"The Tutor" Part 2

 Here's the second half. Enjoy.

 "The Tutor" Part 2

In the next couple of weeks we worked out a routine. She would come in, give a shy smile and log in to her account. We would do her homework, or rather, I would do her homework while explaining it to her, so that if there was a pop quiz she’d at least have a chance of getting it right. She would nod her head and interject the occasional nonsensical question about exponents or why the elemental symbol for iron is Fe instead of Ir. We stayed on topic. It was all compounds, electrons and moles. She never said a word to me about her obsession, and I never let on that I knew. Afterward her twitter feed would explode about how wonderful her new boyfriend was, and how nice, and handsome etc. Flattering stuff, really. Almost embarrassing to tell the truth, and made all the more awkward in that I couldn’t acknowledge any of it. But more concerning to me was that her fantasy was becoming increasingly elaborate; she began mentioning scenarios and events that never even happened. He asked her out, she said, and they went out on dates. He’d open the doors and hold her coat, even though it was too warm to wear one, and once she even mentioned breakfast.
            What had seemed harmless before was looking more and more unhealthy, but since she didn’t say anything to me about it my hands were tied. There wasn’t a whole lot I could do to help her if she didn’t reach out. We got comfortable, and I couldn’t do anything but let her play it out. Perhaps she would get tired of this thing, I thought, maybe she will shift her focus onto someone or something else, and she would think I was none the wiser. But the more I contemplated this possibility, the more I disliked the idea. The facial expressions that I had first found annoying, like her sharply crumpled brow, were becoming strangely attractive. She was never short with me or demanding, never dismissive or cavalier, and it didn’t hurt that she always wore those tiny shorts. She was pushing her way into my thoughts constantly; I’d see traces of her face or her voice everywhere I went. I’d see a leggy girl walking through the quad, and be disappointed that it wasn’t her backpack, I’d hear a laugh in the coffee shop that sounded like her, but when I’d turn around I’d see that it wasn’t. Sure, she wasn’t terribly smart or a striking beauty, but she had this quiet way about her, this unassuming captivating manner and dogged persistence that won me over, bit by bit. No question, she was growing on me. I found myself wanting for her to reach out to me instead of dreading it. Every time she drew a breath I wondered “is this the confession now, finally?” and she would ask, “How do you know the number of electrons in phosphorus?” or grumble “Professor K is such an ass,” and I’d mourn another fleeting opportunity passed.

It didn’t make sense how she could appear so bold with her online presence, yet so timid in person. To encourage her to open up, I resolved to make myself as approachable as possible. Tentatively, so as not to frighten her off, I began dropping hints. “I like your hair today,” I’d say, or “nice jeans.” Her eyes would twitch like a cornered rabbit and she’d purse her lips. A murmured “thanks” was the most complete answer I ever got; usually she would make a humming noise or this oddly endearing grunt in the back of her throat. As we worked her homework problems I’d tell her “nice try,” “you almost got it,” and “the only thing you forgot was that this carbon is an isotope,” and she would roll her eyes, shake her head, or snort in a markedly unladylike fashion. I even offered to accompany her to her next class or the rec center a few times, omce even going so far as to offer lunch, but she politely refused. “It’s not that far,” “I’d better not,” “I’m ok,” and “Thanks but no,” was all she had to say to that. Instead of welcoming my company she’d just scuttle into the tutoring center, scuttle out, and tweet her bliss.

She appeared to be such a curious bundle of contradictions and I wanted to get to know her better, but casual conversation didn’t seem to be her forte. I was forced to explore alternate means. Through online research and a little observation I found that she did have a full class load, as I had suspected. She spent three hours a day in lecture on Mondays, Wednesdays and Fridays, with an additional three hours in lab on Mondays. Tuesdays and Thursdays she had another three hours in the classroom, and an insane amount of time spent on the track and in the weight room every day. Practically every weekend was eaten up with events. What little free time she had seemed to be spent studying at the library or holed up in her dorm room. She had no life outside of school and sports, and of course her fixation on me.

What I really wanted was to get a good look at that dorm room. I knew what kind of clothes she usually wore, but was there a fabled “little black dress” hanging in her closet? Did she have a pair of those strappy heels? What about her décor, was it Picasso prints that graced the walls, or Escher, maybe Zeppelin, and were there stuffed giraffes and multicolored teddy bears all over her bed or was it as Spartan as her lifestyle? These could have helped me draw a much finer bead on her personality, but alas, the security at her dorm was too tight, and her window was three stories up. She kept the shade drawn anyway so I would have had to break out the glass, and that would be sure to draw attention. In keeping with past behavior, she remained as opaque as ever.

Running low on options, I knew I had to get creative. Every Tuesday she went grocery shopping at the old rundown supermarket. I figured that if we happened to have a chance meeting there, outside of the academic setting, she would open up a bit.

When she went inside the store I waited for a few minutes before following her in, grabbing a basket so I wouldn’t be so conspicuous. I tossed in a few items to fill out my pantry, spaghetti sauce, tortilla chips, cheddar cheese, and scanned the aisles for my “secret” admirer. I found her in the dairy aisle, pulling two whole quarts of Greek yogurt from the refrigerated shelf. “Hey, fancy meeting you here!” I said, laying it on a little thick.

“Oh, um, hi,” was all she came up with. Not exactly a great ice breaker.

“So, yogurt huh?” I prodded, hoping to get her to open up to a real conversation.

“Yeah.” She chewed her lip, a classic tell, but I was looking for more out of her. A complete sentence would have been nice.

“I was thinking about getting some myself,” I ventured. Wordlessly, she offered me one of her quarts. I accepted, and she reached for another. “So, just plain vanilla?” I asked, looking at the label.

“I like to mix in fruit, like strawberries or blueberries…” she trailed off. Well that was progress. I was thinking of a way to expand on that line of thought when she said, “Uh, I have some books to hit so I should finish up here.”

“Sure,” I said, heart sinking. “I’ve got some stuff I need to do, too.”

“Good to see you,” a faint smile flickered on her lips, and she was gone. Sure enough, twenty minutes later she ecstatically tweeted about her accidental run in with her boyfriend at the grocery store.

My frustration at this juncture was becoming palpable. This most recent exchange was a perfect characterization of the nature of our relationship, and I was sick of it; the latent attraction, the subtle duplicity, the self denial and her outright refusal to own up to her emotions. With every tweet it was as if she were offering herself to me, and then I would see her again and she would pull herself back. Short of tying her down to a chair, I had exhausted every possible action I could think of to have a real conversation with her. Subtlety had gotten us nowhere, she declined casual company, she was awkward and not at all forthcoming even when she had nothing to lose. I had given her every opportunity open up and confess her passion. I began to realize that if this were to end happily for both of us I had only one option left; one I had hoped to avoid, but she left me no choice. Her next exam was coming up in about two weeks, so she was coming back to my house to pick up the study materials for it. This visit, I decided, was when I would make my move. She’d miss her weekend event in Minnesota, sure. She’d miss some classes too, but not so many if she cooperated.

            It was on a Friday night just like last time, and just like last time I offered her a drink. Again she refused, but I pressed, gently of course, until she finally relented. I went to the kitchen and prepared a special glass of Jack and Coke and GHB. “Regrettable, but necessary,” I muttered  as I poured in the tiny vial of appropriately nicknamed “Fantasy.” I tapped out the last few drops and stirred the ice. “It would have been a lot easier for both of us if you’d been a little more honest with me.”

She didn’t drink it right away, as I’d hoped she would. Instead she was acting her usual, shy and skittish, taking a few sips and trying to hurry us along. GHB is a little salty, so I worried that she would taste the difference, or that she would just leave it unfinished. I delayed her for as long as I could, impressing the need to get a few questions wrong to avoid suspicion and such, but she set the drink down. I asked if she didn’t like the bourbon, and offered her something else. She said no, and then to my surprise and relief, she went ahead and slammed the rest. I’d put in a pretty heavy dose, so I only had to drag out the meeting for another fifteen minutes or so before the drug kicked in. It was a good thing I insisted that she sit down, otherwise she may have hurt herself when she collapsed.

            When she went under I had vague notions of simply packing her off to the basement, but I didn’t anticipate the tenderness of the moment. As I wrapped my arms around her for the first time, I became aware of how vulnerable she was, and even though she hadn’t exactly volunteered for this, I felt her trusting me to take care of her. Lifting her off of the couch, I found that she was heavier than I thought. I guess it was all that muscle from her running, and she was pretty tall. As her feet dragged the stairs I could smell her hair, peach scented shampoo blended with her own womanly essence, and the slightest hint of sweat. I almost dropped her twice.

Once I had her downstairs and seated in a chair, I took some extra care with her bindings. She would certainly struggle when first waking up, so they would have to be snug, but I didn’t want to be cruel, either. I first wrapped a layer of duct tape around her arms and legs with the sticky side out, so that only the smooth side would touch her smooth skin, then another layer securing her limbs to the chair. I made certain that they were cinched tight, but left room for her blood to circulate. Then I saw a telltale lump in her shorts pocket. Keys, from her car that was sitting in my driveway. If the neighbors noticed a strange car sitting in front of my house for a few days they might get suspicious. Of course I would find that after I had tied her up. It was a tight fit, trying to slide my hand into that pocket, and I could feel the firmness in her thighs. I imagined that I could hear her breath catching, but it must have been an illusion. I confess I let my hand linger a little longer than was absolutely necessary, but then I pulled them free and took care of the car.

Finally, there was nothing left but to wait for her to wake up. I went back down to the basement and pulled up a chair, and it occurred to me that now I was free to look at her; not just see her, taking her features in at a glance or watching her walk from a distance, but to really, truly drink in her unique beauty. It was funny; I had never noticed the subtle upturn of her nose, or her sharp chin, or gently arched eyebrows. That was probably because she always had them furrowed in concentration whenever I saw her, but now she was in repose, her face smooth and untroubled, lips slightly parted, my sweet Persephone. I watched the shallow rise and fall of her boyish chest, and prepared myself for the coming days.

I’m a realist; I didn’t expect she would be thrilled with her position at first. This was going to be a difficult time for both of us, but I knew that sometimes the hardest way to do something is also the best. After she got over the initial panic, after she understood what a risk I was taking for her, after she realized how much she really loved the real me, not some imaginary paper doll version of me, then we would finally be free to enjoy a full, happy, open relationship. No more of these furtive sidelong glances and stunted conversation about Avogadro’s number. No more hints and guesses and disappointed hopes. Oh, how I longed for that. I gently brushed a stray wisp of hair from her eyes and kissed her softly on the cheek, and whispered “Soon, baby girl, soon you will see that I am yours.”