7- I Don't Find It Funny
1980 Words
“Right,” he said, straightening up with mock seriousness. “What’s first on the list of my many academic crimes?”
I passed him a paper. “You’ll be filling this out. It’s a subject-wise self-assessment. Rate your comfort level, current grade, and effort on a scale of one to ten. Be honest.”
He glanced at it, brows lifting. “You’re really making me do homework in the first five minutes of our meeting?”
“It’s either this or I run through your files and judge you silently.”
He laughed softly, eyes dropping to the sheet. “Okay, okay. Fine.”
As he started filling it out, I watched him, not in the way he probably assumed I did, but with the sharp eye of someone searching for patterns. Behavior, attitude, response time.
I wasn’t here to be charmed. I was here to do an assignment.
But still… something about him felt off-script. Like he didn’t belong in the files I had reviewed or the statistics I was working from. And I didn’t like that.
Because unpredictability made things messy.
And I didn’t do messy.
He tapped the pen against his chin, eyes scanning the first subject line. “Math,” he murmured. “Comfort level: three. Current grade: passable. Effort…” He paused, then scribbled a hesitant six.
“You hesitated,” I said.
Cole glanced up, smirking. “Caught that, huh?”
“Which means you’re overselling yourself,” I replied coolly. “Try again.”
He exhaled, crossed out the six, and replaced it with a four. “You’re brutal.”
“I’m honest.”
His smirk didn’t fade. “I kinda like that about you.”
I ignored the way something about that line made my spine stiffen. “English?” I prompted, keeping my voice steady.
“Comfort: eight. Grade: probably a seven. Effort… five.”
“You’re coasting.”
“Story of my life,” he said, flashing a grin.
I tapped my pen against my clipboard, a sharp sound in the quiet. “Coasting doesn’t get you where you need to be.”
“And where do I need to be, Alyssa?”
The way he said my name—slow, deliberate, like he was testing how it sounded in his mouth, made the air feel warmer than it should’ve.
I didn’t answer. Instead, I leaned forward, flipping the page to the next subject. “History.”
He rolled his eyes like a bored child, but I noticed how he leaned in, too. Almost like he wanted to close the space I kept building between us.
“History’s a five across the board,” he said with a shrug. “Mediocre performance for a mediocre subject.”
“Objectively false. But noted.”
He filled out the rest of the sheet with a mix of reluctance and charm, occasionally sneaking glances my way that I pointedly ignored. When he finally slid the paper back across the table, his expression shifted slightly.
“Happy?” he asked.
“Not even close,” I said, scanning the numbers. “But it’s a start.”
Cole leaned back again, folding his arms behind his head. “You’re really not easy to impress, are you?”
“I’m not here to be impressed,” I replied, eyes still on the sheet. “I’m here to make sure you don’t flunk half your subjects and tank my mentor record in the process.”
There was a pause. Then he chuckled low under his breath.
“What?”
“Nothing. Just, most people pretend a little. You don’t.”
“Pretending wastes time.”
“Mm. Then I’ll try not to waste yours.”
I glanced up at that, and for a second, something unreadable passed between us. Not flirtation. Not quite tension. Just... curiosity. Controlled, cautious.
I straightened the papers and reached for my planner. “Next step is goal setting. Short-term, achievable, and personalized.”
He sighed dramatically. “You’re really not going to give me a break, huh?”
“No. And the sooner you accept that, the smoother this will go.”
He smirked again. “Then I better keep up.”
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"The sooner you accept that, the smoother this will go."
She said it like a warning. Calm. Precise. Like everything she did.
And I couldn’t stop watching her. Not in a creepy way ofcourse.
I was writing things down, answering her pointed questions, checking off whatever boxes she shoved in front of me. But at the same time, my brain was filing away a completely different set of notes.
Like the way her brow furrowed, barely, when she didn’t like my answer. Or how her fingers tapped against the clipboard twice when she was thinking of how to say something nicer than what she was actually thinking.
She was trying hard not to show judgment. That part I picked up quickly.
But she was judging me. Quietly. Thoroughly.
And for some reason, that made me want to show her I wasn’t just another one of those screw-ups she probably had to drag through this whole mentorship thing.
She was different today. Quieter. Distant. The walls she’d carefully let down slightly, were suddenly back up, cold and unyielding. Cole noticed it the moment she walked in. Something had shifted, but what the hell caused it?
“I’m not as bad as those files make me look, you know,” I said, after a moment, trying to keep my voice light.
Alyssa didn’t even look up. “I’ll decide that based on results.”
Oof. Brutal.
I gave a small laugh, but something about it sank deeper than I expected.
Because yeah… I guess I was tired of people looking at me like a walking warning sign.
“Do you ever… mess up?” I asked, before I could even stop myself.
That made her pause.
She finally looked up, eyes locking with mine for the first time today. “Of course I do.”
“You don’t look like someone who does.”
“Neither do you,” she said plainly. “But we’re both here, aren’t we?”
That… hit harder than it should’ve.
And maybe that was the first moment I realized I didn’t actually mind this whole mentor-mentee setup. If anything, I kind of wanted to impress her. Not just for the grades or the program. But because she made me want to do better—even when she was looking at me like I was a nuisance right now.
She checked her watch a minute later. “You’ve got twenty more minutes. We’ll use it to build your weekly study block.”
“More paperwork?” I groaned.
She raised a brow. “More progress.”
I grinned, leaning forward as she flipped open another page. “yes ma'am. But just for the record, this is the longest I’ve ever focused on anything academic.”
“I’m honored,” she said dryly, but I caught the faintest twitch at the corner of her mouth.
Not a smile. But close.
Alyssa slid the next sheet toward me, already filled with neatly outlined time slots.
"These are your school hours, club meetings, and free periods based on the schedule the school sent me," she said, tapping the columns with her pen. "And here" she pointed to the shaded sections "is where I’m suggesting we slot in your study hours.
“Wait.” I leaned over the page, eyes narrowing. “You’ve already mapped out everything?”
“I’ve mapped out your time. There’s a difference.”
I let out a slow whistle, impressed despite myself. “Do you ever relax?”
“Efficiency is relaxing,” she said like it was the most obvious thing in the world.
God, she was serious. So serious. And I think that’s what made me want to push just a little.
I leaned back in my seat and gave her a slow, deliberate once-over. “You’re honestly kind of terrifying, you know.”
She didn’t flinch. “Good. Maybe you’ll take this seriously.”
“I am taking it seriously,” I replied, meeting her gaze. “I just didn’t expect to have a full-blown academic military operation planned out by the end of our second meeting.”
She lifted a brow, clearly unimpressed. “You want results or not?”
“Sure, I do. But if I survive this, I think I deserve more than just passing grades.”
“What, like a medal?”
“I was thinking more like, coffee. With you”
There, I said it.
She blinked, completely still for a second. Then her eyes went red with silent rage.
Then, composing herself, she calmly said, “No and focus on not flunking.”
No. She said no.
She looked away, scribbling something on the paper again like she hadn’t just heard me ask her out in the middle of a study plan.
She was unreadable.
I leaned back, lips twitching, trying to decide if I was more amused or bruised.
“No and focus on not flunking,” she’d said, with that emotionless face she makes.
Brutal. Ice-cold. Almost impressive.
Most people would’ve blushed, stammered, at least looked flattered. Not her. She shut it down so fast, I felt the wind from the slam.
But even as she buried herself in notes and timelines like nothing had happened, I saw it, barely there, but real. That tiny flicker in her fingers. The pause in her pen. The extra second it took before her voice returned to that maddeningly even tone.
She heard me. Felt it. Just wouldn’t let me see it.
God, she was difficult, and rigid.
And I was already in too deep.
I didn’t press again, didn’t flirt or joke or even look her way for a while. Just sat back and watched her. This quiet, iron-willed girl.
But beneath all that composure… there was something. Something I hadn’t figured out yet. Something I was definitely going to.
I let out a soft breath and leaned forward again, voice lower this time. “Alright. Tell me what I’m supposed to do next.”
She didn’t look up, but her pen stopped moving.
“Read chapter three of your math book. Try to solve the even-numbered questions. I’ll check them tomorrow.”
“Copy that.”
She resumed writing, but I caught the tiniest shift in her jaw.
This wasn’t a game to her.
But it wasn’t exactly just an assignment to me anymore either. And maybe… that was the problem.
We were wrapping up for the day. She was methodical as always—books stacked neatly, planner tucked away, not a single paper out of place. I stayed where I was, watching her move, half-listening to the quiet sounds of the courtyard.
She slung her bag over her shoulder and headed down the stairs. I figured that was it. Session over. No eye rolls, no glares. A win, honestly.
But then she stopped.
Turned around slowly.
“Cole,” she said, her voice calm but sharper than usual. “Do you actually find it funny? Your flirting… the teasing?”
I blinked, caught mid-thought.
“Because I don’t,” she continued. “And you shouldn’t either. So maybe stop with those sudden, cheesy lines. It’s distracting—and honestly, uncalled for.”
Then she just… left.
No dramatic exit, no scolding glare. Just a calm statement and the sound of her footsteps fading down the stairs.
I stood there for a moment, hands in my pockets, chewing on her words.
Did I think it was funny? Maybe. But not for the reasons she assumed.
And still… that was the first time she really stopped to call me out.
And I couldn’t help but think—
Good. She’s not indifferent.
Not even close.
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- Writer
