Tutoring the Alpha

Chapter Seventeen: The Killer

                   Once again, things were icy with Sam for the next couple of weeks. When we passed each other in the kitchen or the hallway at home, his eyes bore into my unblinking gaze like headlights. I barely saw him on campus, but when I did, he was always typing away on his cell phone or talking with friends. I, on the other hand, only had one friend: Mickey. And when you’re only friend is someone like Mickey, well...I hadn’t had any choice but to talk to him.

“Hey Benny,” he chirped brightly as he slid into the seat across me in the library, setting a brown paper bag and two styrofoam cups of coffee on the desk between us. I looked up from my book, scowling, to dismiss the exotic scent of caramel-flavored coffee, and Mickey shrugged.

“Suit yourself.”

I tried to ignore him as he dug into a chocolate chip banana muffin right in front of me, blatantly breaking the library’s “No Eating” rule, but I grew fed up after only two minutes. Reaching over to snatch one of the cups of coffee off the drink holder, I slung my bag over my shoulder and motioned for Mickey to follow me outside.

“I thought you had work to do,” he panted as he raced over to catch up with me, juggling his basketball duffle, a cup of coffee, and another muffin.

“I do.”

“So then why did we just leave the library?”

“Because I don’t have any more classes today and we’re not allowed to eat in there,” I said shortly, sitting down on a bench by the Math department and taking a cautious sip of my drink. Scorching hot and topped with whipped cream and caramel sauce, the sugary sweetness soothed my aching throat and gave me a bit of energy after a quite depressing week.

“So why don’t you go home? You know, do your homework there,” Mickey suggested as he sat down beside me, finishing off the muffin and squinting at me behind his cupped hand to block the raging sun.

“Maybe because if I go home, I know I’ll have to deal with Sam’s glares and subtle insults and I’m just...too tired to handle it right now,” I mumbled, more to myself than to Mickey, who suddenly fell quiet. Better for me. Pulling out my Microbiology textbook, I flipped back to the pages I needed to read and tried to blink back the tears that had suddenly popped up in my eyes. It was hard, having Sam hate me. We’d gotten in fights before, sure, but never like this. I’d never actually thought he would abandon me, for good. But it seemed like he could. And worse - he was.

“Come with me,” Mickey said softly, startling me out of my self-wallowing and taking my hand without my permission. I protested slightly as he dragged me along behind him, stuffing my book back into my backpack and slinging it over one shoulder as I hobbled along in his wake. Even though Mickey had apologized countless times for pushing me away when he’d found out I was pregnant, I still hadn’t fully forgiven him. It was more like he was the only person talking to me, so I didn’t exactly push him away.

“Where are we going?”

“My place.”

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                            It was my first time at Mickey’s house, and as I stepped over the threshold, I tried to rearrange my expression so he wouldn’t know how shocked I was at it’s relative cleanliness and order.

                            The foyer opened into a giant living room, furnished with several large couches, a fluffy bean bag chair the size of a small Hummer, and a flat screen against the wall. Across the living room, double doors led to a well-sized kitchen, complete with refrigerator, sink, dishwasher, and table, but it was clear most of his time was spent in the living room. And with guests too, apparently. I’d been to Mickey’s parents house, and met his older brother, but being in his house was a completely different experience. A set of winding stairs led up to the second floor, which housed not two, not three, not even four but five bedrooms. The master bedroom, which I assumed was Mickey’s from the basketball hoop nailed into one wall and the life-sized LeBron poster by the king bed, was tidy but not perfect. A pile of clothes were heaped onto a chair in the corner, and a pair of dirty socks were discarded on the floor by the bed. An empty Gatorade bottle sat on the wooden bedside table, and as I left the room, I detected a whiff of Axe cologne. Mickey followed me, amused, as I snooped through his whole house, peeking my head into the other bedrooms. They were fully furnished and seemed to house other residents, to which I turned to question Mickey.