After Math

by Denise Grover Swank

  But then again, part of me knows I’m screwed either way.

  Chapter Two

  Caroline is at our apartment when I get home. She’s curled up on the sofa with an afghan and a bowl of mac and cheese, watching Gossip Girl on Netflix. Other than my family, Caroline has known me longer than anyone. Before college, the trailer park in which we grew up was the one commonality that linked us. But while we were friends in grade school, in our high school years we were more acquaintances. Caroline hovered on the periphery of the popular crowd, not quite breaking in because of her address. By high school, I had retreated from everyone and everything, focusing on my goal of graduating with honors and getting a scholarship to college. When we realized we were both going to the same college, we ended up rooming together, then became best friends. We left Shelbyville behind, and we’re all that we have left of our past. Now we’re more like sisters than friends. We’re our own little family.

  “Bad day?” I ask.

  She twists her mouth to one side but doesn’t answer.

  Caroline says her goal in life is to be Blair Waldorf, headbands included. Not surprising since she’s a fashion major. But in the two and a half years we’ve lived together—freshman and sophomore years in the dorm and our junior year in our apartment—I’ve learned that her Gossip Girl marathons are her clue that something’s wrong.

  “Is the sidewalk at the bottom of the stairs still flooded?” she asks, licking her spoon.

  The rain has come down in sheets off and on all day. Still, the question seems random. “Yeah.”

  She scowls. “Damn. I wanted to wear my new suede boots tomorrow.”

  I shake my head as I scoop up a bowl of the mac and cheese. “It’s January in Tennessee, Caroline. It’s wet and cold. What’s tomorrow?”

  She shrugs, but one side is higher than the other. She has a reason but doesn’t want to tell me. “How was geek lab?”

  I shove her feet off the sofa to sit next to her, but she puts them in my lap, and I pull the corner of her throw over the both of us. “Math lab was fine, although I tutored an interesting student.”

  Laughing, Caroline leans over and scoops some macaroni from my bowl. “Interesting student. In the math lab.” She eats my noodles and shrugs. “I give up. I got nuthin’.”

  “Tucker Price.”

  Her eyes narrow, and her mouth puckers around her spoon. “Yeah, right.”

  “Ever heard of academic probation?”

  “You’re kidding?”

  “Nope.” I give her a smug smile. “And guess who will start privately tutoring him?”

  She bolts upright. “Shut. Up.”

  Ever since I’ve agreed to do this, I’ve been trying to see this in a positive light. The mathematics department needs the new program that maps arbitrary complex functions, and experience with this program will look fantastic on my résumé. I already have the disadvantage of Southern University being a relatively small school with a slightly above-average mathematics department. Besides, I tutor students one-on-one all the time. Why is tutoring Tucker any different? To my surprise, Tucker wasn’t the cocky asshole I’m used to hearing about. As long as he checks his attitude at the door, I can live with tutoring him.

  I shrug. “He wasn’t anything like I expected. He was… polite.”

  Sinking back into the cushions, an ornery grin lights up her face and she scoops several noodles. “Oh, he’s polite all right.”

  “Not like that. Kind of quiet. Other than a few slips into character, he was…normal.”

  “Are we talking about the same Tucker Price? Blond with incredible blue eyes? About six foot? Stunning legs when he wears those soccer shorts? Guy who flaunts his good looks and his sportsmanship?”

  “Good Lord. Is everything a sexual innuendo to you tonight?”

  “Pretty much.”

  “Well, it was the same guy. Different personality.”

  “Shh!” She grabs the remote and increases the volume. “Chuck’s about to trade Blair for a hotel.”

  My jaw drops. “You’re kidding, right?” I’ve never been able to get into Gossip Girl, despite Caroline’s multiple and relentless attempts to sway me to the dark side. As a poor girl from the other side of the tracks, I just can’t relate to spoiled rich kids. Or maybe it’s the spoiled, rich bad boys I’m trying to avoid. Why anyone would willingly subject themselves to that type of person is beyond me.

  “Want to talk about anything?” I ask.

  Tears fill her eyes, but she shakes her head.

  “I’m here if you need me, okay?”

  She gives me a tearful smile, and I wrap an arm around her shoulders, leaning my head into hers. I suspect her despondency is related to her breakup from her boyfriend, Justin. He broke up with her several months before, but she’s still not over it. She’ll talk when she’s ready, probably in another hour or two.

  I force myself off the sofa, not an easy task since it’s so cozy under the afghan with Caroline. “I’ve got some equations to work on.”

  Caroline fakes a snore.

  I put a hand on my hip and look down my nose at her. “Don’t the nerdy-math jokes ever get old?”

  She twists her mouth to the side as though she’s giving it thought. “Nope. Never do.”

  “I could tease you mercilessly about your fashion design degree. Tons of fodder there.”

  “Go for it.” She grins with exaggerated glee, the tears still in her eyes. My heart breaks for her, yet I don’t know what to do to help her get over this awful pain. For the moment, we ignore the elephant in the room.

  “Turns out I’m a nicer person than you,” I call out to her as I walk down the hall to my bedroom.

  “You just keep telling yourself that.”

  I turn my desk light on then lie down on my bed and listen to the ping of the rain on my window, taking a deep breath. I try to do my relaxation exercises every night to help my overall anxiety, and the soothing sound of the rain helps.

  One of many godsends about college was my access to free counseling. After struggling to control my anxiety since the sixth grade, I was grateful to find ways to not only cope with it, but improve my life. I can thank Caroline for making me go only a few weeks into our freshman year after she found me lying on my bed struggling to breathe during a panic attack.

  My therapist taught me to use guided imagery to help reduce anxiety before a potential situation that makes me nervous, but I also like to do it after situations that upset me. I relive what happened and reimagine how I wanted it to go. I focus on the incident in Western civ and how I should have appropriately responded to being late—walking in without feeling embarrassed. When people turn their attention to me, I smile and walk to my seat. But when I think about how I should have reacted to running into Tucker, my anxiety rises. I know the situation would have been humorous to anyone else. Why do I have to make such a big deal of it? But whenever I try to relive how I should have handled it, I see Tucker’s face in the student union. The disinterest. The sadness in his eyes. I hardly even know him so I’m not sure why I care.

  Perhaps it’s because I see the same expression every morning when I look in the mirror.

  With a sigh, I sit upright and take my long, dark hair out of its ponytail, then run my fingers through the strands. I’m imagining things. That’s the thing about people: you never really know where they stand. You have to rely on gestures and social cues, and still, you really don’t know.

  I move to the desk and get out my homework. Anxious prickles have poked the back of my neck since I began thinking about Tucker. I pull out my book and study the equation for my linear algebra class. As I write the numbers onto the paper, my shoulders begin to unfurl, my tension fading away. Some people knit or read to relax. I do math problems. My mother and little sister never let me live it down when I was younger, making fun of my love of arithmetic. With math, as long as you have all the necessary factors, you can find the answer. Life, on the other hand, is so much messier.

&
nbsp; I stay up another two hours working on my equations before I quit for the night. When I go into the kitchen to make a cup of tea, Caroline’s exactly where I left her hours ago. She doesn’t comment when I pass her on my way to the kitchen.

  I grab a pint of Ben & Jerry’s from the freezer along with two spoons and sit next to her on the sofa, throwing the afghan over my legs. I toss the lid onto the coffee table and hand Caroline a spoon.

  She digs in, eating several bites before she finally talks. “I saw him today. With someone else. It’s been three months, Scarlett. Why is it so hard to see him?”

  I’ve never been in a relationship that I wanted to stay in, but I know the pain she went through when they broke up. The pain she still goes through. “Three years is a long time to be with someone, Caroline. I’m sure it takes time to get over it.”

  “I don’t like feeling this way. It hurts too much.”

  “Maybe you should start dating again.” I’m not really sure it’s an appropriate response, but I can’t stand to see her this miserable. This moping person isn’t the vivacious girl that took the campus by storm her freshman year. The girl I knew when we grew up together. Hiding out in our apartment for the last several months has made her more like me, a terrifying thought. “If nothing else, you need to get out and at least go to parties again.”

  She sits up and points her spoon at me. “You know, Scarlett. I think you’re on to something. It just so happens I’ve been invited to a party at a guy named Kyle’s house Friday night.”

  “Well, there you go. Tina was invited to the same party.”

  Her eyes light up. “Oh really? Then the fates have aligned. I’m going to the party, and you’re coming with me.”

  My breath caught. “What? Oh, no. No way.”

  “Yes! Come on! You never go to parties. You need to loosen up and have some fun.”

  “I do have fun.” Caroline went out all the time when she was with Justin. Our freshman year, she invited me to parties, but she soon gave up after my many refusals. Plus, Justin began to suck up more and more of her time, and my lack of a social life was simply accepted.

  She scrunches her nose. “With math problems. Don’t you want any boy problems?”

  “Look how well that’s worked out for you.” I immediately regret my words, but they are at the root of my hesitancy to date. I can’t afford to get close to someone, to let him get close to me, only to have him break my heart. I’ve made too much progress over the last two years to throw it away over the risk of potential heartbreak. But Caroline thrives on human contact and connections. Staying holed up in our apartment is making her worse.

  Tilting her head to the side, her lips pucker. “True. That’s because I stuck with one guy for so long.” Her eyes widen with excitement. “Let’s make it the semester of boys. We’ll go out with a different boy every week.”

  “Are you drunk? When was the last time I went on a date?”

  “My point exactly! When was the last time either one of us went on a date?” She puts the back of her hand against her forehead and arches her back. “Two beautiful young women, home alone night after night. It’s a tragedy.”

  “You should have been a theater major,” I say dryly. “I like my life the way it is. Neat and orderly.”

  “But life is meant to be messy, Scarlett. You need to live a little.”

  “You can’t live a little or a lot, Caroline. You simply live.”

  “Says the girl who’s never lived at all.” There’s no malice or sarcasm, only a hint of pity.

  I’d prefer the sarcasm. I take the empty ice cream container and toss it in the trash. “I’m not going to a party, Caroline.”

  She gives me a wicked smile. “Oh, we’ll see about that.”

  Oh, yes we will.

  ***

  The next morning when I wake up, there’s an e-mail in my inbox time stamped ten minutes earlier.

  I would have texted, but the school refused to give me your number. We need to set up a tutoring time.

  Tucker. I’m almost surprised he got in contact with me so soon. Not to mention he’s awake before eight-thirty. Maybe he’s taking this seriously after all.

  I email him my free times then get in the shower, worrying about the Friday night party. Individually, Tina and Caroline are manageable, but I made the fatal mistake of introducing them last November. Now they’ve made it their combined effort to force me into some kind of social life. I seriously don’t understand why they can’t leave me alone. I’m happy with the way things are. Don’t they get that?

  But when I rub my towel across the mirror to wipe off the steam, the expression on my face says differently. Funny how I never considered whether I was happy or unhappy until the last twenty-four hours. After I saw Tucker’s face in the cafeteria.

  I shake off my melancholy and dry my hair, mulling over the question of happiness. Isn’t happiness getting what you want? If so, I’m the epitome of happy. My academic track has me well on my way to helping me get my dream job: working for the CIA or DOD, analyzing data. I have a great roommate and a handful of friends. I have student loans, but nothing monstrous to pay off after I graduate.

  By my definition, I’m happy. So why does it feel like something is missing?

  I get dressed and check my e-mail, surprised to see Tucker has responded already.

  3:00 at the coffee shop on campus.

  The hair on my neck prickles. I breathe in, filling my lungs and blowing out the air as I imagine blowing my anxiety away, and try to reason through my fear. I didn’t have problems with tutoring Tucker in the lab, so why does meeting him at the coffee shop make me nervous? It’s an easy answer. I’m comfortable in the lab. It’s a familiar environment. The coffee shop is an unknown variable.

  Also, Tucker is a wild card. He was behaved in my environment, but I know that isn’t his usual behavior. I’m having major second thoughts about this endeavor, but I shake my head and force myself to calm down. This situation is manageable as long as I don’t flake out.

  I pack my messenger bag for the day and pour a cup of coffee in my travel mug before I poke my head into Caroline’s room. Her clothes are scattered everywhere, and her sheets and blanket are a tangled mess. She’s lying sideways on the bed, her feet hanging off the side.

  “Caroline.”

  She buries her face into her pillow. “What?” she mumbles.

  “You’re going to miss your textiles class. Get up.” She’s not usually like this, but this isn’t uncommon after late-night Gossip Girl and ice cream binges.

  She pulls the covers over her head.

  I step into the room, and grab a handful of the sheet and jerk it down to her waist. “Come on. This is your last warning. I’m leaving now or I’ll be late for class.”

  “You’re so mean, Scarlett.”

  “I can’t even imagine how you’ll survive in the real world,” I mumble and walk out of the room.

  “I heard that!” she yells after me.

  I meant her to, knowing it would get her out of bed. The more I study people in my attempt to fit into life, the more I realize that people are often driven by their fear. With my mother and her drinking and her many men, it was her fear of being alone. But with Caroline, whose family insisted she was wasting her time with college, her fear was that she’d never escape her trailer park roots. My own fears are too numerous to list.

  I grab my coffee and a banana, and head for the front door, pausing until I hear her padding around in her room.

  The rain has stopped, but heavy gray clouds hang in the sky. My first class is at ten, but I want to get there early. Set and logic is the class that separates the wheat from the chaff in mathematics majors, and I want to make sure I’m doing everything possible to ensure I do well. This includes getting to school early enough so I don’t have a repeat of what happened in Western civ yesterday. I can’t afford to spend ten minutes recovering from the embarrassment of being late. I can’t afford to miss even thirty seconds in this
class.

  Some days the lessons are more difficult, but I’m thankful when today’s concepts slip easily into place. When I struggle, all my fears that I can’t do this—that I’m destined to fail—swamp my head. And I need all the confidence I can muster to face this afternoon.

  After my Arabic III class, I head to the coffee shop with a knot in my stomach. I arrive ten minutes early and order my drink and sit at a table by the window, pulling my Arabic homework out to work on while the subject matter is still fresh in my head. I lose myself in verb conjugation, and I’m surprised when I see that it’s already twenty after three. Tucker hasn’t shown. I pull out my phone and double-check his e-mail to verify the time. He said three o’clock, and this is the only coffee shop on campus.

  Tucker enters the shop with two friends as I’m packing up. They are loud and boisterous, drawing the attention of everyone in the room. My anger flares at his lackadaisical attitude as well as his disrespect. But mostly I find myself disappointed with him, although for the life of me, I can’t figure out why. Tucker Price is Tucker Price. The guy I saw yesterday was a figment of my imagination.

  Tucker sees me and wanders over, a lazy smile on his face. “Where are you going?”

  This part I dread. The attention Tucker has drawn follows over to me. My face flames, and I keep my head down as my shaky hand stuffs my books into my bag. It would be so much easier to stay and avoid the eyes of everyone in the room, but the truth is that all these eyes would be on me anyway. Tucker is the center of chaos everywhere he goes. I refuse to be sucked into it. Computer program or not.

  He puts his hand on my bag. “Scarlett, where are you going?”

  I look up into his face. Confusion wrinkles his brow. He really doesn’t get it.

  I dig deep down and find the strength to do this. “You said three o’clock, Tucker. It’s now three twenty-two. You’re late, and my time is valuable.”

  His eyebrows rise in surprise.

  I jerk my bag from his hand and loop the strap over my shoulder.