Senior year wasn’t turning out the way I pictured it.

Not that I had some fantasy of being crowned prom king or anything. But you’d think after three years of perfect grades, science fair trophies, and earning the nickname “Calculator” from half the math department, I’d at least graduate without being drafted into unpaid academic labor.

By which I mean tutoring.

Apparently, “you’re so smart” is code for “we’re going to stick you in the library three afternoons a week to babysit someone who thinks PEMDAS is a new energy drink.”

When they handed me the slip of paper with my first student’s name on it, I thought it was a joke. Out of all the people in the entire senior class—out of all the struggling sophomores and juniors—they gave me them. The kind of person who could spell their own name wrong on a Scantron. Hair perfect, sneakers that looked like they’d been polished, and that social gravity that pulled in everyone from cheerleaders to confused freshmen.

I told myself maybe it wouldn’t be that bad. Maybe they’d show up on time. Maybe they’d even have a pencil.

Spoiler: no.

I’d been sitting in the back corner of the library for thirty minutes, rereading the same section of my physics notes. Every five minutes, I checked the clock. Every ten, I adjusted my glasses and tried to convince myself patience was a virtue. By minute twenty-five, I was half convinced I’d been stood up—by a tutoring appointment, which has to be a new low.

And then, finally, the scrape of a chair.

They strolled in like the concept of punctuality had never been invented, tossed their bag onto the table, and sank into the seat across from me with a smile that was way too casual for someone who’d just wasted half an hour of my life.

I closed my notebook, looked at the clock one last time, and pushed my glasses up the bridge of my nose.

“And here I thought time dilation was just a physics concept.”