Henry's POV
"You're up early," Brenna observes, chucking a lime-green grape into her mouth.
I stroll to the fridge. The crisp, cold air nips my face the moment I pry it open. "Yeah, I've got tutoring in half-an-hour, and I don't want to be late."
Seizing the sweet, watermelon-flavored water Bai, I close the refrigerator door and turn around to find my little sister with an eyebrow raised.
"Since when are you entrusted with tutoring people?"
I take an apple from the 3-tier fruit countertop and bite into it, "I'm being tutored."
"Makes sense," she taunts, her fork mindlessly picking remnants of scrambled eggs and red-skinned potatoes― what she calls a breakfast when it's our cook's day off.
A Caviar and Crouton Omelete is what I need to start the day. Basketball practice was brutal yesterday, and another one follows this afternoon.
Coach finalized the roster, and I'm confident with weekly training and practice the newbies will hold their own when any of the starting five― composed of Adam, Rocco, Julio, Jeffery, and I― need to catch a breath. The season has yet to start, but I feel it in my bones that we're going to make it to the Championships. I need that trophy to secure Duke's interest in me for their 2022 Fall roster. I'm aware it's two years from now, but playing for them has been my goal since my father took me to their 2013 playoffs in North Carolina. But regardless of how well we do, none of it will matter if I'm watching from the bench.
In between chewing, I ask, "What are you doing up early?"
Prominent bags dip under her eyes, reminding me of our mother― who has yet to make her monthly visit from New York. Both should be a concern, but Brenna's mental and physical health is my priority. The thought of finding her in the corner of her room, sobbing uncontrollably with her face buried in her hands again, twists my heart.
I couldn't go near her, knowing that if I did, it would worsen it. I remember the advice Doctor Kinsella gave us about how she deals with patients with severe panic attacks. Remind the person to breathe. Don't touch them unless they want to. Some are relieved through physical touch, and others like a conversation as a distraction. You ask them what they need you to do. Everyone's different. Brenna falls under none. She doesn't like touch but she wants someone she's comfortable with sitting beside her. It's their presence and knowing they're there with her that soothes her.
That's how I knew to comfort Gabriella, who's poles apart from Brenna.
"I couldn't sleep," she admits, "and instead of doing my homework, I deep-cleaned my room. Now I have an hour and a half to bullshit a three-page essay about my greatest influence. I'm thinking of Harry Styles, but not 2010-2013 Harry. I'm talking 2017-2020, Harry."
"Sounds great," I ruffle her hair, and she swats it away with a frown.
"Buy her a drink," Brenna suggests.
"Buy who a drink?"
"The girl that visited last week. Your tutor."
"How do you know she's my tutor?"
"I was eavesdropping behind the bushes," she casually states, chucking another lime into her mouth.
"It's not nice to eavesdrop," I scowl, throwing my backpack over my shoulder.
"Buy her a drink," she chirps, ignoring my comment.
"I'm not going to buy her a drink."
-
I bought two warm hot chocolates from the cafe at Garden Grove, and I enter an empty library except for the young librarian who seemed to be in her late 20's. Skimming the room, I spot Gabriella sitting at the corner of an eight-seat table. She gathers her long, brunette hair into a ponytail only to lug the hair-tie down a few seconds later as if she were contemplating which hairstyle framed her face perfectly.
One look at her and the image of her unexpectedly at my house invades my mind. I dithered with the idea of letting her stay to hear her apology or to kick her out. The hesitation didn't last long, though, because seconds later, I was ordering Buckley to have her wait for me in the garden.
I stood there, watching her caress the flowers that my grandmother planted decades ago and have now sprouted, overtaking half of our property.
Above the patio arbor lining, the led lights kissed her brown, tanned skin, highlighting her cheekbones and a superficial scar on her forehead that you couldn't see without the light. I've always known Gabriella to be pretty, but at that moment she was beautiful. She hadn't yet apologized, but it was like I already knew it wouldn't take long for me to forgive her, and I didn't know why. Noone's ever crept under my skin like her.
"Hey," I capture her attention.
She throws her hair behind her shoulders as the corners of her red-tinted lips lift, "Hi."
Her stare averts from me to the two drinks in my hands.
"You brought drinks?"
"Uh, yeah," I set them on the table and settle for a seat across from her. I slide her drink towards her. "I didn't know what you liked, and I probably should've texted you to ask, but-"
She softly grins, seeming touched at the sentiment. Her slim fingers curl around the cup, and she brings it the brim of her lips.
She peers up at me through her long lashes, "You can never go wrong with hot chocolate. I didn't have time to grab something to eat besides an expired granola bar. Thanks," she smiles from ear to ear.
That smile of hers is going to get me in trouble. I know it― especially with Adam.
You barely even know her, Henry.
But she must be something if Adam's interested, and I'd be lying to myself if I said I didn't want to find out.
"So, we should get started," she draws me away from my thoughts. "I looked at your grades-"
I chuckle, "Am I in line to be valedictorian?"
"No, I am," she deadpans, but a small grin follows suit.
I smirk, leaning forward with crossed arms on the table, "I don't doubt that."
She unsubtly clears her throat, looking away. I hide my satisfied smile, knowing I can make her stumble a little, which, up until this point, I've failed miserably.
She seizes our 11th-grade math textbook from her backpack, "You have more trouble with math, which lucky for you, I'm good at, and there's a test coming up for Ms. Potters, so we should start there."
"Whatever you say."
-
"So, you have these four numbers given to you, and this formula," Gabriella leans forward, pointing at the textbook with the tip of her pen.
Her hair smells like vanilla.
"What you're going to do is plug in all the information you have following the formula. Do that first."
I do as told and drop my pencil when I'm done with step one.
"So you're going to be looking for x. The x is isolated, but we are not going to pay attention to the x right now because it has no number. So forget the x. We're going to simplify what's inside the quadrant first. B is a fraction. What do you do to turn it into a decimal?"
"Divide."
"Yes, exactly."
"Since it's to the power of two, can't we multiply by the power and divide?"
"You can, but it's easier to divide now and multiply after."
"So, I'll still get the answer correctly, either way?"
She smirks, "Depends if you do the rest of the equation correctly."
"Okay," I laugh.
"Why do you like making things complicated?" She teases.
"I'm trying to see if you know your stuff."
"This is basic math."
"Are you calling me dumb?"
Her eyes turn into saucers, and there's regret written across her face. "No, I didn't-"
My laugh grows, enjoying the sight of her flustered cheeks. "Gabriella, I'm kidding."
It's not easy making her blush.
For the next past half-an-hour, we were reviewing the material we learned this week in Ms. Porter's lectures. Math wasn't my strongest suit, but it's undoubtedly hers. She explains formulas and equations like it's a walk in the park. Like I'm not being spoken to in a foreign language like how it feels typically with our teacher. It also helps when my tutor is pretty― definitely helps. I might start looking forward to Wednesday mornings.
"Okay, I need a break," I sigh, raking my fingers through my hair.
She gives in, closing the textbook, "Fine. Take a five-minute break."
I stare at her, amused.
"What?" She absentmindedly brings her hand to her face.
"You sound like your dad," I mock.
"Oh," she drops her hand. "At least I'm not making you do suicides when you get an answer wrong."
A grin appears at the mention of basketball, "You like the game?"
She nods her head, "It's euphoric."
I squint my eyes, intrigued, "Euphoric?"
"Yeah, I'm sure you feel it, too, when you play it."
I linger on the word, loving how it sounds rolling off her tongue. "Describe it."
She doesn't hesitate to answer. It was as if she'd been waiting for someone to ask her.
"It's the tension in the air when there are ten seconds left in the last quarter," she begins. "The game's tied fifty to fifty, and one turnover or one play could be the end of either team."
I hold her gaze, attentive to every word as if it were vital for my breathing like air is to my lungs.
"Your next step has to be calculated. Your next pass needs to be quick enough. Your shot needs to be perfect. You have the ball, so it's your call. That's a lot of power and pressure you have, but you want the win so bad, it's like the roars in the crowds subside and it's just you and your team, and-and you can hear your heart thudding in your ears."
At this moment, it was just her and me. I didn't hear the double doors to the library open. I couldn't hear the whispers coming from around us with incoming students. Her voice kept me there. Grounded.
"You don't hesitate. It's like your body knows what to do without a second thought. Then the buzzer goes off, and everything you felt on the court heightens. You look at the score, and it's fifty to fifty-"
"Two," I finish, unwavering my stare from her.
She nods her head slowly.
"That was our home game last year," I mutter "against Monroe."
"You guys hadn't beat them in over five years," she recalls.
"You remember that?"
"How could you not? It was like a parade the next day at school."
"Did you ever play?" I find myself asking.
Her dad's the coach, and she talks about the game as if she's felt the same adrenaline as I do. It would make perfect sense if she did.
"I did in middle school, but funding was cut for the girls' basketball team, and then my Dad got hired to coach here at Redbridge."
"But why not try out for the girls' team here?"
"I guess I liked watching the game better than playing it."
For some reason, it didn't feel like the whole truth. She described the game as if it were her brand of heroin, but I didn't want to push it out of her, mainly because I liked this ―talking to her. I'd already noticed the different last names between her and Coach, but we haven't yet crossed that line either no matter how much I wanted to. I want to know everything about Gabriella, and I want her to let me.
The corners of my mouth twitch, as if holding back a grin. "Is that another way of saying you sucked?"
She scoffs in disbelief. "Are you forgetting who my dad is? The moment I picked up the ball, he had me run drills."
I shrug my shoulders. "I won't believe it until I see it."
"I see what you're trying to do, and it's not gonna work."
I give her a dubious stare, leaning back on the chair. "What am I trying to do?"
"You're trying to get me to prove that I can play so you can get out of the rest of the tutoring session, but guess what? Math doesn't care whether I prove you wrong or not. Math cares for finding x," she teases. "Break is over c'mon."
"You're no fun," I taunt as I re-open my textbook.
Our session ended minutes ago, but I wasn't about to remind her.
"We'll have fun when you pass Ms. Porter's test."
"Fun, huh," I mutter.
She chuckles as she crumbles a post-it and throws it at my chest. "Get your mind out of the gutter. I mean, like buying you an ice-cream. Not the one-scoop, though. The triple-scoop. I might even let you add sprinkles."
"Sprinkles?"
"Sprinkles," she mouths.
"Not good enough. I can buy a whole ice-cream truck."
"But not movie tickets," she snickers.
I broadly grin, "You're gonna keep looming it over my head, aren't you?"
"Maybe," she mocks.
"What's going on here?" A familiar voice asks, tearing our gaze away from each other.
"Hey, Adam," Gabriella greets, "What are you doing here?"
"I'm returning some books," he says, waving a tattered copy of To Kill a Mockingbird. "What are you guys-"
"Oh," she beams, "I'm tutoring Henry."
"You are?"
I look down at my notes, but I can feel Adam's stare on me. If he didn't like seeing Gabriella and I trapped in the restroom, then he really doesn't like this either.
"How's it going?" I hear him say.
"Well, we haven't shred each other to pieces yet," she chuckles, "so good."
"That's great," he forces out. "Can I walk you to class? It's still in the biology wing, right?"
"Damn," she checks the time on her phone, and I can't help but be annoyed at Adam. "It's time, already?"
"I can walk her to class," I chime in. "It's the least I can do if you're tutoring me."
Adam purses his lips. The tightness in his smile doesn't go unnoticed. "Her class is on my way, so I don't mind."
"Actually, I'm meeting with Lyla at the quad," Gabriella wryly grins. "I borrowed her sweater, so I'm giving it back."
"You're not carrying a sweater," I observe.
"I meant she borrowed a sweater from me," she corrects. "Yup. So," she shuts her books and stuffs them inside her backpack. "I should get going. Don't want to be late. Bye, you guys."
She scurries off, leaving Adam and me alone.
"Listen, man," Adam begins, "I don't want to be that guy, but is there something going on between you and Gabriella?"
"She's just tutoring me, man."
He doesn't quite believe it, and neither do I.
"I like her," he confesses.
"I know," I say a little too quickly, and he catches it.
"So, you don't mind if I ask her to homecoming?"
"Dude," I slam my book close, shove it inside my backpack, and zip the strings together. "I don't care about Gabriella."
That couldn't be further from the truth.
I throw the strap over my shoulder, "I just need her to pass my classes so I won't be benched."
And somehow, it's become more than that now.
I breeze past him, unintentionally brushing my shoulder against his, feeling the tips of my ear burn, "Do whatever the hell you want with her."
But don't.
Author's Note
So, what do y'all think about Henry and Gabriella not biting each other's head off?
I've got a lot planned. I already know how I want to end the book, so this is me preparing you for the ending.
Be prepared.
xoxo,
Gossip Girl