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malicious.
    When the final bell rings at last, I’m relieved to gather up my stuff and head to the library. Let’s just get this over with.
    Our library has a study area enclosed by glass walls. There are two other people in it when I arrive: a frantic-looking female freshman, and a senior boy with earbuds in and a massive textbook in front of him. They both look up when I open the door.
    â€œHi,” I say. “I’m going to be tutoring someone. Would that disturb you?” The boy gives me an uncomprehending look and pulls out one white earbud. I repeat the question.
    â€œNo, go ahead,” he says shortly. He replaces his earbud and goes back to work. The girl is gathering up her stuff.
    â€œOh, I don’t want to chase you out,” I start, but she waves a hand.
    â€œIt’s fine. It’s better for you to talk in here, and I wouldn’t mind a change of scenery.”
    I thank her as she goes to claim a table outside the study area. I sit down, getting out the papers I had printed during lunch and arranging them in front of me in chronological order. I’m unaccountably nervous. I’ve tutored students before, even volunteering at my public library for some ESL help last summer, so it’s not that. It’s who I’m meeting. I’m suddenly irrationally angry at Amber for putting ideas in my head.
    I’m not in the best frame of mind when Scarlett finally arrives, twelve minutes late. I have my arms crossed when she rushes in, banging open the study room door and causing everyone in the library to look up at the noise.
    â€œI’m really sorry I’m late,” she says, loud in the quiet library. The librarian gets up to come over, and I forestall her by shushing Scarlett myself. She turns around and mouths Sorry! at the rest of the room.
    â€œI’m sorry I’m late,” she says again, sotto voce, sinking in the seat next to me. “Serhan’s battery died and I had to give him a jump.”
    â€œThat’s fine,” I say flatly. I pull her first essay over. “Are you ready to get started now?”
    â€œYeah, yeah. Hit me with your wisdom, Obi-Wan.”
    I thaw a little in light of her good-natured, almost earnest, face. I’m always trying to put my finger on exactly what it is that makes her so good-looking. The eyes and the mouth, yes, but it’s also the way all her features are proportioned so entirely well to each other. Her nose on its own would be too broad in the center, but it leads perfectly to her interesting, expressive lips. Her hair picks up natural highlights from the sun, making it an interesting spectrum: dark, chocolate-colored with lighter strands seamlessly woven through. She’s of a medium build and nicely toned from all the soccer.
    One of her hands, confidently feminine and bearing a black ink mark on one knuckle, reaches for the essay and centers it between us. I force myself away from reflecting on her looks and back to her work.
    â€œAll right. Where is your thesis statement?” I start.
    She hesitates and then points to a sentence, looking at me like it’s a multiple-choice question she thinks she failed. I soften even further.
    â€œHow does this drive your paper?” I ask. “Right now, it’s not connected to anything else you write.”
    I start deconstructing her essay, looking at her frequently to gauge how much she understands as I go. Her brow furrows as I start each point, the right eyebrow dipping lower than the left. As I talk it starts to slowly even out, finally lifting a little with comprehension. I don’t get tired of watching this procession over and over as I go through her second and third essays as well, tracking the movements of her blue eyes across the pages. She looks up and catches me watching her as I’m discussing her third paper’s conclusion, and suddenly we’re staring at each other with less than a foot between us.
    â€œSo, so,