Figuring You Out

Chapter Twenty

I unlock the door slowly and creep in, there nobody downstairs so I dump my bag by the washing machine and head upstairs to Dad's office, I knock the door softly, "Come in, Oliver,"

"Hey, Dad," I caution, he smiles and beckons me over to his laptop, "What?"

"How the hell do you turn the brightness down on this thing?" he asks, irritably, I bark out a laugh that was Dad all over- loathed and loved technology because it allowed him to do his job but was also a "piece of shit,"

"Here," I say, smiling, tilting the laptop towards me and moving the brightness bar down slightly, "That ok?"

"Yeah," he replies, I go to leave the room when he groans, "Olly, I haven't got anything in for dinner, I'm so sorry,"

"It's ok, we'll order take out," I shrug.

"Chinese?" he asks in a tired tone.

"Ok, usual?"

"Extra dumplings, its going to be a long night," he groans, with his head in his hands, I nod and jog downstairs, order the Chinese on Dads credit card, when I see my rugby bag that hadn't been washed since Mum went away. I groan and begin separating the colours when my phone buzzes in my pocket.

R: How's the revision going?

Shit. I stuff the rest of my laundry in the machine and drag myself upstairs to my desk and open the maths textbook, take one look at it and swiftly bang my head on the desk.

O: It's not

R: Maths or science?

O: Maths

R: Facetime. I'll give you a hand

I go into a frenzy and throw on a hoodie laying on my bed to cover my sweat drenched, creased t shirt, and adjust my hair. I turn from my desk to see my room is a complete tip, I groan and realise I have all of ten seconds to tidy it so I just kick everything out of the shot, including trash paper, old clothes and a rogue rugby ball. I turn my head frantically as my phone rings with the facetime ringtone. I slump down on the spinning seat and adjust my hair a final time before answering the call, his freckled face appears on screen.

"Hey," he smiles, he's sitting at what looks like a wide dining table with a contemporary art piece hung on the wall behind him.

"Hey," I reply, opening a notebook and trying not to meet his gaze.

"So, what are you stuck on?" he asks, I look to give him a sarcastic expression with a raised eyebrow, he laughs lightly "Lets start off with area and volume, yeah?"

"Ok," I sigh, going to the index page to find the page number.

"178," he says, softly, I smile a thank you and turn to that page, "Ok, so area of a triangle is base times height all divided by two,"

"Already sounds complicated," I sigh, skimming through the words on the page.

"Its not, look at the example at the bottom of the page, try that and I'll talk you through it," he says, his face blocked by a large notebook being turned, "Ready?"

"Erm, yeah, sure," I stutter, clicking a pen to use and scribbling down the question.

"So, what's the base and the height?"

"Eight and fifteen," I reply, writing down the equation beside the numbers, "So, you multiple first?"

"Yeah,"

"So that's 120," I say, adding that to my list of notes, I catch him smiling at me, "What?"

"You're concentrating for once,"

"It's been known to happen," I comment, smiling at the backhanded compliment and drawing a line under 120 and putting two underneath, "Sixty, that's the answer,"

"See? You can do it,"

"Only when you talk me through it," I sulk, running my hands through my sweaty hair.

"Do the next one by yourself then and I wont help," he rolls his eyes, and begins writing again, I smile and do the same, A triangle has an area of 40cm, it has a base of 16, what is its height?

"This question is different though," I grumble, he laughs at me, before his expression softens slightly at my stress.

"Just think about it, you'll understand it," he reassures, then the doorbell rings.

"Let me get that," I say.

"This doesn't get you out of this question, Mr Chapman,"

"Certainly not, Mr Gordon," I tease, leaving the room after putting the call on hold and collecting the Chinese, from the delivery guy and separating mine from Dad's. I put Dad's on a tray and leave mine in the grease covered bag, then head upstairs. I knock on his door but he doesn't answer, "Dad, takeout's here," I call, knocking again. Nothing. This time I push open the door getting impatient at his lack of response. The open door reveals my Dad asleep, with his head jolted to the side like he's sleeping on an aeroplane with his laptop still open with his script. I place my bag of food down on the floor by the door and shake him, "Dad," he stirs momentarily before settling back into his slumber, I shake his again more harshly this time he wakes, "Chinese," I say, placing the tray down on his desk next to his laptop.

"Thank you," he says, groggily, already turning his laptop to him again.

"How's it going?" I ask.

"Fine, I guess, I'm sure the food will help," he comments, before giving me a quick kiss on the forehead, I squirm away from me as he laughs and then gets back to typing.

"Dad," I say, just as I pick up my own bag of food, "Don't stay up all night,"

"You sound like you're mother," He smiles back at me for a moment, "I won't," he replies, more earnestly this time, but I'm not quite sure I believe him, I shut the door anyway and move back towards my room where Red is still writing from the screen of my phone.

"I have returned," I say, unpausing the call and unboxing my food.

"I don't know how I survived," he says dramatically, I let out a small chuckle.

"Food break?" I caution, not really wanting Pythagoras to ruin these dumplings.

"Ok," he relents, bringing a bowl of what looks like pasta into shot.

"How long you had that?" I ask, incredously.

"For awhile," he smiles.

"I didn't see it,"

"You tend to get tunnel vision when you focus," he comments, chewing on the pasta. I smile and begin to eat my own food.

"How's your Dad, by the way?" I ask.

"At a dinner, hence the microwaved pasta," he says, tilting his bowl up to show me the tubed pasta covered in a cream sauce.

"Yeah, my dad's working, so hence the Chinese," I say, "not that I'm complaining the dumplings are insanely good,"

"I'll have to try them sometime," he says, quietly, I stop chewing for a moment, "you'll have to tell me the name of the restaurant,"

"Oh," I say deflated but quickly recover, "It's called Oriental Palace,"

"I'll check it out," he says, just as he moves his bowl to the side and is leaning back on is chair whilst his finger is tapping on a filled glass of water, "Anyway, you nearly finished?"

"Yeah," I say, moving the boxes to the side, "Right, talk me through volume of a trapezium,"