The Tutor | 2016 ✓

4

Chapter 4

|| Ryland ||

I don't know why it is but the first thing I see when I think of her is her blonde hair. It's golden streaks that fall by her face and rest on her shoulders. She's so innocent yet there's a part of her that's strong. When I tell her she gets an answer wrong, she laughs it off but I can sense a pang of hurt in her. And that laugh of hers, it's fake. It's a fake laugh that she makes up especially for times when she feels awkward. There's not even a description for the way that artificial laugh makes me feel; it's a sham. It plants a desire in my stomach, aching to hear the melody of her real laugh.

When she can't remember 6 times 4, she uses that forged laugh.

"Solve the parentheses, first." I explain, pointing at the problem. "Six times four."

After a long moment of her fake thinking it through, she asks, "Can I use a calculator?"

I laugh thinking she's kidding but she's not. "Wait, you don't know six times four?" I lift an eyebrow at her.

A terribly fake laugh escapes her mouth causing me to mentally wince. She sounds so lonely and sad when she laughs like that. I hated when a girl was sad, especially this girl.

Everly lifts up her hands and begins counting by six's on her fingers. I try to hold in my laugh, thinking it would ruin whatever self-esteem she has, and play it off as a cough.

Her eyes quickly shift over and up to me as I hover over her. "Yeah, yeah, I know that was a laugh. You're such a bad liar."

"So are you-" I want to say but I knew that if that were to leave my mouth, I'd be fucked up. "That laugh; I know it isn't real." This truth was killing me but I just met the girl, I couldn't be talking about her laugh already.

~

I throw my jersey on and tie my left cleat at the same time. I throw my equipment bag over my shoulder and began to walk out of the locker room, tucking my shirt in my waist band then buckling my belt.

Yeah, being on time was a process but I'd do anything for baseball. It's really the only thing keeping my head up, not that I ever held it down- in public, at least.

Life isn't all sunshine and rainbows, more like darkness and rain clouds. Being "bad", as everyone calls me, is my own escape from the sadness I feel. I probably sound like a pvssy but my parents and I fight way too much. My rich ass parents always wanted to pass down their business to my wife and I- like they think I would ever settle down- but push me way too hard. I'm not capable of being smart or successful. It's like I was passed down all of the recessive traits. To be honest, the fighting really hurts me mentally to the point where I've wanted to give up. I've wanted to dig a gigantic hole and just go die in it. Well, maybe not literally because I'm a lazy fúck, but there's been a desire.

When I reach the field, I parter up with my best friend, Ezra, and throw with him. We warm up together almost every single practice and game. It was a superstition of ours- or as my team likes to call it "stupid-stition"- because when we didn't do everything together, we lost our games. Ezra and I warm up together, he catches when I pitch, he's play in the field when I do. It's the universe saying we were meant to be best friends. Or that we both suck without each other on the field. A half plus a half equaled a whole, right? Damn, I hate my intelligent brain sometimes.

"So," he says over the buzzing of mosquitoes. "Why'd you bail out on the boy's Monday night? The party was lit, bro."

"Ez, I told you, I wasn't feeling it." I fib.

Not even Ezra knows about my hidden smartness and I planned on keeping it that way. If I was smart, they'd all ask me to do their homework and shit. I'm smart but it's not like I do my homework.

"Suuuuuuure." His dramatic, sarcastic ass elaborates the "u". "RyRy didn't wanna go to the paaaartyyyy." He sings.

I tried holding back my smirk but failed. "Shut the hell up, you prick."

I throw the ball at him extra hard but he turns over his glove, using handy dandy sports reactions, stopping the ball like as if he were at short stop catching his usual line drives ever so casually.

"Woah dude, calm the fuck down." Ezra lifts his eyebrows, taken aback. "What happened. Now you gotta tell me."

"Fine. I was with a girl." Ez lifts an eyebrow. I swear he's the dumbest ass alive. "Teachin' her some shit she needed to know."

"Get it, Ry. Get that pu-" I cut him off before he could finish.

"No, not like that."

"Then how?"

"Aries!" I catch the ball then look in the way of coach Arnold. Saved by the bell. "Dugout! Now!"

"Catch ya later, Ez."

"Right back at ya, Ry."

I throw the ball back to Ezra before jogging up to the dugout where coach Arnold is standing. Usually, when coach called to talk to me, it was about a change in the lineup or mixing up the signs so, I wasn't too worried about what our conversation is going to be.

"Hey Sport," coach Arnold set down his clipboard. "How's that tutoring going with Miss. Monroe?"

Really coach? You're talking to me about tutoring at a game?

"Fine, sir."

"Good. Just telling you now, there's going to be college coaches in the stands tonight. Tell Ezra to be in yall's best behavior. Play hard and always hustle." Coach sternly explains. I nod as the rest of the team hustles into the dugout, Ezra slapping my shoulder on the way in. He sends me a wink as he places his helmet on, probably messing up that rats nest for a head of hair he has, for hitting drills. "Glad you understand, lad." He pats my back as I run to get my helmet, also.

The game finally began. We are home team so the team takes the field. As starting pitcher, I hustle out alongside my stupid ass best friend then we split our separate ways, taking our positions.

Before I begin throwing some warm up pitches, I scan the stands for college coaches or scouts when I spot Peightyn Rogers and... her? Blondie? With Peightyn, the school's wanna-be popular, whore? How could such an innocent girl like Blondie ever be hanging around that slutbag? Geez, I sound like a teenage girl.

Ahh, shit!

I trip over the pitching rubber, making a complete and utter fool out of myself. Even more than usual. Even more then Ezra does! That was saying a lot, too.

A cuss word silently escapes my mouth before I stand up and begin throwing some warm up pitches. After every pitch, I automatically look back at the same place in the bleachers. She was a distraction to my game and she was sitting right in my peripheral vision.
_______________________________

Hello there readers... didn't see ya there ;)

Thanks for reading! Don't forget to vote and comment what ya think <3

Btw, if you don't remember from the first chapter and it wasn't cleared up, Ryland plays baseball and he was at his game in this chapter. If you don't understand some of the baseball terms in this, please don't be afraid to ask me or comment it and ik y'all are awesome so y'all will help each other out if I don't get to it first ;D

And the picture at the top is Ryland...

I luvvvv y'all!

Buh-byeeeeeeeeeee!

-BlackMidnights