It's not until Mrs. Loren taps my shoulder in concern that I come to. I'm not sure how long I blanked out, but it must've been just long enough. In my peripheral, I see my book plastered on the ground, pages creasing the same as my eyebrows. I shake my head, trying to regain my composure, but when I look over, my eyes dart past Mrs. Loren and shoot straight back at Havana.

I thought that Havana becoming my tutor was an elaborate prank, cameras ready and the live studio audience cueing up to roar in the type of lung-busting laughter that makes you question whether or not it's real. Despite so, in the weeks that have come, I've put my feelings aside for the greater good -- my greater good, at least -- if only for the fact that I'd only have to see her a few times out of the week. It's not a hard ask on my part. However, maybe I haven't carried my independent energy enough to make it known that, with the exception of one Mallory Setiawan, I do not care for the company of other people much, and the interests I have I'd like to keep my own. The football game was most definitely a one-off event -- I remember coming home and immediately heading for the shower with the weight of a thousand-something fans and their almost blood-curdling screams suffocating me. It's why I try to keep as low of a profile as possible if I'm ever remembered outside of the occasional hand raise. Maybe I should've grown up with a sibling or something, but I doubt that would've changed much, and I don't think it's a crime to tend to my personal space as needed.

Now, here she stands, Parable of the Sower firmly in her left hand and a chicken burrito in her right. The salsa verde dripping on her fingers matched the stains on the front cover of her copy. My tongue clicks.

"So, you've read the book now, huh?" I manage to finally ask, venom slowly tainting my tone.

"Me? Oh yeah," Havana cheesily grins, "I asked Mrs. Loren if she had any spare copies I could borrow, and I started last night. You were right, this is a really good read!"

"I don't remember saying that," I refute.

"Did you not?" Havana cocks her head, almost as if she's trying to drive home how aloof she is. "Well, I think it's a really good read so far!"

"Ms. Sommers here was so eager to pick it up, and I'm glad to hear the enthusiasm is being put to good use!" Mrs. Loren beams with overflowing librarian pride. If I haven't asserted this already, I think libraries, and with them librarians, are crucial to the fabric of the American educational system and beyond. The power of a good book in the right hands can mold someone's worldview, and they have the opportunity to walk away with a new outlook on life, hopefully for the better. They might learn things about the world, and themselves, that otherwise wouldn't have known about. All the more, though, with the right librarian, the will and drive to keep coming back amplifies. In most people's cases, the need to stop by the library is minimal unless they're truly a bookworm, but in other cases, the library can be a sanctuary, bookworm or not. Shelter away from the cruel outside. Home away from home. That's why I feel so tethered to this library in this hellhole of a school. That's why I looked forward to today.

I start to feel and see mist fogging up my glasses -- a mix of frustration and embarrassment. Am I just destined to be synonymous with embarrassment for the rest of my life? Well, I'm not waiting around to find out this time. 

"Ah, well have fun talking about it," I tremble, getting up from my seat. 

"Oh, but aren't you --" Mrs. Loren starts as I shuffle past her and Havana.

"Sorry, I meant to give Mallory a ... yeah," I lie, then I rush out of the room, my backpack beating against my back with every hurrying step. It doesn't hit me until I'm out of the library that I left my copy of the book on the ground, but I don't bother to look back. I start to rush over to the theater so I can be with Mallory, but my feet stop just outside of its doors. What am I even going to her for? To vent about her crush debilitating my every thought because she's mine? I grip the handles of my backpack and speedwalk out in the courtyard, not stopping until I get to the track and field since no one is around. I guess there's no P.E. class happening outside today.

I slump against the fence, the asphalt of the tracks still retaining enough summer-approaching-fall-ish heat that makes me jump at first, but I give in and sit anyway. The stinging, hot pain of tears falling sizzle when they hit the ground.

************

The next time I see Havana for a tutoring session, I can't bring myself to look in her direction. The word "awkward" is perhaps, at this moment, so much of an understatement that the English language needs to come up with a word even stronger for it. She must think me a total fool for what happened the other day. All I hear is her scratching away at my "homework" that she gave me to do whilst my eyes don't leave the floor. The waiting, which goes on for a thousand lifetimes, has me counting how many stone patterns are in each tile of the floor, and I think I get to about 129 different patterns (but let's be honest those numbers are probably inflated from over-counting patterns I already came across) before she hands me back my paper. 

If you asked me what my favorite color is, I would've told you red -- it's a bold color, one that has so many interpretations of love and togetherness and culture. Now, I equate the color red with failure, which is how I feel at this moment when I see seven big "X"s on my paper. My head involuntarily hits the table in shame.

"That's not bad ... out of 20, that's a 65% average," Havana informs me like it's something to be proud of.

"A 65%?" I look up at her, displeased. "A 65% is worse than my class average right now, which already isn't stellar to begin with. But sure, it's 'not bad', right?"

"Actually, it's a step up from where we were a few days ago," Havana says. "For your first post-tutoring assignment, it could've been worse."

"Oh, well thank you so much for the extra work that I 'could've been worse' on!" I can't hide my annoyance even if I had an invisibility cloak on with a voice modifier set all the way up to chipmunk levels of cute. 

"I know it's a lot now, but if you keep working at it like the hard worker I know you are --"

"Okay, okay! Got it, you don't have to sound like such a teacher about it," I interject. I didn't mean to throw teachers under the bus, but even as much as I appreciate them, they have this way of talking to you in an attempt to "motivate" that sometimes you really don't have the energy to entertain.

"Okay ..." Havana says. "So, what did Ms. Carmone assign you today?"

"Huh?" I turn to her, then my notebook. "I thought we -- I could've sworn --"

Just then, I pull out a blank homework page, and the realization that we hadn't even started the actual tutoring yet hits me like a ton of bricks and a ton of feathers at the same time and I'm supposed to figure out which one caused less internal bleeding. I hold my head in my hands and let out the heaviest sigh. 

"Uh, actually you know what?" Havana starts. "Why don't we forget about the work right now? Wanna talk about Parable of the Sower? Because I'm starting to lose sense of the Earthseed allegory..."

"Ha. Shocker," I huff out. Even I get wide-eyed at that.

"Uh, that meaning...?" 

"Aren't we supposed to be here for math tutoring, tutor?" I ask.

"Well, yes, but it doesn't have to be all work, no play, right?" Havana says coolly.

"Easy for you to say, it's not like it's your grades are on the line or anything," I stand my ground. 

"Oh, okay," Havana blinks in defeat. She picks up my assignment paper, looks over it, and starts talking about the importance of the Pythagorean Theorem or whatever. That should've been the end, going back to business as usual. But I can't get this itch off my brain that just needs to know --

"What's the real reason you picked up the book, anyway?" I blurt out. 

"Excuse me?" Havana looks up, almost shocked I dared to ask.

"I mean, really. Just another way to show me up?" 

"Okay, again, excuse me??" she emphasizes. Okay, now I really don't know where all of this is coming from, but I can't stop now. Or at least, I won't. Actually, it's kind of a mix of both because whilst I'm getting out so many things I've wanted to say, it's really my mouth doing the talking before my brain.

"What? You're already here, tutoring me like the "math whiz" you apparently are, maybe you needed another activity to surpass me in," I continue. "How did you even get to that point? I mean, you were just a part of the football team not too long ago, weren't you?"

"I was, but I don't see your point," Havana says.

"I mean, doesn't the school need a quota or something from its student-athletes? To keep up the funding for what apparently matters more than the curriculums," I ask. Havana blinks, then stares me down with a creeping intensity I haven't yet seen. 

"Are you implying that teachers rig the grades so I pass my classes because I'm an athlete?" she questions me. If you pay close enough attention, the table ever-so-faintly vibrates with her anger. And for whatever reason, I stoke the flames. 

"No, but seriously -- you said I found the book a 'really good read', but you and I both know I didn't say anything like that," I revert the conversation back to the book. It's not like Havana is wrong, admittedly, but it rubs me a certain way. "I mention the book once to you, and next thing I know you and Mrs. Loren are chatting it up like it's a regular occurrence for you."

Havana scoffs in disbelief. "Okay, one, what if I did want to pick up the book out of my own curiosity? And two, are you seriously jealous that I talked to Mrs. Loren -- our public school librarian -- about a book?"

"You knew I was supposed to meet up with her to talk," I assert. 

"Oh, my god," Havana shakes her head. "Do you think I'm out to get you or something? Get over yourself, dude."

"Get over myself? Coming from a jock, that's a card," I cock my head. 

"What is your problem with me?" Havana semi-shouts. "Really, did I do something so horrible to you that now I'm not allowed to read? Or like math? Or have a brain at all? Did I burn Mal somehow that I don't know about --"

"What does she have to do with anything?" I cut her off, knowing full well how she fits into everything. 

"Well, you two are always together! Do you know something I don't?" Havana clasps her hands together.

"I know a lot of things you don't, actually. I know my dyscalculia may say otherwise, but I do know things." Yikes, even I shudder at how defensive I'm becoming.

"When did I ever imply you didn't? Unlike how you've been dogging me? You know, I don't get you," Havana vents. "If you have such an issue with me, why are you sitting here with me right now?"

"I don't exactly have a choice, do I? Unlike the meeting I was supposed to have with Mrs. Loren yesterday that you had to infiltrate, too!" my voice is raised now.

"It's a BOOK, Zora!" Havana slams her hands on the table. I shift a bit in my seat. "And I'm not a mind reader! How was I supposed to know you wanted to have private time in a PUBLIC setting? Oh, and by the way, you did have a choice. You didn't have to take up the tutoring, you didn't have to get rid of me as your tutor and you certainly didn't have to ask me back!" 

"Yeah, and you didn't have to rip everything away from me!" I yell. We stare each other down, eyebrows furrowed so deep. Havana bites her quivering lip.

"You know what your problem is? You're too prideful for your own good," she speaks in a lowered tone. "I would ask where it comes from but God forbid I try to know you better."

"You don't need to know me," I shoot back. "I'm here for tutoring, not friendship club." That one finally does her in. She grabs her backpack and hands me back my assignment. 

"I don't think you know what you want," she says. "And I hope you can figure it out. Maybe you won't be such a hardass to your next tutor."

Next ... tutor? "What are you talking about?"

"I'm not about to be the big bad burden in your life, Zora. I'm sorry I ever was." And just like that, Havana is walking out of the room the same as I did yesterday. I stare blankly at my empty paper, then at the paper, Havana "graded" with that terrifying 65%, and then at the clock on the wall. It's not even 4:30 yet. 

I slump in my chair, the feeling in my legs completely worn out from the adrenaline rush that's now crashed hard back into reality. 

Fuck. FUCK! What the fuck did I just do...