“Twelve thirty, why?”
“It’s twelve forty.”
“Shit.”
He takes his keys out of his pocket and opens the garage door. “Come on. I’ll take you home.”
We ride in complete silence the entire way.
It’s only when he pulls up in front of my house and cuts the engine that I speak. “If I can figure out a way to help—genuinely help you—would you let me?”
His eyes dart over every inch of my face, like I’m a puzzle he can’t seem to figure out before he nods.
“Pick me up tomorrow,” I tell him as I get out of the car. “Same time.”
My dad is still wide awake when I walk into the house. No doubt waiting up for me.
“Were you stuck in another galaxy that has no concept of time? Or is the clock on the phone that’s always attached to your hand broken? I said twelve—”
“What do you know about dyslexia?”
I tend to tell my dad almost everything because he tends to give the best advice.
Unfortunately, this isn’t his area of expertise because he says, “Not a whole lot. Why?”
“I’m pretty sure the guy I’m tutoring has it. And I have no idea how to help him now.”
But I want to.
He thinks about this for several moments before speaking. “As much as you’d like to help him, monkey face, I’m not sure you can. Teachers are the ones qualified to deal with learning disabilities. Not you.”
“Teachers let him slip through the cracks.”
Not that I can really blame them for it. Phoenix specifically does things to hide it.
I follow him into the kitchen, where he pours us both a glass of milk and takes out a package of cookies. “How bad is it?”
“Bad enough he couldn’t even get through the first page of an essay I had him read. He says all the words jumble up and he can’t keep them straight.”
No wonder he looked like he was concentrating so hard. It must be torture.
Bringing a cookie to his mouth, my dad cringes. “That sounds pretty bad. I think this is out of your hands.”
I refuse to believe that.
“The thing is…he answered most of the questions correctly when I read the essay to him. He said he has an app on his phone that reads things aloud so he can do homework. He also gets audio versions of the books we need to read in class.” I dunk my cookie in the glass of milk. “He’s motivated…” Just like Mrs. Herman said. “It’s just his brain that isn’t cooperating.”
Through no fault of his own.
He chews another cookie. “I get that—”
“I’m not giving up on him.” Feeling a sense of gusto, I head out of the kitchen. “I know there’s gotta be something I can do to help him.”
There has to be.
I stop and look at my dad before I exit. “Sorry I was late.”
He closes the package of cookies. “I’ll let it slide, given the circumstances.”
I chew the corner of my lip as I ponder the best way to say this.
“I’m eighteen, Dad. I’m also going to keep tutoring Phoenix at night. You’re gonna need to loosen the reins.”
“Why does this tutoring have to be so late? Can’t you two meet up during normal hours?”
Nighttime is normal. My dad is just a fossil.
I scan my brain, trying to come up with a reason he’ll not only accept but respect.
“He works after school and doesn’t get off until after nine.”
I mean, it’s kind of true since he’s in a band. I assume he practices a lot.
Despite it being clear that my dad still doesn’t like this arrangement, he caves. “Fine. But don’t walk in this house after one a.m.”
“One fifteen,” I counter.
“We’ll see,” he says, which is good enough for me.
“Love you, Dad.”
Picking up the carton of milk, he places it in the cupboard. “Love you, too.”
“Uh, Dad?”
“Yeah, monkey face?”
“Last I checked, milk goes in the fridge.”
Laughing, he opens the cabinet door. “Whoops. I was so distracted by this curfew talk; I must have mixed it up with the cookies.”
I hightail it out of the kitchen so he doesn’t change his mind about my new curfew.
After changing into pajamas, I take out my laptop and sit on my bed.
Then I spend the rest of the night and early morning researching everything I can about dyslexia.
CHAPTER 5
LENNON
Phoenix found me after school yesterday and told me he couldn’t study that night. I was about to lay into him for avoiding his issues, but he said he had something important he needed to take care of.
Then he asked for my number.
I didn’t think he’d use it, but tonight at approximately eight fifty, my cell vibrates with an incoming text from an unknown number.
Unknown: You free tonight, Groupie?
His nickname makes me grind my molars as I save his contact info.
Lennon: That depends.
Phoenix: On?
Lennon: Are you going to take this seriously and let me help you?
I watch the dots appear and disappear before another text comes through.
Phoenix: Look out your bedroom window.
Confused, I peel back the curtain and peer down.
I bite back a smile when I see his car parked under a large tree that’s a little down the street from my house.
Lennon: You could have parked in the driveway, you know.
Phoenix: Get your ass down here.
After changing into jeans and a T-shirt, I stuff the ruler I picked up for him yesterday into my purse and grab the folder with the essays and questions.
I also take my laptop with me.
“Bye,” I call out as I pass my dad in the living room.
“One o’clock,” he calls back. “I love you.”
After walking down the steep hill that is my driveway, I meet Phoenix at his car.
This time, “Zombie” by The Cranberries blasts through the speakers.
“Good song,” I yell as I slide into the passenger seat and put my seat belt on.
He gives me that infamous smirk.
I wait for the song to end before I press the pause button on the stereo.
“You answered my texts right away. How did you read them so fast?”
The tendons in his forearm flex as he speeds down the road.
I never thought veins and tendons were hot before, but I stand corrected.
“I use text-to-speech to listen to my messages. It helps a lot.” A wry smile stretches his lips. “Unless I’m texting Storm and he’s having a bitch fit while I’m out in public. Then I get a bunch of dirty looks.”
I laugh, until another thought occurs to me.
The research I did said there were different types of dyslexia and not everyone has issues writing. I’m wondering if he does.
“Do you have difficulty when it comes to writing?”
He makes a face. “That’s not a strong point of mine either, so I use speech-to-text, too. For assignments, I type shit on the laptop Storm’s grandmother got me last year. I still struggle, but it’s a fuckton easier than writing by hand.”