Chapter 3: Crash Course
1082 Words
412 Oak Street smelled like motor oil and stale pizza, a far cry from my lavender-scented bedroom. I stood in Jake’s living room, backpack slung over one shoulder, staring at the chaos—empty soda cans on the coffee table, a skateboard propped against the wall, and a couch that sagged like it’d given up years ago. The TV blared some car chase movie, volume low, and Jake sprawled across the cushions, one arm behind his head, watching me like I was the entertainment.
“Welcome to the palace, princess,” he said, that smirk tugging his lips. He’d swapped the leather jacket for a faded black T-shirt, sleeves tight around his arms, and his damp hair curled at the ends. “Don’t look so scared. It’s just a house.”
“It’s… cozy,” I lied, shifting my weight. The floor creaked under my sneakers, and I prayed it wouldn’t collapse. “Can we just start? I brought notes.”
He sat up, slow and deliberate, stretching like a cat. “All business, huh? Fine. Table’s over there.” He jerked his head toward a rickety dining table in the corner, stacked with notebooks and a half-eaten bag of chips. I hesitated, then crossed the room, dropping my bag with a thud. My hands were clammy—tutoring Jake Ryder in his own house felt like walking into a lion’s den with a steak tied around my neck.
I pulled out my English binder, flipping to our latest assignment: The Great Gatsby. “Okay, so Miss Carter’s test is in two weeks. Chapters 1–5, themes, characters. Have you even read it?”
Jake slid into the chair across from me, leaning back so it balanced on two legs. “Skimmed it. Rich guy, parties, blah blah. Didn’t get the hype.”
I groaned. “That’s not—look, it’s about love and obsession and the American Dream. You need to know Gatsby’s deal with Daisy, the green light symbolism—”
“Slow down, brainiac.” He rocked the chair forward, elbows on the table, close enough that I caught a whiff of mint gum. “You’re gonna give me a headache. Just tell me what’s on the test.”
My cheeks flared. “You can’t just memorize answers. You have to understand it.” I shoved the book at him, open to Chapter 1. “Read the first page. Out loud. We’ll go from there.”
He stared at me, then the book, like I’d asked him to eat dirt. “Seriously?”
“Seriously.” I crossed my arms, channeling every ounce of AP-student authority. “You want to pass? Start here.”
He muttered something under his breath—probably a curse—but grabbed the book. His voice was rough, stumbling over the words like they were foreign. “In my younger and more vulnerable years my father gave me some advice…” He paused, frowning. “This guy sounds like a tool.”
“He’s not—keep going,” I said, biting back a laugh. He glared but read on, tripping over “orgastic future” and snorting. “What’s that even mean?”
“It’s about hope,” I said, leaning forward. “Gatsby’s chasing something he can’t have. Like you and football if you flunk this.”
His eyes snapped to mine, sharp and narrow. “Low blow, Mia.” But he kept reading, slower now, and I scribbled notes—key quotes, themes—trying not to notice how his voice softened on the romantic bits. Ten minutes in, he tossed the book down. “Enough. My brain’s fried.”
“We’ve barely started!” I protested, tapping my pen. “You need at least an hour—”
“Chill.” He stood, stretching again, shirt riding up just enough to show a sliver of tanned skin. I looked away fast, heat crawling up my neck. “I need a break. You want a soda?”
“No, I—” He was already halfway to the kitchen, leaving me with Gatsby and my racing pulse. The fridge clunked open, and I heard a can crack. This was a mistake. I should’ve set ground rules—no smirks, no breaks, no… whatever this was.
He came back, two cans in hand, and dropped one in front of me despite my no. “Drink. You’re too tense.” He popped his open, taking a swig, eyes locked on mine over the rim. “So, this wedding. What’s the deal? Your family that bad?”
I fidgeted with the can, cold against my fingers. “They’re… pushy. Mom’s obsessed with me not being ‘the single one.’ My sister’s perfect—married, lawyer, gorgeous. I’m just… me.”
Jake tilted his head, studying me. “You’re not ‘just’ anything. You’re here, aren’t you? Takes guts to barge into my world.”
I blinked, caught off guard. Was that a compliment? Before I could respond, a door slammed somewhere in the house. Heavy footsteps thudded closer, and a guy—taller than Jake, broader, with a buzz cut and a scowl—stumbled into the room. He reeked of beer, eyes bloodshot.
“Jake, you got my cash?” he slurred, then spotted me. His grin turned crooked. “Who’s this? Your little tutor?”
Jake’s jaw tightened, chair scraping as he stood. “Back off, Kyle. She’s here for me.”
Kyle laughed, a wet, ugly sound, and lurched toward the table. “Cute. She staying the night?”
“Get out,” Jake snapped, voice like steel. He stepped between us, shoulders squared, and for the first time, I saw something hard in him—protective, maybe. Kyle muttered a curse, grabbed a beer from the counter, and staggered back down the hall. The door slammed again.
Silence stretched, thick and heavy. Jake didn’t turn around right away, his hands clenched at his sides. When he did, his smirk was gone, replaced by something raw. “Sorry. My brother’s an ass.”
I nodded, throat tight, still gripping the unopened soda. “It’s fine. We should… keep going.”
“Yeah.” He sat, but the air had shifted—darker, heavier. He picked up the book, voice quieter now. “Where were we?”
I pointed to the page, but my mind wasn’t on Gatsby anymore. Who was Jake Ryder, really? And what had I just walked into?
- Writer
