Tutoring The Enemy

1-Elena

Blackwell Academy, Monday — 7:42 a.m.

I was exactly ten minutes early for my meeting with the headmaster and already regretting it.

The thing about marble floors is that they're not designed for pacing. Too echoey. Too cold. Too easy to imagine yourself slipping and breaking your academic career on impact.

So instead, I sat. Back straight, knees together in a leather chair outside his office, gripping the strap of my worn backpack like it was the only thing keeping me tethered to earth. My neatly arranged scholarship papers peeked from the folder on my lap, aggressively highlighted and double-checked for errors.

Just in case this was the day they decided I didn't belong here anymore.

They always say to "keep your head down and stay focused." I've been doing that since orientation. No parties. No scandals. No drama. Just grades, coffee, and survival.

And now this.

A student passed by with an espresso in one hand and a Louis Vuitton tote in the other. My coffee that morning came from a vending machine that occasionally spat coins instead of drinks. I kept my eyes on the expensive marble floor, counting tiles like they might answer the question buzzing in my brain:

Why does the headmaster want to see me?

When the door creaked open like a guillotine, Headmaster Sutherland didn't offer a smile. That was never a good sign.

"Elena. Come in."

I stood on legs that suddenly felt like they came with a factory defect, spine stiff, and followed him inside. His office smelled like cedar, old books, and expensive cigars.

I sat on the edge of the seat, not quite trusting it. Or him.

"I'll get straight to the point," he said, folding his hands. "Your grades are excellent. Your conduct is spotless. But Blackwell Academy isn't just about personal achievement. We nurture leaders and protect our reputation. We're here to prepare students for the real world — and the real world is about results. Influence."

That sinking feeling in my stomach turned to full-on panic.

"There's a student who requires academic support. A legacy student. His performance has fallen below acceptable standards. We'd like you to assist him."

Assist. I knew that word. I used it in essays. It usually meant unpaid labor or emotional damage.

Relief flooded me for exactly one second before he said the name that sounded like a threat.

"Alexander Blackwood."

He slid a file across the desk. I didn't even need to open it. My mouth opened. Nothing came out.

The Alexander Blackwood? Lacrosse captain, legacy admit, literal poster boy for privilege?

"I — sir, I'm not sure I'm the best fit —"

"You are," he said smoothly, as if it were already decided. "You're the only one who could balance our expectations and his... challenges. If his grades don't improve, it's a disaster for our rankings. His father is Senator Blackwood, as I'm sure you're aware. I'd consider this an opportunity. For you. And your future."

Which is the elite way of saying: Do this, or you're out.

"And if I say no?" I asked quietly.

He leaned forward. "Then we'll have to reconsider your scholarship in the spring semester."

The room blurred for a heartbeat.

I stood. Nodded. Swallowed every word I wanted to scream.

"Understood, sir." I said, because what else can you say when your life depends on a system that was never built for you?

---

Blackwood Dormitory, Tuesday — 4:05 p.m.

I knocked once. No answer. Then again — harder this time.

The door swung open to reveal Alexander Blackwood in all his infuriating glory: perfect jawline, artfully tousled hair, and a lacrosse ball bouncing lazily between his hands like it had never failed a day in its life.

He looked me over like I was a pop quiz he didn't study for.

"No," he said.

"I haven't even said anything yet."

"You don't have to. I know who you are." He leaned against the doorframe. "Top of the class. Never misses a deadline. Probably color-codes her notes."

I blinked. "And you're rude. Congratulations."

"I'm not getting tutored," he said, tossing the lacrosse ball between his hands. "Nothing personal."

"Could've fooled me."

Our eyes locked. I didn't flinch. He didn't smirk.

He tossed the ball onto his bed. I caught a glimpse past his shoulder — desk buried under lacrosse gear, an empty energy drink, and underneath all of it, a worn paperback with a cracked spine. Not a textbook. An actual novel. I filed that away without knowing why.

"I'm not getting tutored," he repeated.

"You are," I said, stepping inside like it was my name on the dorm lease. "Your chemistry grade is tanking. The headmaster sent me. Unless you want your parents to find out you're flunking out of Blackwell while planning your acceptance speech for Yale..."

His jaw tightened. Barely.

"Fine," he said. "On one condition."

"Let me guess. Absolute secrecy. This never happened. You were never seen with me."

Something shifted in his expression — not quite guilt, not quite surprise. Like he hadn't expected her to say it before he could.

"Exactly," he said, quieter than before.

I raised an eyebrow. "Trust me, Blackwood. That won't be hard."

He held my gaze a beat too long. Then he looked away first.

I told myself that meant nothing.

I was here to save my scholarship. That was all. That was enough.

Wasn't it?