I tried not to get too hopeful when Brit sat with us at lunch. I tried not to get too hopeful every single time she smiled at something I said. I tried not to get too hopeful when I managed to make her laugh in tutoring. I tried, but I failed.
Every time I made her smile I felt elated, like I was a balloon someone had just filled with hot air. Hot air that, when released, would make a farting noise and leave the balloon even more pathetic than it was before.
I grimaced at the internal metaphor. Brit was making surprisingly fast progress with her math, and I wasn’t sure if this made me proud or worried.
What if she no longer needed me to tutor her soon? Would our friendship end?
If we were even friends, that is.
I sighed fitfully as I watched her walk out of the library, her step springy, her hair bouncing, her stylish bag flung across one shoulder.