Tutoring

Orc lay in his bed, late at night. He could hear his mother and father pounding away at each other down the hall. The walls were thin. His window was open; the clear, damp smell of the night wafted through. Normally, Orc liked that smell, liked that he could hear the crickets chirping and cars going by. It made him feel calmer, like the rage building in his temples was just a small part of a big thing, a big world. But now, all Orc felt was itchy. He kept rewinding the day's events in his mind's eye. School. Home. Bed.

Meeting Howard at the bus stop, slapping the palm of his hand with his own, seeing the sparkle in Howard's eyes. The bus, the kids talking too loud until he yelled at them to shut up. Jeff Vinkley, who Orc and Howard had thrashed a bit at lunch. The kid was a nag and a snitch, telling the nearest teacher about Howard's cigarettes. Howard had only smoked a couple before he was caught. They'd thrashed Jeff good, though. Orc had punched him in the stomach and watched him wheeze. Howard had touched his shoulder in that nervous way he had and asked something stupid, something about taking Jeff to the nurse because he was wheezing pretty bad and he was pretty sure he had asthma. Orc didn't care if Vinkley had asthma; it'd been Howard's cigarettes, and he'd only smoked two before being snitched on. Only two.

Then after school. Tutoring with Astrid the Genius. Just the thought made Orc feel itchy. He'd felt stupid sitting there, with Astrid babbling on and on about variables and adding like terms. He could feel sweat beading on his brow just thinking about it in the coolness of his bedroom. Orc got up and went to the bathroom next to his room. He could still hear his parents. They'd had a fight. Orc brooded as he drank lukewarm tap water from a glass. They'd had a fight, but now they were banging like that made it all better. His dad had hit his mom and his mom had screeched and cried, and he'd grimaced like her noises made his head ache, but now they were both crying out and making noise and it was all fine and dandy. Orc wondered if they'd break the bed. He itched his stomach and swallowed the last sip of water, then ambled back to his room.

Astrid hadn't acted like he was stupid even when he was sweaty and tired and didn't know what the hell she was talking about or asking. She'd been calm and talked in a nice, casual voice, like they were friends or something. She'd explained everything patiently. It made Orc's skin crawl. It was like she was making fun of him in a secret, hidden way. The chair he'd sat in always seemed too small and the room too hot and it always seemed like he took up too much space when that happened. When Astrid looked at him with her blue eyes, it made him feel prickly and pent-up but also small, like she was seeing inside him, all his guts. Orc didn't know how to explain it, but he didn't like it.

Now, in the safety of his bedroom, Orc brought a finger up to his face, tracing the purple bruise beneath his eye. His dad had popped him one two days ago. Orc couldn't remember why. It was because of something stupid. Astrid the Genius had seen it during their tutoring session. Orc had tried not to care. It was irritating, how she kept looking at him when she thought he wasn't looking. He could see her out of the corners of his eyes, her expression unreadable. "What?" he'd snapped at her.

"Nothing," said Astrid. She was leaning over a sheet of scratch paper, pencil bobbing idly in her hand. Her eyes were on him. "Did you get into a fight?"

Orc shifted in his seat. He stared at the inked numbers on his worksheet, the problems from one to twenty, perfectly formed. "Uh," he grunted, "Yeah." Stop looking at me. Astrid's eyes were probing him, making him feel hot and antsy, jumbling his thoughts.

"Did you start it?" Polite. Like she was talking about football or tennis or something. Anger boiled up in Orc's throat. Yeah, I started it. So what? What right did Astrid the Genius have to judge him?

"No," he said, looking up at her, defiant.

"Did you lose?" Polite. Cool. Like she was talking about football or tennis or something. Her eyes were icy blue.

No. Yes. What did she care? "Kinda." Orc wished he could stare her down, but she kept holding his gaze. If he was throwing a fastball, she was catching it and lobbing it back to him, easy. Her eyes reminded him of a geyser somewhere, crystal-like, serene. It struck Orc that she was probably trying to figure him out or something, hypnotizing him—peeking into his brain and combing through all the layers like the pages of a book—because it was hard to look away.

"Does it hurt?" Astrid blinked as she spoke, her voice softening.

Orc's throat was dry and papery when he dropped his gaze to her shoes—prim, dark shoes, the kind that girl lawyers wore on TV shows. "Yeah," he muttered. He heard the scrape of Astrid's chair coming closer and took the moment to feel sorry for himself. His eye had been throbbing since he woke up. It was hot and swollen, making his broad, plain face even uglier. His mom hadn't looked at him all morning as she shuffled around in her thready robe, making his dad coffee. That's why he'd left early. That's why—

An owl hooted. In the present, Orc jerked out of his reverie, his body trembling with electricity. He got up, walked around, unable to lie still. His parents had stopped, finally. He could hear his dad's snores, loud and content, from their bedroom. His mom never snored.

It was difficult to remember what happened next in that classroom. Every time Orc even tried to touch it, he was thrown—his stomach revolted against it, flopping around like a fish out of water, his neck growing red and feverishly hot. But the memory kept nagging at him anyway. Orc went back to his bed, not letting the covers touch even his feet.

Astrid had touched the skin below his eye, her fingertip light and cool. Orc hadn't even realized she'd come so close. He was looking down at the floor, frozen. Her touch was gentle—he wanted to grab her hand off his face, to jerk away, but his hands were in fists and they wouldn't move off his lap. "I'm sorry," she said quietly. His chin lifted as if of his own accord; their eyes met again. Orc felt his throat work once, twice. Astrid's eyes were on him. When his eyes wandered down, he saw that there was something immeasurably soft and sure about the turn of her mouth. His skin crawled.

"I saw your mom at church last Sunday," Astrid continued in a low, intimate voice, like she was sharing a secret. "Her arm's broken."

"Uh," Orc mumbled. His hand finally unfroze from his lap, reaching up slowly to alight on top of hers. It was soft; her knuckles gave easily beneath his fingertips as he probed his own bruised skin. "Yeah. Um."

Astrid withdrew her hand, looking distant. "I'm sorry about that. She's a nice lady." She stood up then, Orc remembered now, lying in his bed. She'd stood up and asked him if he wanted an ice pack. "I can get you one from the nurse," she'd said, in a serious, brisk tone. "If you like."

I can get you one from the nurse. Orc rolled over onto his side, his face burning and his mind racing. If you like. I can get you one. If you like.

She touched me.

Orc woke at seven a.m. with his hair slicked to his forehead. The fan on his ceiling was whirring. Pale morning light shone through his window, cool on his skin. Orc rolled out of bed, untangling his sweaty sheets from his legs. His head felt muzzy. He dressed distractedly, blinking often. It felt like his eyelids were stuck together with sleep.

The day passed slowly and quickly at the same time. Orc barely acknowledged Howard, who snuck concerned glances at him whenever he got the chance. "Hey, man," he ventured cautiously at one point behind the cafeteria at lunch, "You okay? I mean, is your eye alright?"

Orc grunted, staring glassily into space. He bit into an apple he'd taken from the cafeteria and chewed.

"It looks better," said Howard, scratching the back of his neck. "Yeah. Like, it's just a little green, now."

Orc grunted again.

"You want to get Jeff again? Y'know, I don't think he actually had asthma. I think he was—"

"Howard," rumbled Orc.

"What?"

"Shut up."

Howard looked irritated for a moment, then deflated, putting his hands up. "Okay, whatever," he mumbled. "We can just stand here and look at the asphalt." He kicked at the ground for emphasis, folding his skinny arms across his chest.

Orc stared at the ground for a minute. He flexed his fingers over his bitten apple. "Uh," he said. Howard perked up at the sound of his voice. "You know how—" Orc stopped, looking frustrated. His neck, Howard noticed, was growing pink. His hand went up to rub the flushed skin. Howard frowned, a little disconcerted. He wondered if Orc was going to talk about his dad. It was obvious that they had a...bad relationship, but Howard knew better than to pry, and—as much as he cared about his friend—he didn't particularly want to hear about the source of Orc's black eye. Just the thought made him uncomfortable. There were some things, Howard reasoned, you didn't talk about—some things you didn't touch. Even with your best friend.

"You know how," Orc tried again, in a mumble, "I get...you know...I have to go to room four hundred with Astrid the Genius after school?"

Howard nodded, relieved. "Yeah. Sucks," he said. "I mean, if you can't keep up in algebra, why don't they just let you drop out, right?"

Howard went on a similar spiel every time Orc brought up tutoring, which was as little as possible. Orc nodded absently. "But," he continued, "Like...she's—she…."

Howard jumped in. "She's got like an IQ of a hundred and seventy or something. Doesn't really hang out with anybody—even the nerds," he surmised in his usual matter-of-fact way. "Right. I know Astrid the Genius." He took a swig of his soda, then tossed the can in the nearby recycling bin. "She's a snob. Thinks she's better than all the other kids 'cause she takes college classes."

"No," said Orc, growing more irritated and uncomfortable. "She's—" He stopped to think. What Howard was saying wasn't wrong, exactly—Astrid did make him feel like an idiot for not being smart like she was. She wasn't really friendly, even when she was being nice. She didn't smile very often and sometimes it seemed like she was staring through him. Orc guessed that was pretty snobby. It made him irritated, anyway.

Howard was staring at him. "She's what?" he asked. "You're not saying she's actually alright." The end of his statement lilted up slightly, as if it were an implicit question.

Orc's face colored. "No," he said. "Shut up. It don't matter." He lapsed into a moody silence.

Howard moved to touch his friend's arm before dropping his hand to his side instead. "Hey," he said. "What were you gonna say?"

"Nothing. Just shut up." When it seemed like Howard was going to speak again, Orc raised his fist at him. Howard relented, moodily kicking pebbles against the cafeteria building. When the bell rang, Orc threw his mostly intact apple on the ground, leaving him without saying goodbye. Howard, looking somewhat abashed, collected the apple off the pavement and threw it in the nearest trash can.

When the time came for him to go to room four hundred that afternoon, Orc trudged to his destination with a lump stuck firm in his throat. He avoided looking at Astrid, keeping his gaze on his textbook. He let her lecturing wash over him. She didn't touch him this time. He was glad. Orc didn't need any distractions. He'd gotten his last algebra test back that morning—an F, like always—but also an extra note from Mr. Freeman asking to have a private conference with his parents. Orc didn't bother trying to explain to Freeman why that couldn't happen. It would just make him angry, would probably even get him a detention. It wasn't worth the trouble; you couldn't beat on a teacher without going to juvie or something.

"Your black eye is improving," she said at the end of the session, sliding the textbook back onto the shelf near the door leading out into the hall.

Orc didn't reply, just passed her quickly, angling his broad shoulders so that he didn't even brush the fabric of her blouse in his way out.

Astrid had only just gathered her things to leave the classroom when something caught her eye. A slim sheaf of lined paper, raggedly torn from a spiral notebook, lay on the desk she and Orc formerly sat at. Beside it was a heavily creased worksheet, half filled in with answers scrawled in almost unreadable chicken scratch handwriting. Astrid's shoulders sagged. Quickly, she raced over to the desk, rifling through the papers with nimble fingers.

It only confirmed what she already knew: Orc had left his homework behind.

Astrid suppressed a sigh, wondering if she could catch him before he left the school grounds. Her mom, she knew, was already idling by the curb outside the gate on the other side of the school building, flipping through some magazine or another, waiting for her. Surely she could wait a little longer, Astrid thought, gripping the papers to her chest and turning toward the door. She started to run.

It was true that Orc's grades reflected only vaguely on her own tutoring skills. Astrid was mostly tutoring him because she was getting extra credits to do so; from what she'd seen of his teachers, most thought he was a lost cause, academics-wise. It was the right thing to do—it was being a good Samaritan—but nothing more, nothing that really helped. It was the unspoken thing that permeated her interactions with all of them—Mr. Dwyer, Mrs. Fiscoll, everyone—whenever she talked about Orc.

Astrid wasn't under any illusions about this, but it wasn't something she liked thinking about. As her legs pumped down her second flight of stairs, though, something went sour in the back of her mind. She knew Orc wouldn't finish the homework-he never did. Even when they finished all but one problem during tutoring, that one problem would still go unsolved the next day. Still, Astrid didn't let herself stop running. He'll do it this time, she thought, pushing the front door of the building open. I'll make him finish. He has to be responsible sometime. What's he going to do if he never finishes the eighth grade? Her heart lodged in her throat. It'd be her fault if that happened. The teachers could never say a word, but it'd be her fault, regardless.

Astrid finally reached the edge of school grounds. She looked around, then glanced at the watch on her wrist. It was four-ten. Only ten minutes had passed since their session had ended. Had he left already? She started walking briskly along the sidewalk, scanning the parking lot. She knew Orc walked home, usually, but there wasn't any harm in looking—maybe Mrs. Merriman had come to pick him up. She knew it wasn't likely, but it didn't hurt to hope, even just a little bit.

She was so busy staring at the few cars still parked in their spaces that she plowed into a wall of flesh and muscle standing solidly in the middle of the sidewalk. Astrid jumped back. "I have your homework," she said immediately.

Orc whipped around, ready to slug the fool that crashed into him, then stopped abruptly. It was as if he'd been struck. Astrid, with a pang of annoyance, noted the fists that had quickly dropped to his sides once he recognized her—he was ready to fight somebody for something as trivial as running into him. Ridiculous.

"I have your homework," Astrid repeated when Orc failed to respond. She offered him the papers. "The scratch sheets, too. So you can see the work we put into solving the problems."

He made no move to grab them, just gawked at her. Then his eyebrows knit together. "I don't do the homework," he said. "I never do it, 'cept with you."

"Do it this time." Astrid was firm, just like she was with Little Pete when she was doing his therapy.

Orc gave her an incredulous look, like she was an idiot. Then he turned, starting to walk away. Astrid felt another pang of annoyance—he wasn't even trying. He was wasting her time.

She walked behind him, grabbing his shoulder. When he turned around again, his gaze menacing, Astrid felt a small chill zip up her spine. She could feel the well-developed muscle where her hand grasped him; he was a big kid, strong for his age, prone to violence, and he was so close.

"Don't touch me," Orc growled. His breath was warm on her face, making her blink. "I'm not doing the stupid homework." His eyes were the color of mud, solid and flat. Astrid could see a faint, greasy scatter of acne on the bridge of his nose.

"It's important." Astrid dropped her hand from his shoulder, unable to hide her peevish tone. "Don't you want to get better? You won't pass eighth grade if you don't put in the effort." When this brooked no response, she just looked at Orc, irritated that he'd reduced her to clichéd platitudes.

Something shifted in his eyes. He looked down, teeth grinding into into his bottom lip. "I can't let my parents see," he muttered so quickly and gutturally that Astrid almost missed what he said completely.

"What?"

"Nothing. Okay. I'll do the work." He reached to grab the papers. Astrid let him take them, distracted by what she'd failed to hear.

"What did you say? What about your parents?" Orc's sullen expression made Astrid immediately wish she could take it back. This wasn't going to go anywhere. Why did she keep indulging this misplaced sense of responsibility towards others? It wasn't kindness at this point, it was an unnatural compulsion, more a greedy urge to justify her own morals than anything. This could only lead to discomfort on both ends. Plus, she could feel her cell phone buzzing in the back pocket of her jeans—her mom was going to be angry at her for being so late.

Then, "I got a note from Freeman," Orc mumbled, staring at her shoes. "My parents gotta come in." He shot her a glance. All the anger seemed to leach out of him suddenly. "My dad's gonna kill me."

Astrid suppressed a wince. It didn't take a genius to realize where his mother's cast and Orc's own black eye had come from—she'd naturally taken his excuse about it being from a schoolyard fight with a grain of salt. "I can help you," she said quickly. "I'll talk to Mr. Freeman."

It wasn't right, Astrid knew. The right thing to do was to inform someone about Orc's living situation, which was obvious to anyone who cared to see what was right in front of their noses. But Astrid also knew that telling the police or a teacher or any other authority figure wouldn't necessarily yield optimal results, either.

Adults didn't always act the way you wanted them to. She only had to look at how grown men and women gawked and made comments about Little Pete to realize that—their wide eyes when he had a meltdown at the supermarket, the disapproving frowns of everyone who heard his screaming. Astrid knew it was the high contrast lights and unpredictable noise of shoppers that affected him this way, pure sensory overload, but they didn't know that.

People didn't understand. They didn't understand a lot of the time.

Orc looked at her, wary. "You'll make him not talk to my parents? Not even my dad or nothing?"

"I'll try." Astrid felt a surge of satisfaction as she once again gained the upper hand. "But you have to finish the homework. From now on, every day."

"Okay. Deal."

Astrid was certain this was a lie. Still, she nodded, thrusting out her pale hand. She'd take what she could get. Like with everything she did, Orc regarded this gesture as something alien—she could see it in the brief confusion in his eyes, in the twitch of his mouth. Then, he shifted his weight and rolled his papers into the crook of his left arm. Finally, he put his right hand into her own, gingerly, clammily. When Astrid shook his hand—broad, fish-pale, with thick, ungainly fingers—in as firm a manner as she could muster, his lips curved down into a scowl and his meaty neck reddened. He let go quickly. Astrid didn't mind. His hand was unpleasantly damp; it practically swallowed hers whole.

"Sorry I'm late," she said the minute she opened the passenger door. Her mother looked at her with disapproving eyes as she got in her seat and buckled her seatbelt.

"You know Petey is with Kelsey today." Mrs. Ellison turned her gaze to the road as she started the engine, lips pursed in a thin pink line. Kelsey Higgs was one of the few sitters Little Pete actually engaged with, in his own subdued way. She was a college student with a kind demeanor and nervous hands that twisted around each other near constantly. Astrid liked her.

"She can stay a few minutes longer than usual, can't she?" Astrid pulled the gray elastic from her blonde ponytail, letting her hair down, before putting it back up again, carefully scraping back the loose strands. Running had made her ponytail loose, sloppy, and Astrid didn't want a hair out of place.

Orc skipped his last two classes with Howard in one of the many janitors' closets on campus. "Vinkley can't find us here," Howard had said, smiling in his lopsided way. His skinny brown legs were propped up against Orc's. The closet was small, with not much room to move around in, and stuffy. It also smelled of chemicals. Howard smoked an e-cigarette—he boasted he'd gotten it from some mom 'n' pop shop near his house—while Orc picked at the worn carpet. They talked briefly about some movies opening up, Howard declaring which ones looked like crap and which ones looked "decent," in his words, based off the trailers. He'd been going on some tangent when Orc asked him the time.

"What, you got somewhere to be?" Howard grinned, then corrected himself. "Oh, right. I forgot." Then—in a sardonic, faintly bitter tone— "You've got a date with Astrid the Genius."

Orc's hand rose and slapped Howard across the face. Howard's head lolled for a second before snapping upright, wet-eyed, mouth agape. "What the hell!" he hissed, more stunned than hurt. "It was a joke. Jesus!" He rubbed his cheek, eyeing his friend.

"Shut up," snapped Orc. "Get over it." He'd been slapped ten times harder than that hundreds of times. Howard was a wimp, anyway.

They stared at each other in an angry, subdued silence. Finally, Orc left. He didn't like being there when Howard got pissy. It wasn't worth it. He got the time off a clock on the wall instead, his hands flexing in and out of fists at his sides.

He entered room four hundred early. The bell signaling the end of the school day had rung a few minutes ago. He could hear the cacophony of students in the halls, slamming lockers, talking, making noise. He pressed his cheek to the desk's cool surface as he sat in his chair.

His mom and dad were fighting again. Usually they fought once a week. Nothing real bad until maybe a few weeks into the month. Then, an injury would occur either on himself or his mother—a broken arm, a blackened eye, a couple spat-out, bloody teeth. Peace would be restored, then, but it was a tepid, flimsy peace that made Orc's teeth grind, made him want to do something, made him want to use his fists. He did, too, on the one person who'd respond, who wouldn't flinch and cower when he hit him. His father could give him a run for his money, but Orc was getting stronger all the time.

The door opened. "I have news," said a familiar voice. Orc finally lifted his head as Astrid approached the desk, algebra textbook and worksheets clutched against her chest. She looked happy.

"What?" Orc felt like his body was half-asleep. His voice seemed to thrust up groggily from his throat.

"Remember our deal?"

"No." It came out of his mouth without Orc realizing. But he did remember. He'd thought about it all last night, held it out in front of him like a shield while his parents were fighting, while his dad slapped his mom around like they were in a crappy cartoon, only usually cartoons didn't scream. Or cry. Or bleed.

"I mean—" He cleared his throat. "Yeah. I remember."

"You officially have a month," Astrid announced, setting her tutoring materials down gently onto the desk, looking down at his hunched over figure, "to improve your algebra grade." She smiled, swiveling her hips and bringing herself up to her fullest height so she could ease herself onto the surface of the desk. She then crossed one leg over the other, prim.

Orc blinked. "Huh?"

"If you get a passing grade on your next test, Mr. Freeman won't have to meet with your parents."

Orc's face went slack. Suddenly the pit of his stomach was boiling. His head pounded. "I can't," he muttered.

"What?" Astrid leaned towards him. "Orc, this is a good thing." She reached out and touched his hand. Orc stared at the place where their fingers met, his mouth dry. "I'll help you."

He didn't look at her. He felt like he'd explode if he did. He remembered all the times he stared all the tests his teachers gave him. Every time he tried to remember what to do, it all seemed to slip away. The numbers made his head hurt. They all got jumbled together, just like words when he was trying to read. His chest began to tighten.

"You can't," Orc mumbled, his face burning. His fingers jittered under her own, which were perfectly still. "You can't help me." He wanted to hit someone.

Astrid looked bewildered. "Yes, I can." She said it as if it were perfectly obvious, perfectly simple. Orc's ears grew hot, his jaw clenching. Astrid promised to help him—he'd thought about her soft hand all night—and she'd only made things worse.

"You haven't done anything so far," he said, louder than he meant to. He stood up, his undersized chair scraping backward. Now he and Astrid were eye to eye, her sitting on the desk, him standing before her. He stared at her, something heavy turning in his chest. All he could think of was how she'd sealed his fate. He would fail. He couldn't do the tests. Freeman was going to meet his parents and then his dad would kill him, and he wouldn't be able to stop him, and it was all Astrid's fault.

"Calm down," he could hear her saying, anxious. "It's okay." Settle down. You're scaring me. That's what she was really saying, Orc thought. He squeezed his eyes shut. He didn't want to be here.

"I didn't even do the homework," he said, voice shaking. He grit his teeth. "I didn't do the homework like you said. I couldn't." He opened his eyes and kept them on her, his stomach twisting. Astrid's eyes were such a calm, unflappable blue.

He hated her. She'd ruined him. His heart was in his throat and in his chest at the same time.

"It's okay," Astrid repeated, her voice surprised. She reached out, her hands resting on his forearms, warm, fragile. "You can do today's."

That just made it worse. Her touch made the hairs on his arms stand on end. He longed to raise his fists, to punch, to slug, to move and feel flesh hitting flesh.

I can't hit her. He remembered his dad's wedding ring catching his mother's lip after a swing, bloody spit drooling down her chin. His whole body hummed with nervous, antsy energy, anger bubbling in his stomach, heart jackhammering knottily in his chest. If I don't do something I'll explode, he thought. His hands reached out and grasped her bony forearms, nails digging into her skin. He didn't want to hit. He didn't want to hit.

But he needed to do something.

"Um," Astrid murmured. Her eyes were wide, nervous. He was so close. She could see the dark-brown color of his eyes again, the darkness of his pupils. "Orc?"

His eyes flitted down to her mouth. It looked clean. Soft. He bet she never busted her lip in her life.

"Orc!" Astrid's voice was loud. Orc blinked, loosening his grip on her. When she withdrew from him, he could see that there were white little half-moons on her arms where his fingernails pressed. Shame filled him. He remembered passing a compress to his mother, the ice cubes melting partway in the towel, cold water soaking through the fibers.

Orc lay in his bed that night. The window was open. His parents hadn't made up yet, so his dad was sleeping on the pullout couch in the living room. His dad had allowed his mom to have the bed. He always did. Like that made him some gentleman, letting his wisp of a wife sleep in her own bed after using her like a punching bag. Orc could still hear his snores. The walls were thin, after all.

Astrid was a professional when it came to accepting awkward situations. She explained to him—quietly, clearly a little shaken from his odd behavior—that her younger brother, Little Pete, often suffered from an overload in sensory stimuli and acted out in a result. "Sometimes he'll scream," she said, matter-of-fact. "Sometimes he'll hit my mom or me. Or he'll self-injure—hurt himself. But he doesn't mean it. He's just trying to gain control over a situation where he doesn't have any." She shot him a glance.

Orc frowned at her, his gaze accusatory. "I'm not retarded."

Astrid looked irritated. "Neither is Little Pete. I'm not saying...it's not a one-to-one comparison. But I recognize that you felt overwhelmed. That doesn't mean you can…" She paused, "...do that."

Orc's face grew hot. He could feel her icy eyes on him, demanding an answer, demanding some sort of reason. "I wasn't going to hit you."

Astrid's eyebrows knit together. "I didn't think you were," she said. "I didn't think you'd hurt me." Her voice was unconvincing. As if to clarify, she added firmly, "I'd stop tutoring you immediately if that happened."

A pause. Orc curled and uncurled his hands on his lap, thinking. "I don't hit girls," he finally mumbled in reply.

Astrid opened the textbook, flipping pages, smooth and businesslike. Her voice was cool. "You shouldn't hit anybody."

Orc rolled over in his bed. His heart was thudding gradually and softly in his chest. Outside his window, the crickets were going, but he could hardly hear them. The shame of putting those little half-moons on Astrid's forearms dogged him, to the point of him actually attempting to finish the homework they'd started during the remainder of their awkward session together, but now it was leaving him. All Orc could think of, in the dark safety of his bedroom, was the blue of her irises, the smooth, soft way her lips looked. It put jitters in his stomach, those thoughts, made him restless. When he closed his eyes, he saw her lips in the dark, sweet and unhurt. It made something in his chest knot and yearn.

Orc had a feeling that this wasn't the last time he'd feel that way. He pressed his face into his pillow. He'd deal with it tomorrow.

And if not tomorrow, then the next day.

Eventually.