Glamoured: A Modern Fairy Tale

2. The Drudgery of Suburban Leaf Raking

Studying proved to be the right choice because the economics test was hard, and she'd bombed the homework, so a good grade on the test to get her out of the course with a pass was a must. She gave Ms. Stevenson a tight smile when she handed in her exam; she was dead last to finish it.

"Eleanor," Ms. Stevenson said in her dry, clipped voice, "can we talk?"

"Sure," Eleanor said, dragging out the word. Be honest, you knew this was coming, she scolded herself.

She sat down across from Ms. Stevenson, who was bony and all severe lines but not an unkind woman. The teacher said, "I can't help but feeling you're not in this class for the right reasons. You fall asleep, arrive late, and do poorly on the assignments. If you don't want to be here, maybe you should drop the class."

Eleanor chewed on her lower lip, shaking her head. "I know my grades suck," she muttered, "but I need this class."

Or else she'd have to take something worse than economics. Something like chemistry or...shudder...statistics. She would pick learning about capitalism any day.

"Have you considered getting a tutor?" Ms. Stevenson suggested. "You've got a C, but I think you could turn that into a B before the end of semester."

Eleanor arched her eyebrows and asked, "Did my mom put you up to this?"

It wasn't polite. She knew that, but her mom was a professor at Guilliford community college, too. Ms. Stevenson sighed and shook her head. She said, "That's inconsequential. I'm talking about you, about your grades."

"You don't think I'm trying," Eleanor said point-blank.

Ms. Stevenson heaved a sigh. "No, I don't. I know the last year was hard on you—"

"I've just got to get this gen-ed stuff out of the way," Eleanor said, brushing off the sympathy. Gee, and Stevenson doesn't even know about the pre-Halloween horror show, she thought.

"Get a tutor," Ms. Stevenson said, leaning back in her chair and folding her arms. "If you're going to stay in this class, you'll need to try harder. I know you're capable."

"Thanks," Eleanor said, briskly standing up and throwing her tote bag over her shoulder. She strode out into the courtyard, where people gathered together in little groups to eat lunch in the afternoon sun. Eleanor scanned the tables, picking out a guy sitting by himself and listening to music. If they lived in California, he would've been a surfer, right at home on the beach. His long, scraggly hair was pulled back in a ponytail, and he was on his phone, reading something when she walked up and tapped him on the shoulder.

Brandon gave her a relaxed smile and said, "Hey, E. What's happening?"

She plopped down across from him and rested her chin on her hands. "You know, failing classes," she muttered, rolling her eyes.

"Tough," he said, "but you're smart. You'll pull out of it."

"That's what everyone's been saying for almost two years," she muttered. When her grandpa got sick, her grades tanked junior year of high school. The number of pep talks she'd been given since then made her feel sea sick.

"Wanna go climbing tonight?" he asked, giving her a lop-sided grin.

"Hell yes." God, could she use the distraction. Eleanor pulled out her sandwich and a bag of yogurt covered pretzels, which she always ate within twenty-four hours of buying them. She swore they were literal crack.

"There's that 5.10 route I wanna crack before Jo resets the wall," Brandon said, rubbing his hands together.

"I'll stick to my 5.8s, thanks," she said, grinning at him. He was better than her, and she chalked this up to Brandon being several inches taller, which helped him make the tough moves. She was five seven, which was pretty good height for a woman, and she reminded herself that she'd just started to climbing again a year ago, so she had lots of ground to make up. She'd been better when she was climbing in high school.