Four Of A Kind

Chapter 48: [2.21] It’s Time to Try Something Troublesome

“Cassidy. What you’re describing sounds like—”

“Don’t.” She spun toward me, and the rawness in her eyes had transformed into something harder. More familiar. The walls were going back up in real time. “Don’t look at me like that.”

“Like what?”

“Like you UNDERSTAND. Like you’ve got me all figured out.” She laughed, but there was no humor in it. “I don’t need your sympathy, scholarship boy. I don’t need anything from you.”

She grabbed the math textbook off the floor. For a second I thought she was going to throw it at me.

Instead, she set it on the coffee table.

“This was a waste of time. Just like I said it would be.”

“Cassidy, wait.” I stood up. “That’s not—”

“We’re done.” She cut me off without looking at me. “Session over. Go home.”

I should have pushed. Should have said something. Found the right words to break through the walls she’d slammed back into place.

But I was tired.

But I was tired. Tired from the five-hour commute I’d been running on for three years. Tired from working until midnight and waking up at four-thirty to do it all again.

And right now, I’d let that tiredness turn into frustration, and that frustration had made me say exactly the wrong thing at exactly the wrong time.

Seven tutors failed.

And I’m about to be number eight.

I gathered my materials slowly. Textbooks. Notebooks. Colored pens that hadn’t helped at all. Each item went into my bag while Cassidy stood by the window, her back to me, arms wrapped around herself.

I paused at the doorway.

“For what it’s worth, I don’t think you’re stupid.”

Her shoulders tensed.

“I think you’ve been fighting a battle with the wrong weapons your whole life. And nobody ever bothered to give you different ones.”

She didn’t turn around. Didn’t respond.

I could hear her breathing though. Sharp. Shaky. The kind of breath you take when you’re trying very hard not to cry and mostly failing.

“We’ll try again Thursday,” I said, gathering my materials. “Same time.”

I walked out before she could tell me not to bother.

The hallway stretched endlessly in front of me. Portraits of disapproving ancestors watched my retreat with silent judgment. My footsteps echoed against marble floors that probably cost more than my college education would.

Mrs. Tanaka appeared from a side room as I passed. She took one look at my face and wordlessly handed me a to-go container of something that smelled like teriyaki chicken.

“For the drive,” she said.

“Thanks.”

I didn’t have the energy to refuse.

Outside, the evening air hit my face like a slap. Cool. Clean. Nothing like the stuffy tension of the library I’d just escaped. The Lexus sat in the circular driveway, gleaming under estate lights that probably cost as much as a semester’s tuition.

I got in. Started the engine. Pulled away from the Valentine mansion.

The building shrank in my rearview mirror. Windows glowing. Silhouettes moving behind curtains. An entire world of wealth and privilege that I’d somehow stumbled into.

I reached the main gate. The guard waved me through without checking my ID. Apparently I’d become a recognized presence in the Valentine ecosystem.

Great. I’m officially The Help.

The drive back to the city gave me too much time to think. Traffic crawled through Manhattan’s evening rush. Brake lights stretched ahead in an endless chain of red.

Iris would be waiting at home. She’d want to know how it went. She’d look at me with those eyes that believed I could do anything, and I’d have to tell her…

What, exactly?

That I’d made a girl cry? That I’d confirmed every negative thing she believed about herself? That I was one bad session away from losing the job that was supposed to change everything?

You need to do better.

You need to find another way.

The thought circled my brain like a vulture over roadkill.

Seven tutors had tried the direct approach. Seven tutors had failed. The definition of insanity was doing the same thing and expecting different results.

So what was the different thing?

I thought about the history session. How Cassidy’s eyes had lit up when the revolution became a story instead of a list of dates. How she’d corrected me about the cake myth. How she’d asked follow-up questions without being prompted.

She CAN learn.

She just can’t learn the way everyone expects her to.

My phone buzzed. I ignored it. Then it buzzed again. And again.

At a red light, I checked the screen.

Harlow 💕: How did the tutoring go???

Harlow 💕: Cass just stormed past my room and slammed her door

Harlow 💕: That’s either really good or really bad

Harlow 💕: Isaiah???

Harlow 💕: Should I check on her???

Harlow 💕:

Or give her space???

Harlow 💕: I’m bad at knowing which one to do

Harlow 💕: Please advise assistant-kun 🙏

I typed a response and deleted it three times before settling on something that wouldn’t make the situation worse.

Isaiah: Give her space tonight. We hit a rough patch.

Harlow 💕: Rough patch???

The light turned green. I set the phone down and focused on driving.

Tomorrow was another session. Another chance to get it right.

Or another chance to screw it up worse.

The days blurred together like watercolors left in the rain.

Week 2, Thursday: Cassidy showed up to tutoring. Stared at a math worksheet for forty minutes. Solved zero problems. Left without saying goodbye.

Week 2, Friday: Drove Vivienne to three separate meetings across Manhattan. She spoke approximately forty words to me total. Thirty-seven of them were instructions.

Week 3, Monday: Cassidy failed a pop quiz in World History. Mr. Klein pulled me aside after class to express “concern about her trajectory.” I didn’t tell him that her trajectory was a nosedive I was trying to pull up with dental floss and prayers.

Week 3, Tuesday: Drove Harlow to a fabric store, a bead store, a ribbon store, and a store that sold exclusive charms. My feet hurt. My back hurt. My soul hurt.

The dark circles under my eyes had developed their own dark circles.

Iris had started leaving protein bars in my jacket pockets without telling me. I’d find them during the day like little care packages from a sister who was worried but too proud to say it directly.

The Lexus had logged over 800 miles in two weeks.

My lesson plans had grown from one notebook to three.

And Cassidy’s GPA hadn’t moved a single point.

Something had to change.