Breakable Read Free Page A

barrier, and it served as a warning that pain wouldn’t deter me – that I welcomed it, even.
    Class had been in session for two weeks. Against my better judgement – what was left of it – I studied Jackie Wallace. Her brown hair fell in soft waves several inches past her shoulder, unless she twisted it into a knot with a hair tie or a clip or glossed it back into a ponytail that made her look Carlie’s age. She had large blue eyes – an unclouded wildflower blue. Brows that furrowed deeply when she was annoyed or concentrating, and arched in repose – which made me wonder what they did when she was surprised. Average height. Slim, but still curvy.
    Her fingernails were short and unpolished. I never saw her chew them, so I decided she must keep them filed down intentionally, the better to conduct those symphonies in her head and allow her hands to simulate the instrumental movements. I wanted to put on earphones and plug into her and know what she was hearing when her fingers performed. I even grew curious about which instrument she played – as though I’d know the difference between a cello and a viola by ear.
    There’s this fallacy that if you’re artistic, you’re arty and creative in your approach to everything. True for some – like my mother – but not for all. When I was younger, people were confused that I didn’t play an instrument or paint or write poetry. But I’ve only ever been artistic in one way.
Drawing
. That’s it. Even my tattoos are the result of paper and pencil sketches transferred from my notebook to the tattoo artist’s ink, injected under my skin.
    After absorbing a mind-numbing chapter about sensor calibration for measurements lab, I returned my textbook to my backpack and pulled out my sketchpad. Fifteen minutes of Heller’s class remained. My eyes strayed to Jackie Wallace, sitting several rows down, chin in hand. Without conscious intention, my hand began sketching her. The sweeping rudimentary lines were there before I knew what I was doing. I couldn’t capture her moving fingers within the confines of a sheet of paper, so I caught her paying attention to the lecture – or seeming to.
    ‘Those of you who aren’t planning to major in economics might ask yourself, “Why should I waste my time studying economics?’’ ’ Heller said. I sighed, knowing what came next. I knew his whole routine inside out. ‘Because when you’re filing for unemployment,
at least you’ll know why
.’
    A few predictable groans rose from his captive audience. I admit that I held back an eye roll, stemming from the fact that I was now four semesters familiar with this particular spiel. But Jackie smiled, the corner tip of her mouth just visible from my spot in the back, along with the upward arch of her cheek.
    So. She liked corny jokes.
    And her boyfriend was one of the groaners.
    My first tutoring session of the semester was this afternoon. Two weeks into any given semester, most students are still full of early-semester optimism, even if they’re already falling behind. It was possible I’d only have a handful of students show today – or none.
    My very first semester as Heller’s tutor, only one person showed up on the first day – the roommate of someone I’d hooked up with two weeks before. I could barely recall the girl I’d spent a couple of hours with, but I recognized the roommate instantly, because there’d been an enormous bulletin board full of exhibitionistic selfies over her bed. They’d been … distracting. Like being watched by half-naked spectators. I’d found myself wondering – during the most awkward moment possible – what she did during Parents’ Weekend. Tacked posters of the periodic elements and Albert Einstein over them?
    So during my first tutoring session ever, I drew charts on a whiteboard while explaining the difference between a downward shift in demand and a decrease in demand to
one
student. One student who was oblivious to the fact that I’d