Tutoring Mr. Player

Tutoring Mr. Player Chapter 9

Chapter 9

School is hell. My eyes are drooping and the teachers’ voice is fading out and becoming a hazy slur of words. I slump in my chair. The fluorescent lights flickering from the tiled ceiling seem to suck the life out of me, as Mr. Losey drones on about mitosis and meiosis or something like that.

      I feel something hit me in the back and I startle. A crumpled of ball of white notebook paper. I turn around to see who threw it and Preston stares back at me his left eyebrow arched impossibly high. I unfold it and look at the note scrawled in his messy loopy hand writing.

Go to the dance with me?

It says with Prestons’ signature scribbled at the bottom of the page. And two check boxes “yes or no?”

I quickly write my reply on the back of the paper.

What is this? Kindergarten?

I write and then check the ‘no’ box. I toss it back at him and it lands in his lap. He looks down at it and greedily uncrumples it. The excitement evident on his face falls. He scribbles something on a new piece of notebook paper hastily, crumples it into a ball and throws it back to me. It bounces off of my head and lands on the grungy floor. Just this moment Mr. Losey chooses to walk down our exact aisle. I scramble to reach for the note, but it’s too late. He picks it up and holds it in between his thumb and his pointer finger studying it over the small round rims of his glasses.

   
“And what do we have here?” He says, it’s quite obviously a rhetorical question.

“Nothing!” I reply immediately praying to god that he won’t open up. Well my prayers become a moot point as he slowly unfurls the note and studies it with accusing eyes.

“Well, well, well.” He says a tone of slyness creeping into his controlled professional voice. “What do we have here?” he says inquisitively dangling the note between his spindly fingers. A wry smile makes it’s way onto the thin line of his lips. This is a clichéd scenario. One you see in every movie, or read in every book. But it’s actually happening to me.

     “Why won’t you give me a chance?” he reads aloud. I cringe at the loudness of his voice which seems to echoe through the quiet classroom. His eyebrow raises almost to his hairline. He drops the note daintily on my desk.

“Preston, and Autumn.” He addresses us both giving us pointed glances. “Whatever this is,” he makes a grandiose gesture waving his finger between both of us.

“Needs to be resolved on your own time.”  He says his beady black eyes peering at me over the edge of his glasses. “And NOT in class.” He admonishes. I am a bright shade of crimson now my cheeks aflame in embarrassment.

Murmurs erupt throughout the classroom along with gossipy glances and pointed fingers. “Now lets get onto intellectually challenging stuff, unlike Autumn and Prestons’ romantic delusions.” Snorts of laughter. I. Am. Going. To. Die.

    And then he continues on with his lecture.

It goes on like this. Preston does not stop persisting. After school. In class. Notes in my locker. Flowers. Chocolates. Everything. But I would not consider ever going to the dance with him. I refuse to be another one of his toys. 

He’s stopped with the chivalry though. Instead he’s been coming up. Constantly pestering me. Cornering me at my locker, my car, and even my house. I can’t get away.

   Here he is again. Still trying. I ignore him as I try to unlock the key to my car. We’ve just finished his daily tutoring where he also badgered me constantly. Will he ever give up?

“The answer is still no.” I say immediately shoving him aside forcefully. The only way to get things done nowadays quite frankly.

    “Please just give me a chance Autumn!” He pleads his green blue eyes boring into mine. I avert my gaze. And he runs a hand through his tousled hair and groans frustratedly.

    “You’ve lost your chance and your reputation by banging half of the girl population here.” I say bitterly.

“You’re different” He reasons.

“You’re different.” I mock him using a high pitched voice.

“This is just like the party! You didn’t want to go at first, but you had a fun time! Didn’t you?” He inquires leaning against my car. I glare at him refusing to let him know that he was right. Even if I did barely remember anything.

    He can’t be right. I won’t let him have the satisfaction.

“No.” I say.

“Fine whatever.” He says walking away. But I know he won’t give up. And I’m right. The next day is the same. And so is the next one, and the next one, and the next one. Friday rolls around and the dance is in a week. He’s not slowing down at all he’s going at it with rapid fire now.

It’s constant. Not a day goes by without flowers or expensive candies, or love sonnets that he clearly googled. But I refuse to give up. Refuse.

I won’t let him win.

I will beat him at his own game.

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hope you like (: It’s a little short but I hope it tides ya’ll over for now! Uploads should start getting more regular again!