The Tutor, Part Five

I’ll admit, Annabelle was brighter than I expected her to be.

The stereotype/cliché of rich teenagers coasting by with their parents’ money made it easy to make false assumptions. At the same time, I probably wasn’t wrong; Annabelle would have plenty of job security and cushion thanks to the connections and other advantages that your average young woman wouldn’t have available to her. As for her intelligence, however, I was way off base.

The first portion of our private tutoring session was spent having her work out a few problems I had prepared ahead of time. Starting with Calculus, to see how strong she was in her current class, and then gradually shifting the problems into more advanced material that your average high school senior wouldn’t have touched on.

Annabelle breezed through the top of the page. She mentally calculated a good chunk of it, too. Rather than showing every step of her answer, she only wrote down two or three lines out of the eight or ten that one of the ‘show your work’ teachers would have required someone to include. Personally, I didn’t mind her process. Clearly she wasn’t cheating, as I was watching the entire time, and the end result was ultimately a correct answer.

“Right so far?” she asked. With a glance in my direction, it struck me how ridiculous it was that she could still look so proper while leaning over to work out complex equations. I’m sure I didn’t present as attractive of an image when I was hunched over and buried in an assignment.

I nodded, also realizing it had been awkwardly quiet for a little while until she spoke up. “Mm hmm,” I said, “I’m sure you’ve heard it a million times, but writing every step out can offer partial credit sometimes if your final answer isn’t right.” Sure, I didn’t mind the shortcuts, but it was at least worth mentioning. Several of my professors were that way, and her future university would have similar teachers.

“So I’ve heard,” she shrugged, “But I’m usually right.”

So confident. Before I could mention that some future teachers may not be so flexible, a light knock on the door interrupted us. Annabelle called out with a ‘Come, Trixie’ similar to the way she addressed me earlier. I still wasn’t sure if it was an Annabelle quirk, something she got from her parents, or the kind of language that was casually used in her world in terms of hired staff.

Save for the fact that Trixie looked to be around my age, she was the spitting image of the kinds of maids I saw in movies. Dressed from head to toe in black and white, and currently holding a silver platter in her hands. After jumping straight into a tutoring session with Annabelle, I had completely forgotten about the fact that Trixie had gone to get us refreshments until I saw the glasses balanced on the shiny platter. “Ms. Annabelle,” she said, with a small nod of her head.

Not batting an eye, Annabelle casually beckoned her over. “Sorry for the wait, Mere,” she said, “Trixie normally isn’t this slow.”

“I’m sorry, Ms. Annabelle.” Trixie blushed and glanced away as she set the drinks down on the coffee table in front of us. Ice water for me, and orange juice for Annabelle. “I was-”

Annabelle held up her hand, which was enough to instantly quiet the girl. “Hush, please,” she said, “What are you working on next?”

After a beat of silence, where I could see poor Trixie trying to work out whether she should answer the question or not after being shushed, she said, “Prepping for lunch, and cleaning the kitchen afterwards. Unless there’s something else you’d like me to prioritize, Ms. Annabelle.”

It was more awkward than being over at a friend’s house when they got into a fight with a sibling or an argument with their parents. At the same time, it wasn’t at all the dynamic that I had seen once or twice at restaurants; where an entitled woman unnecessarily berated an underpaid server. Annabelle was calm and not particularly harsh or judgmental aside from the casual criticism from a moment ago. And yet, Trixie seemed so nervous.

Annabelle thought about it for a moment as she tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear, before finally answering. “No, you may prioritize the kitchen. Actually-” she said, turning her gaze towards me, “Do you mind helping her, Meredith? I’ll be working on this for a little while anyway, and I’d hate for you to be bored. Besides, Trixie could probably use another set of hands.”

“Umm . . .” I trailed off. Help Trixie in the kitchen? That’s not exactly what I was there to do. I didn’t want to be rude, and Annabelle’s point was mildly valid about how I was pretty much just sitting there during the first few problems, but still. “It’s helpful for me to see your process,” I said, finding the right thing to say after the filler word that was becoming more common than usual for me since stepping into the Alodia mansion, “I wouldn’t be a very good tutor if I wasn’t here for the first half of our session.”

“It’s fine, Mere,” she said. Waving off my answer with barely a thought, Annabelle decided, “I work better without someone looking over my shoulder anyway. It’s okay, no one’s going to dock your pay or anything. In fact, I could convince my parents to give you a bonus for the extra work.”

“No, no; it’s not that,” I began, but stopped short. It’s not about the money? Except that’s the whole reason I caved and took the job in the first place. Well, humor worked last time. “I’d probably just get in Trixie’s way. And I’m a terrible cook!”

Annabelle once again glanced towards the young brunette still standing there. “Trixie?”

“Whatever you say, Ms. Annabelle,” she said, without missing a beat.

“Then Meredith will help you,” Annabelle said, “Go on, Mere.”