Transparent by Natalie Whipple Page A

you’re a jerk.”
    “So?” He tilts his head, his smile smug. “I’m honest and you know it. I’ve kept your secrets—will keep them. It’s not my problem if you can’t handle someone who doesn’t treat you like royalty.”
    “You have no clue how I’ve been treated.”
    “Then tell me.”
    “No.”
    “C’mon. Based on what you said the other day, I already know you worked for him. It might help if you talked about it. What did he make you do? How were you treated?”
    I squirm. Add a bright light and this could be an interrogation. “How does this help with math?”
    “Understanding someone’s background helps in any teaching situation. Knowing you had a head injury as a baby helps, and maybe there are other things I need to know.”
    “None of that other stuff has anything to do with math.”
    “What other stuff?” he presses.
    Dad’s image swirls in my head, his words and smile and love. All of which are lies. He comes when he needs me to do something for him, showers me with affection until I’d do anything just so he won’t leave. So I rob a bank or destroy evidence. And he still leaves. “You wouldn’t understand.”
    “You might be surprised,” he says quietly.
    I glance up at him. He looks upset, but I don’t care.
    “Forget it.” Remedial math has to be better than this. I don’t need therapy; I just need to pass my freaking class. I head for the door, but he beats me there. “Move!”
    “Fiona, chill. I’m trying to help you, but I need your cooperation.”
    I fold my arms. “Then you have to stop treating me like an imbecile.”
    He rolls his eyes. “I’m n—”
    “There!” I say, pointing. “Right there! You’re doing it right now.”
    “What?”
    “I don’t care if you’re not
trying
to make me feel stupid; you are.” I want to scream, but settle for a frustrated grunt. “You want me to tell you something? Fine! I have feelings, even if you can’t see them. People have been treating me like an emotionless robot my whole life—people I
hate.
So stop.”
    His eyes run over me, but he says nothing for a while. Then he looks down. “S-sorry.”
    I blink. I have a feeling that word doesn’t often escape Seth’s lips. “Thank you.”
    “I get that you don’t want to talk about your life.” He kicks at the floor. “But I still need to know what, exactly, is making math so hard for you.”
    I decide to walk back to my desk, since I can’t find the words to explain it immediately anyway. Seth follows, taking the seat next to me again.
    “Numbers don’t stick in my brain,” I finally say.
    Seth purses his lips, and I can tell he’s trying not to be rude. “Can you be a little more specific? A lot of people say that.”
    I sigh. “It’s like … I can’t remember how things work, I guess. I can learn to add just fine, but then somehow I forget it. I have to constantly remind myself how to add and subtract—how to count, even.”
    “Hmm,” is all he says.
    “Hmm?”
    He shakes his head. “I’m not trying to be mean, but it sounds like some kind of short-term memory loss, just more specific. It’s only with numbers?”
    “I guess. Not like I’ve been tested.” I fiddle with my hands, trying not to get worked up over the idea that I have brain damage. Of course I have brain damage—I was dropped into the world. Maybe I’m more upset that no one cared enough to find out earlier.
    “How are you with mnemonic devices?”
    I shrug. “I can remember them, but it doesn’t help much with the actual numbers.”
    He nods. “True. Well, we’ll figure it out. This helps a lot.”
    I search his face, surprised that he still looks as confident as ever. “You really think you can teach someone like me?”
    He smiles. “I’m up for the challenge.”
    Cocky bastard. “Okay, well, can I go now?”
    “Sure.”
    I don’t waste a second getting out of there. Bea’s at my locker just like she said she’d be. She winces when she sees me. “How’d it