Chapter Text
“You’re wrong.”
Leah would’ve said Mrs. Wolfe’s alternative extra credit opportunity was a sick joke, if she thought her teacher had any idea why she wasn’t taking college courses again, despite now being a senior. In reality, she knew Mrs. Wolfe was trying to offer her a lifeline: a way to help herself by helping others. Her parents pitied her. Ian resented her, albeit rightfully so. Mrs. Wolfe was the only one who didn’t treat her any differently, and she thinks that’s why she agreed to do it.
She also thinks she should’ve asked more questions first. Like, for example: why should I waste my time with a girl who’d rather make out — and worse, regrettably for Leah’s eyes — with half the school than pass freshman English?
“Hi, Fatin.”
“Oh, hey.”
She turns to find Fatin smiling, uncharacteristically tentative and incongruous with her brash opening salvo. More surprising is the urge Leah feels to reciprocate. But one of them has to keep Fatin on track.
“What am I wrong about?”
They’re not supposed to meet until last period. Actually, it’s Friday. So they’re not supposed to meet, period. Or, technically, they are. But Leah had only gotten Fatin to stop blowing her off by making it a four-days-a-week commitment. Granted, Fatin showing up hasn’t equated with Fatin putting in the work, at least not to Leah’s standards. And Leah had felt the frustration reaching a boiling point yesterday, the one-month mark, until she walked past Fatin at lunch — sitting alone under the bleachers and reading The Great Gatsby aloud to herself.
“What? Oh. No, yeah, I don’t have it.”
Fatin pulls at the hem of her crop top but leans back against the locker next to Leah’s.
Thankfully, Fatin was paying so much attention to the book yesterday that she hadn’t noticed Leah, and Leah had had the rest of the afternoon to feel guilty but also, more productively, to recontextualize everything she thought she knew about the freshman. The freshman, who — after spending the first minute of their session asking why they were meeting outside instead of the library, unironically (apparently) complimenting Leah’s sunglasses, declaring that she’s going to get a sun tattoo with her fake ID to piss off her mom as soon as she finds the right place and explaining that she would ask if Leah knows any but “you know…” — had been uncharacteristically quiet when Leah finally broached the subject.
“I didn’t say you did.”
Maybe Leah shouldn’t be trying to get a rise out of Fatin over something this serious. But it doesn’t work, for one, Fatin merely giving her a blank look. For two, Leah would say that Fatin’s sole mission in life is to get a rise out of her (if that didn't make her seem like the narcissist). And, most importantly, she’s not lying. She only suggested some new techniques they could try: taking designated breaks, meeting somewhere that would minimize distractions, rewriting notes from the previous session at the start of each one. Evidently, Fatin connected the dots on her own.
“It wasn’t a judgment, Fatin. I have ADHD.”
As predictable as the incredulous chuckle is, Leah can’t help bristling at it. Her parents refused to get her tested because: how could their “advanced reader” possibly have a mental disorder? And her (non-English) teachers said she needed to work harder because they knew she was smart, as if enjoying reading was the mark of intelligence.
“English comes naturally to me because it’s my hyperfixation. Everything else I have to work twice as hard at.”
Maybe too hard. She was proud, when she jumped from sixth to eighth grade, for overcoming an obstacle no one else could see. Then grateful for finally finding a best friend. But now, procrastinating on college apps alone at 16 — having been in a “funk,” as her mother likes to say, since his class ended in May — she’s wondering if any of it was worth it.
“Hyper-what?”
Fatin doesn’t sound amused anymore — quite the opposite, if Leah gave it a second thought. But she doesn’t.
“WebMD didn’t tell you?”
Nor does she give a second thought to how hard she closes her locker, already turning toward the stairwell, blind to Fatin’s flinch.
“Can music be one?”
Leah herself flinches moments later, though, nearly missing the bottom step — not having realized Fatin was going in the same direction.
“Updating a Spotify playlist—”
Fatin’s favorite procrastination technique.
“I’m a cellist.”
Leah does miss the second step, clinging to the banister as she whips her head around… and Fatin promptly ducks her own, fiddling with a bracelet.
“Used to be.”
The bell rings for first period, and their classmates’ annoyance at having to squeeze past them becomes a lot less subtle. But somehow Leah only reacts to Fatin stepping down — catching Fatin’s wrist before she can ask herself what the hell she’s doing, before she can register Fatin’s gasp at the contact.
“Look, Leah—”
“Audiobooks.”
“What?”
Leah’s elaboration catches in her throat as her brain catches up, and she lets go of Fatin’s wrist with as little grace as she took it. But Fatin is looking at her expectantly now, and so it’s Leah’s turn to duck her head as she darts into the alcove beside the stairwell, pulling at her cardigan sleeve.
“You should try audiobooks. At home. I’m not gonna watch you listen to a book for an hour.”
“Aren’t they for kids whose parents want them to shut up on long car rides?”
Fatin has never hesitated to question Leah’s advice, as exemplified by this very conversation. But the bitter chuckle is new.
“Not according to my parents, but they also said I would be able to drive a car someday.” Fatin raises an eyebrow, and Leah clears her throat, feeling inordinately accomplished and appropriately abashed. “They’re basically just podcasts.”
At that, Fatin laughs abruptly, loudly.
“What?”
“Nothing.” The gleam in her eye as she meets Leah’s gaze strongly suggests otherwise. “You just - like, you would be into podcasts.”
Leah rolls her eyes — which she’s done more in the past month than since she learned how to during her “threenager phase” — then tilts her head back and runs a hand through her hair to hide the smile straining her out-of-practice muscles.
“Have a good weekend, Fatin.”
“What about this afternoon?”
Leah nearly laughs. But for once, Fatin sounds sincere.
“It’s Friday?”
“Oh. Right, duh. ” Fatin shakes her head, while Leah reels from the flash of disappointment in her eyes — or rather Leah’s imagination of it. “I better go then,” Fatin taps the banister as she steps back, “if I’m gonna dip after fourth.”
Yesterday, Leah would’ve rolled her eyes again.
“Mrs. Wolfe was very impressed by your thesis.”
The paper isn’t due until the end of the semester — thank god — but, being the only teacher Leah’s ever had who caters to procrastinators and go-getters alike, Mrs. Wolfe is giving feedback on thesis statements for all her classes, including Fatin’s fifth period, today.
“Really?”
Once again, the sincerity in Fatin’s voice is unmistakable as she freezes on the stairs. As unmistakable as Leah’s surprise had been when Fatin shoved her laptop screen at her two days ago and attributed her insights to “I obvi saw the movie, Leah.”
As unmistakable as the smile Leah doesn’t try to hide now.
“Only one way to find out.”
“Not really. I could just wait until Monday.”
Jesus fucking Christ. Leah hears a bright laugh and almost startles at the realization that it’s her own. She does blink as she takes in Fatin’s bright grin. When she blinks again, it’s gone — Fatin facing forward as she leisurely ascends the stairs, only to spin around on the landing and rapidly descend, head bowed as she passes Leah.
She slows down again in the hallway, evidently not expecting Leah to be watching. Which is fair, since Leah has no reason to be. Has a reason not to be, in fact, in the form of AP Psych with Faber. But he’s an ass, and it’s not Leah’s fault that her brain insists on hoarding unimportant information, like other people’s class schedules.
“Tell Mr. Young I say hi!”
Fatin’s stride only falters for a second, but Leah finds herself snorting. Harder when the freshman shoots a middle finger over her shoulder.