Dangerous: A Marcel Styles Fan Fiction

5: Homework Help

5: Homework Help

   Forget writing song lyrics. My newest hobby – and life goal – would be tracking down the grave of the sick bastard who decided to put letters in math and stomping on it! But I couldn’t show my frustration now; not in the break room of my father’s company, where I sat alone with a half-eaten lunch and half-finished homework.

   Algebra – and any math in general – was frustrating. I didn’t know the value of x, and frankly couldn’t see any life situation where I would ever need to know it!

   “H-hey,” stuttered the familiar voice of Marcel Styles. I looked up to see him stepping into the break room – which was empty of all people except me.

   “Hi,” I greeted bluntly, as I checked the clock. The lunch break was almost over, but not so much that I would need to rush.

   He walked around the table and had to pass by me – thermos in hand – to get to the pot of, likely, hour old coffee. As the nosey loser stepped to me, the first jittery words leaving his mouth were, “You g-got number s-sixteen wrong.”

   “Name a question I actually got right,” I mumbled in a low growl, eyes wide. The nerd didn’t need to point out my mistakes. Teachers did that enough already.

   “You got n-number five right,” he said, looking over my shoulder. Well, at least the last one I’d done before bed was okay. “And I th-think that’s the o-only one,” he purred to my disappointment.

   I let out a loud groan of frustration. I didn’t need Marcel to tell me I was going to fail this math assignment – and algebra in general.

   “Y-you just need to find a w-way to understand this,” Marcel stuttered. “I t-tutored back in England and all of m-my pupils had different int-terests. I just u-used those interests to f-find a way to teach them.”

   No matter how hard I tried to relate math to music, it never worked for me. I know there’s math in music, but it’s subtle. The trick of turning everything into a word problem didn’t work for me.

   “I c-could try with you if-if you’d like?” he offered, making my heart rate increase dramatically and my brown eyes widen.

   “I don’t know,” I mumbled.

   “J-just give me a chance, V-Veronica,” the loser begged. “I c-can do it. J-just come over tonight. I’ll h-help you I sw-swear.”

   What other choice did I have?