Clever Girl

Chapter 5 : Stirling's Formula

Once a week I tutor my neighbour's daughter. The money's actually really good, and helps alleviate some of the expenses of my parents. Her name is Ariel, and she's in Matty's class, but while Matty's eager to learn, Ariel's stubborn and easily distracted.

It's a struggle, attempting to teach someone who doesn't want to be taught, who'd rather spend time Instagramming her nailpolish collection than recite the periodic table. But I remind myself she's just a child, and children are impressionable, and maybe it's not her fault. She still has many years to become something great. 

"I'm bored!" Ariel says, for what seems to be the millionth time. 

"Lovely, now what's the square root of 9?" I respond as I flip the page of the book I'm reading. Today's pick is T.M. Scanlon's What We Owe To Each Other. A bit of moral philosophy is always good.

"Do you have a boyfriend?"

"What?"

"A boyfriend. Do you have one? You're old, you should have a boyfriend."

I'm old? Ariel is in for a serious wake-up call. But I keep telling myself she's a kid, and kids have all the time in the world to learn the horrors of reality. "No. I don't have a boyfriend."

"Why not? What's wrong with you?"

I snap the book closed and face her, "What makes you think there's something wrong with me for not having a boyfriend?"

"My sister told me that girls who don't have boyfriends are sad losers who can't get any."

"Your sister is incredibly stupid," I say, regretting it almost immediately as Ariel's eyes widen in shock. Arguing with a child in such a manner is never dignified. I do hope her sister didn't go into detail about what 'get any' means. "I'm sorry. Look, people are different. While your sister might think that, I disagree, and that's okay."

"If you say so. But if you keep talking about square roots, you'll never get anyone to date you."

I wonder if T.M. Scanlon ever had such a conversation with someone. Wouldn't it be hilarious? In between thoughts of morality's complexity he stops to dive into a dialogue about what it means to have a boyfriend, then stops again to Snapchat himself applying a coat of OPI's It's A Piazza Cake. I smile to myself and decide it's best to just ignore it. "You're totally right. Square roots suck. Let's talk about the book you've been assigned for English class instead."

***

"Why are you always late? Do you have some sort of illness?"

When Cranston was told of our little spat the other day, he was not happy. In fact, I had never seen him so angry - his neck had turned an unseemly shade of red, a giant vein on his forehead looked about ready to burst, and his eyes were so round and large that I was sure they'd pop out of their sockets any second. He made us both promise not to walk out on these tutoring sessions again, or he'd be forced to suspend me and make Jay tutor the entire football team, no letters of recommendation or gold stars in sight.

"No illness. I just have zero respect for you," I say as I take a seat across Jay.

"Forgive me for not crying about it." 

"Wow, I didn't know robots could cry." Why does the fact that he barely looks up while talking infuriate me so much? I wonder if he's like this with everyone.

"I do enjoy our little banters, but we really need to get to work." He organizes the books and papers in front of him like a professor might - perfectly aligned and stacked. He then pulls out the sheet of homework he had pushed onto me two days ago. "I got to marking this last night, and it's the same as before. You get through the formulas correctly, but write in the wrong answers. I can't understand it. I need you to explain your process to me."