
I blink back. “You lost me at ‘rate.’”
He sighs. “Okay, let me explain it like this—”
For the next ten minutes, Eli talks math, drawing little curves and symbols and using way too many syllables. I mostly stare at his hands. He has annoyingly nice hands. Long fingers. Sharp knuckles. Definitely the kind of hands that could type a hundred words a minute or crack open a safe.
Focus, Blake.
When he finishes, he looks up, expectantly.
“So,” he says. “Get it?”
“Not even a little.”
He sighs again, but this time it’s softer. Less I hate you, more you are the slowest processor known to man.
“Okay,” he says, picking up my pencil. “Let’s try a different angle.”
He leans closer, flipping my notebook toward him, and rewrites the problem in his own handwriting. His shoulder brushes mine for half a second—warm and very real—and I pretend not to notice.
“This is your function,” he says. “We’re looking for how it changes. Think of it like… Cheerleading.”
I raise a brow. “Go on.”
“When you do one of those flips—”
“Back handsprings?”
“Sure. You don’t just fly into the air for fun. There’s a motion. A speed. A rate of movement. Calculus looks at that moment—how fast you’re flipping, when you’re going up versus coming down.”
I blink. “So derivatives are… back handsprings?”
“In the loosest, nerdiest metaphor possible, yes.”
I stare at him. “That was the weirdest explanation I’ve ever heard.”
“And?”
“…It kinda worked.”
He actually smiles. Barely. Just a twitch at the corner of his mouth. But it’s there.
“Congratulations,” I say. “You made math almost tolerable.”
“Don’t get used to it.”
I study him for a second—his steady hand, his calm voice, the way he doesn’t fill every silence with noise the way I do.
“You’re different,” I say before I can stop myself.
He looks up. “Thanks?”
“I mean it. Most guys at this school either bark, flex, or flirt. You just… exist. Like a robot with social anxiety.”
He blinks. “And that’s a compliment?”
“In my world? Yeah.”
He doesn’t say anything for a second. Just watches me with that unreadable expression of his. Then—
“Why do you care about passing so badly?” he asks.
I frown. “Didn’t we already go over this?”
“Not really.”
I hesitate. Because I could lie. Say it’s about cheer and popularity and keeping my shiny perfect life. But the truth?
The truth is messier.
“Because…” I pause. “People think I’m just a dumb blonde with a credit card and a hair straightener. I want to prove I’m more than that.”
Eli doesn’t laugh. Doesn’t roll his eyes.
He just nods. “Then we’ll prove it.”
We.
Huh.
That word lands heavier than I expect.
“Okay,” I say. “Let’s do it.”
And just like that, we dive back into derivatives.
For the next hour, we work in silence. Kind of. I complain a lot. He ignores most of it. Occasionally, he makes sarcastic comments I pretend to hate but secretly enjoy.
It’s… oddly peaceful.
Until my phone buzzes.
It’s a text from Jordyn:
ur ghosting us. u dead or studying with the nerd???
Eli glances at the screen. “Popular friends checking in?”
I swipe it away. “None of your business.”
He smirks. “You know, if your friends find out about this, your reputation might implode.”
“Yeah, well…” I say, stuffing my phone into my bag. “Maybe it’s time for a controlled explosion.”
Eli raises an eyebrow.
I don’t explain.
I don’t have to.
- Writer
