I open the binder of readings Tolbert handed out at the start of the year and flip through the pages until I find all the material on Immanuel Kant. Garrett slides his big body to top of the bed and rests his head on the wooden frame, letting out a heavy sigh as I plop the readings in his lap.
“Read,” I order.
“Out loud?”
“Yep. And once you’re done, I want you to summarize what you just read. Think you can handle that?”
There’s a beat, and then his bottom lip quivers. “This might be the wrong time to tell you, but…I can’t read.”
My jaw falls open. Holy shit. He can’t be seri—
Garrett barks out a laugh. “Relax, I’m fucking around with you.” Then he scowls at me. “You actually thought I couldn’t read? Jesus Christ, Wellsy.”
I offer a sweet smile. “Wouldn’t have surprised me in the slightest.”
Except Garrett does end up surprising me. Not only does he read the material in a smooth, articulate voice, he proceeds to summarize Kant’s Categorical Imperative almost word-for-word.
“Do you have a photographic memory or something?” I demand.
“Nope. I’m good with facts.” He shrugs. “I just have a tough time applying the theories to the moral situations.”
I cut him some slack. “It’s total bullshit, if you ask me. How can we be sure what these philosophers—who are all long dead—would think about Tolbert’s hypotheticals? For all we know, they’d evaluate it on a case-by-case basis. Right and wrong isn’t black and white. It’s more complex than—”
Garrett’s phone buzzes.
“Shit, one sec.” He glances at the screen, frowns, and sends another text. “Sorry, you were saying?”
We spend the next twenty minutes going over the finer points of Kant’s ethical views.
Garrett sends about five more texts during that time.
“Oh my God,” I burst out. “Am I going to have to confiscate that thing?”
“Sorry,” he says for the zillionth time. “I’ll put it on silent.”
Which achieves nothing because he leaves the phone on his binder and the damn thing lights up every time a new message comes in.
“So basically, logic is the backbone of Kantian ethics—” I halt when the phone screen flashes again. “This is ridiculous. Who keeps texting you?”
“Nobody.”
Nobody, my ass. I grab the phone and click on the message icon. There’s no name, just a number, but it doesn’t take a rocket scientist to figure out the messages are from a female. Unless there’s some guy out there who wants to “lick Garrett all over.”
“You’re sexting during a tutoring session? What is wrong with you?”
He sighs. “I’m not sexting. She’s sexting.”
“Uh-huh. Let’s blame her, shall we?”
“Read my responses,” he insists. “I keep telling her I’m busy. It’s not my fault she can’t take the hint.”
I scroll through the conversation and discover he’s telling the truth. All the messages he’s sent in the past thirty minutes have involved the words busy and studying and talk later.
Sighing, I bring up the touch keyboard and start typing. Garrett protests and tries to seize the phone from my hand, but he’s too late. I’ve already pressed send.
“There,” I announce. “All taken care of.”
“I swear to God, Wellsy, if you…” He trails off as he reads the message.
This is Garrett’s tutor. You’re annoying me. We’re done in thirty minutes. I’m confident you can keep your pants zipped until then.
Garrett meets my eyes and laughs so loudly I can’t help but smile.
“That ought to be more effective than your half-assed leave me alones, don’t you think?”
He chuckles again. “Can’t argue with that.”
“Hopefully that shuts your girlfriend up for a while.”
“She’s not my girlfriend. She’s this puck bunny I hooked up with last year and—”
“Puck bunny?” I echo in horror. “You’re such a pig. Is that actually what you call women?”
“When the woman is only interested in sleeping with a hockey player so she can brag to all her friends that she bagged a hockey player? Yeah, that’s what we call ’em,” he says with a bite to his voice. “If anything, I’m the one being objectified in this scenario.”
“Whatever helps you sleep better at night…” I reach for the binder. “Let’s move on to utilitarianism. We’ll focus on Bentham for now.”
Afterward, I quiz him on the two philosophers we’ve discussed tonight, and I’m pleased when he answers everything correctly, even the curveballs I throw at him.
Fine. So maybe Garrett Graham isn’t as dumb as I thought he was.
By the time our hour is up, I’m confident that he didn’t just memorize the information and spit it back at me. There’s genuine comprehension there, as if the ethical ideas have truly sunk in for him. It’s a shame the makeup exam isn’t multiple choice, because there’s no doubt in my mind he could pass it with flying colors.
“Tomorrow we’ll tackle postmodernism.” I sigh. “Which, in my humble opinion, is probably the most convoluted school of thought in human history. I’ve got rehearsal until six but I’m free afterward.”
Garrett nods. “I’m done with practice around seven. So how about eight?”
“I’m good with that.” I shove my books back in my bag, then duck into the bathroom to pee before I hit the road. When I come out, I find Garrett scrolling through my iPod.
“You went through my bag?” I exclaim. “Seriously?”
“Your iPod was hanging out of the front pocket,” he protests. “I was curious to see what was on it.” His gray eyes remain glued to the screen as he starts reading names out loud. “Etta James, Adele, Queen, Ella Fitzgerald, Aretha, Beatles—man, this is wicked eclectic.” He suddenly shakes his head in dismay. “Hey, did you know there’s One Direction on here?”
“No, really?” I ooze sarcasm. “It must have downloaded itself.”
“I think I’ve lost all respect for you. You’re supposed to be a music major.”
I snatch the iPod from his hands and stuff it in the bag. “One Direction does some great harmonies.”
“Strongly disagree.” His chin lifts decisively. “I’ll make you a playlist. Obviously you need to learn the distinction between good music and shitty music.”
I speak through clenched teeth. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”
Garrett’s tone is preoccupied as he heads to the iMac on his desk. “How do you feel about Lynyrd Skynyrd? Or do you only like bands where the guys coordinate their outfits?”
“Good night, Garrett.”
I’m ready to tear my hair out as I march out of the room. I can’t believe I agreed to a week and a half of this.
God help me.