“Brooke, it’s really easy, see, you just-” Ashton attempted to explain the math problem once again.
“Shut up, Ashton. I’m trying to think,” I snapped. I regretted it as soon as I said it – one look at Ashton’s face told me I’d hurt his feelings. Neither of us particularly wanted to be here, him probably even less than myself. At least he was trying to teach me something, I’d lost interest about two hours ago.
“Sorry,” I winced. He shook his head to tell me it was fine, but kept quiet. I looked at the problem for a moment and, realising that just staring at it wasn’t going to do me any good, sighed. “You know what? I’m going to get a drink. Do you want something?” I asked Ashton, who was halfway through a sketch of a guitar. I assumed he played, but I didn’t bother to ask. “Water’s fine, thanks,” he replied.
Like me, Ashton was in year 12 at my school. My parents hired him to tutor me in math so I could 'reach my full potential,' but I didn't see the point. What was the point of getting a tutor if I'd be graduating in eight months? Not to mention it was completely embarrassing. It’s not like I had anything against Ashton either. He was really nice and also in my English class. I just didn't want to learn math.
When I returned with the water the guitar sketch was still incomplete, but was now resting on the glass coffee table. Ashton had moved around to where I’d been seated on the couch and was examining the notepad with all of my failed attempts at figuring out the problems on it.
“What are you doing?” I asked as I set down the glass of water in front of him and took his seat. “Oh,” he looked up at me like he hadn’t noticed me until then, “I know what you’ve been doing wrong.”
I leaned forward so I could see the paper and tried to seem interested despite still being bored and tired, like I’d been since about ten minutes after he arrived. “Yeah?” I asked when he didn’t continue on his own.
“You’re multiplying this by this,” he said, pointing at two different fractions that I’d been trying (without success) to convert into a percentage. I frowned at the problem.
“So, I need to multiply this,” I pointed to the first number he’d pointed out, “by this?” and pointed to another number, and silently prayed I was right. I was generally okay at math but fractions and algebra were my weaknesses.
“Yes!” Ashton let out a relieved sigh that it seemed like he’d been holding for ages. We spent a few more minutes on it just to make sure I fully understood, and then finally Ashton packed up his things and said goodbye.
While I was packing up the lounge room for when my parents got home, my eye caught on Ashton’s sketch pad sitting on the coffee table. Straight away, I knew I should have left it alone and returned it to him the next day. Nevertheless, I found myself walking towards the book as if by some magnetic attraction. All the drawings were everyday things like books or a drinking glass or a pair of headphones. They were ordinary objects, but they were really good. I felt a pang of jealousy. I loved art but never really got the hang of it.
I kept flicking through the book, mesmerised by how Ashton had turned ordinary objects into such compelling art. I finally reached the page of the guitar drawing which was now almost complete. I turned the page again. I didn't expect there to be anything because he was still working on the guitar while I did my math. Instead, I was struck by the familiarity of the drawing.
It took a confused moment before I realised I was looking at myself.
new story omg yayay
