"Zo," Havana pants. She doesn't say much as she catches her breath. I can't even bear to meet her. I didn't want this to happen. 

"Zo, what's wrong?"

"It's not fair," I mumble.

"What?"

"It's not fair!" I finally yell. God, strike me down. Now.

"W-what's not fair?" Havana asks. "Maybe it's not a perfect grade but Zo, you got an 85. An 85!"

"I know, I know!" I croak. 

"So, you should be happy!" Havana tries to cheer me on. 

"I know ..." I trail off, crashing to my knees before I could go on. Havana's right; I should be happy. Overjoyed, if anything, because I thought the best I got was a 70. I don't remember the last time I got an 85 on a math test. I should be very, very happy. And yet, here I am having a full mental breakdown over it. Truly, I can't piece together what happened between getting my report card back to now. At first, the overwhelming shock upon seeing my grade -- which bumped my average up to a considerable 76 -- felt unreal to me. Sure, it was an open-note test, but that doesn't mean all the answers were handed to me on a silver platter. I think I actually ended up doing better than a few of the students in my class. The shock only lasted for a moment, though, for what came after was a rush of overwhelming guilt. The guilt I wanted to suppress. The guilt I didn't want to bring to light, not to my tutor of all people. I'm gonna need some sort of explanation as to why I'm bawling my eyes out. 

"M...m..." I try to speak, but it's so hard. My airways are being blocked like I'm experiencing asphyxiation. I clutch my shirt tightly. "My dad -- he --" More tears hit my thighs, and grossly enough a small string of snot. Damn it all.

"My dad has early onset dementia." When the words leave my mouth, I curl up in a ball and sob into my knees. Havana doesn't say anything; maybe she doesn't know what to say. I wish she would say something, though, because I can't stand to hear myself like this. Not ever, let alone in public. But how do I expect myself to be after admitting that? Just dusting my shoulders off and going on like nothing happened? My dad has dementia.

My. Dad. Has. Dementia. How can anyone be okay with that? And that's where this guilt is coming from...

"T-the day we tutored together w-when I passed out?" I keep going, hoping she's still behind me and not far gone (but who would blame her?). "I was supposed-d to see him that weekend." I bite down on my lip, my eyebrows furrowed so deep a groundhog would be green with envy.

"A-and then our stupid car m-malfunctioned," I continue. Now I'm convinced Havana is gone, but I don't care. "I haven't s-seen him in almost eight months. He lives in a freaking home two hours away! He's been there for three years, and I can count on my hands how many times I've seen him since! I can't call him regularly, and my mom is so stingy with any sort of updating that I never know how he's actually doing!" I grip the back of my head in anger.

"He's stuck there, and here I am, getting to live my life but finding ways to mess it up all the time," I sob. "And now ... I've got this." I hold up my test, staring down my 85 shakily. "Why ... why do I get a chance to fix my mind and he doesn't? It's not fair ..." I cry and cry my heart out, because yeah, it's not fair! My dad didn't do anything to deserve this to happen to him. I complain all the time about my dyscalculia, and it's not that I feel I deserve it, but it clearly could be a lot worse and I hadn't known it until now. I have it within me to improve, meanwhile, my dad probably doesn't know what time is anymore. These are things I didn't even want to deal with when I became an adult with my own life, maybe even my own kids. I'm 16. Sixteen with a mom I can barely talk to if I ever see her, and a dad I don't know if I'll see again past 18. If that. It's the worst feeling in the entire world. 

A feeling only Mallory ever knew about. Now I've cried it all out to the void, and it hurts. 

"Wow," I hear Havana say finally. I'd flinch if I wasn't gripping my legs so hard. I hear the fabric of her clothes slip right next to me. I still don't look up.

"I'm sorry to hear that 'bout your pops," Havana goes on. "That's gotta be a lot to deal with." Hah, it's like she read my mind. 

"But I don't understand why you feel this way about yourself," Havana tells me. Never mind, it's as if she didn't hear a word I said. "Your dad would want you to be proud of your accomplishments, wouldn't he? I mean, when you have the chance to see him?"

I choke. "If he ever remembers who I am again." I take my glasses off, wipe off the brim of tears built on them, and wipe my eyes. "I'm the kid who never wanted to take home anything lower than a 95. Now it's like it doesn't even matter because he won't know it." 

Havana hums. "Not to make light of a situation like this, but wouldn't that be a chance to start over?"

"What?" 

"Like, your dad can't hold these high expectations of you, so if you brought home an 85, it would be a good thing," Havana elaborates. "He hasn't totally forgotten who you are, has he?"

"N-no ... I don't know," I shake my head racking my brain about our last visit. Dad still knew who I was, but it's been so long. "Even then, I don't want to start over. I just want to be the same as I was before all this."

"Before his diagnosis or before yours?" Havana poses to me. I ... can't answer. Oh my god, I can't answer this. I wish I never had either of these happen in life. 

"Zo, he would be proud of you no matter what," Havana says. "Anyone would be proud. I'm proud of you."

"Would you be proud if you weren't my tutor?" I ask her. It came out of nowhere, but really, if she's so adamant about being "proud", I wonder. Havana rolls her eyes and sighs.

"Is that all you see me as? Your tutor?" she retorts. "I can't say this to you as a friend?"

"Friend?" I cock my head. "Since when were we friends?"

"Since when have you ever opened up about yourself like this to anyone other than Mallory?" Havana shoots, then widens her eyes. "Oh my god wait, she does know, right?"

"Yeah, but that's Mal," I answer. "I'm not even sure why I told you any of this, it's so embarrassing.."

"What for?" Havana asks. "It's embarrassing to have feelings?"

"Weren't you the one who just told me I shouldn't be feeling upset?"

"I never said that," Havana rebuts. "You have every right to feel the way you feel, but I have a right to wonder why when you're so accomplished and hard-working. You deserve to celebrate it."

"I don't deserve anything!" 

"Who told you that?! Your mom? Your dad?!"

"Everyone here has!"

"I'll beat them up!"

"What?!"

"You heard me -- anyone crosses you here again, I'll cross them ten times harder!"

"Why would you do that?"

"Mallory would do it for you, right? You'd do it for her?"

"Well, yeah, but --"

"Because that's what friends are for! And as your friend, I'm telling you -- you deserve all your success and more, and if your dad can't tell you or your mom won't, I will!" Havana takes my test from me and points to the 85. "This? You! Deserve! This! What is it going to take for you to realize it? What do I have to do?"

I stare at Havana, perplexed. She gains nothing from this at all, but here she is with all these niceties. I don't get her at all. Then again, I don't get myself. This is what I wanted. Am I just programmed to self-sabotage every good thing that comes to me because I feel bad for having it? Was I always this way, or did it start when ... that's why I've always believed I only had Mallory to come to. She's the only one who ever stayed. Yet, when I look back on it, I've told things to Havana in these last few weeks I swore I'd keep under lock and key. I just don't understand why. Is this the effect she has on people? And how did I fall for it? Still, yet, none of this makes me feel any better. Ugh, I'm sick of myself. We don't say anything to each other for a little bit. Then ...

"I'm sorry," I finally say. Havana looks at me. "I mean, I'm really sorry. I shouldn't have run off like that and ... maybe, I don't know ..." Then, I hear Havana snort. I turn my head slowly at her, and then she full-blown laughs. 

"Wow, okay never mind!" I scoff angrily. I do all this "opening up" that I thought she appreciated but I guess not!

"I'm sorry, sorry," Havana tries to suppress her laughter. "It's just ... God, how many times have you apologized to me in these last few weeks, huh? Where'd you learn that from?"

"W-wha -- well, I don't know," I answer. "Why's that so funny?"

"I don't know," Havana says. "It's not in a way, but I guess I just wouldn't have expected it so much is all. That said, you don't need to apologize for just being who you are. Not to me, at least."

I sigh heavily. Havana's actually serious about this. And maybe I don't get why, but I guess it's not going away anytime soon. "

"T-thank you," I croak. 

"Yeah, and again, congrats," Havana smiles. "An 85. You did really great."

"I suppose," I say, taking back my test.

"You still got that ice cream money on you?" Havana asks. "Wanna partake?"

"Eh, I mean ..." Just then, someone enters the right door from outside, letting the chilly air in and sending shivers all throughout my body. Maybe it's because I also just cried a lot, but my God that felt like Jack Frost had an early agenda against me.

"M-maybe not," I chatter. 

"Yeah, maybe," Havana giggles. She gets up and lends a hand to me, which I take so I can get as far away from the door as possible. Thank goodness today is a tutoring day because there's no way I'm ready to go home like this. As I brush my pants off, I feel a huge weight come on my shoulders, which puzzles me because I thought I just lifted some off. Only this time, it wasn't metaphorical. My hands feel for it, and I find that Havana placed her letterman on me. 

"Warm up. I have a better use for that money now."

I guess Havana and I are closer than I thought we were because I've learned now to not question these things. Not that I have the capacity to, anyway.