“Start with Maths,” he says the next morning, slamming down several exams onto the desk in front of me. He cuts the power to my computer, hands me a pen and pushes a calculator towards me. I smile up at him and push the calculator back to the edge of the desk.
He just shrugs. “Watch her,” he tells Leevens.
“My pleasure,” he purrs.
“Shut it,” I warn.
“Sorry ma’am,” he chuckles. “You’re a feisty one.”
I ignore him and continue working through the papers. They’re not too difficult, but I find myself needing the calculator for some of the work I should have been covering next year. They only take me two hours. Two hours of Leevens staring at me. When I finish, I chuck my pen at him.
“You didn’t have to take him so literally, you know,” I tell him, privately flattered by the attention.
“You might need this,” he says, waving the pen at me.
“I’m finished,” I shrug.
“Really?”
“Yes.”
“Every question?”
“Every question,” I confirm.
“Double checked the answers?”
“I triple checked the answers.”
“Dang girl, you must have an IQ of 150,” he mutters picking up the neat stack of finished exams.
“130,” I correct him.
“131,” he says smugly.
“I haven’t checked in a three weeks,” I shrug.
“Check.”
“Fine.” I reboot my computer, find my usual online IQ tests and take it. It’s not a perfect measurement, but it can tell me if I’m improving. “133.”
“I don’t believe you,” Leevens says, narrowing his eyes. I swivel the screen around so he can see it. “Bitch.”
“Lighten up,” I chuckle. “And mark my exams for me.”
“I’m not qualified to do that,” he says.
“Don’t write on them, just work them out yourself and see how many I got right.”
“Fine.”
“Thanks,” I say, punching is shoulder lightly on my way out of the office.
“You wanna go home?” Luca asks me as I brush past him.
“Not really,” I admit. Mum will be there.
“You hungry?”
“Kind of,” I say.
“Shayne, take her for something to eat,” he says, throwing his credit card and keys to his little brother.
“But it’s 2:00,” he says.
“Just go. And then take her home, okay?”
“Fine,” he mutters.
“You’re gonna let him drive your Vanquish?” I ask, disbelieving.
“He’s a good driver,” he shrugs.
“No I’m not,” Shayne says innocently.
“I know. Just don’t kill her,” he warns.
