to say no, especially if Monique got these things for free.
Except an annoying voice in my head kept pointing out the timing was suspect: it had arrived just as Gemma got her first major assignment …
Gemma searched through her schoolbag—a massive Fendi hobo—and shoved a single sheet in my direction. “Here. That’s the homework. I’m totally confused by the math. The teacher told us to change the mixed numbers on the sheet into fractions. I hate fractions. I just don’t get them.”
I eyed the sheet. As far as I remembered, teachers usually covered fractions in middle school.
When Gemma seemed content to sit and just stare at me, I handed the sheet back to her and asked, “Well, aren’t you going to do them?”
“But,” she said as she reached for the paper, clearly surprised by my question, “I told you I don’t know how.”
“No problem.” I rolled my chair close to Gemma’s, removed the sheet from her numb hand, placed it on the desk between us, and scanned the surface for a pencil. “I’ll show you how. It’s really easy.” I pointed at the first question. “You just take the bottom number of the fraction, called the denominator, and you multiply it by that big number in front—called the whole number. Then you add the top number of the fraction, called the numerator, to your answer. You keep the denominator the same as in the mixed number and use the new number as the fraction’s new numerator. And you’re done. So, like in this first question, they ask you to convert 1½ into a fraction. So you take the two from the denominator and multiply it by the big number one and what do you get?”
I glanced up at Gemma. She slouched down in her seat and pouted.
“Come on, Gemma. I know you know how to multiply two by one. So what’s the answer?”
“Two,” Gemma mumbled.
“Excellent,” I grinned. “And now you only have to add the one from the numerator to your two. And what is that?”
“Three,” Gemma mumbled again.
“Excellent,” I nodded. “So that means that 1½ converted into a fraction is three-halves. And that’s your answer.” I scribbled the number on the sheet. “Simple. Now you try the next question.”
I handed the pencil to Gemma. She took it, but refused to look at the sheet.
“That’s not how I did my homework with Lisa,” Gemma complained. “I don’t know why you’re making me do this when I already told you I don’t know how.” She threw the pencil on the table and looked ready to cry.
“What do you mean?” I asked.
“Lisa always did the problems for me,” Gemma explained, her face mutinous. “She was my little helper, and she said that math wasn’t my subject but everyone knew I was smart. And that’s what you’re supposed to be too, my little helper. So why aren’t you helping me?”
My jaw dropped.
“I am helping you,” I cried, stung by the implication I wasn’t doing my job. “I’m showing you how to do the problems. Then I’ll check over everything you did to make sure it’s right.” My brain scrambled for another alternative Gemma would find more palatable. “Or, if you want, we can do the problems together. But if I just do them without you, how are you going to remember what to do on the test? Homework problems are supposed to help you prepare for tests and quizzes.”
Gemma perked up in her seat. “Don’t worry about that; they always give us take-home tests. Lisa did those too. I have an A in math.”
Take-home tests! How the hell was I supposed to handle this? I didn’t want to do all the work for her, but I didn’t want to lose a $150-an-hour job either.
“Okay,” I said. “How about if I do the next problem for you, but you watch, and then when you think you know what’s going on, you take over. How’s that?”
“Fine.” Gemma agreed. She twirled a strand of black hair around her finger and giggled.
I reached for the pencil and got started on the next problem. Gemma reclined in her seat, math
Except an annoying voice in my head kept pointing out the timing was suspect: it had arrived just as Gemma got her first major assignment …
Gemma searched through her schoolbag—a massive Fendi hobo—and shoved a single sheet in my direction. “Here. That’s the homework. I’m totally confused by the math. The teacher told us to change the mixed numbers on the sheet into fractions. I hate fractions. I just don’t get them.”
I eyed the sheet. As far as I remembered, teachers usually covered fractions in middle school.
When Gemma seemed content to sit and just stare at me, I handed the sheet back to her and asked, “Well, aren’t you going to do them?”
“But,” she said as she reached for the paper, clearly surprised by my question, “I told you I don’t know how.”
“No problem.” I rolled my chair close to Gemma’s, removed the sheet from her numb hand, placed it on the desk between us, and scanned the surface for a pencil. “I’ll show you how. It’s really easy.” I pointed at the first question. “You just take the bottom number of the fraction, called the denominator, and you multiply it by that big number in front—called the whole number. Then you add the top number of the fraction, called the numerator, to your answer. You keep the denominator the same as in the mixed number and use the new number as the fraction’s new numerator. And you’re done. So, like in this first question, they ask you to convert 1½ into a fraction. So you take the two from the denominator and multiply it by the big number one and what do you get?”
I glanced up at Gemma. She slouched down in her seat and pouted.
“Come on, Gemma. I know you know how to multiply two by one. So what’s the answer?”
“Two,” Gemma mumbled.
“Excellent,” I grinned. “And now you only have to add the one from the numerator to your two. And what is that?”
“Three,” Gemma mumbled again.
“Excellent,” I nodded. “So that means that 1½ converted into a fraction is three-halves. And that’s your answer.” I scribbled the number on the sheet. “Simple. Now you try the next question.”
I handed the pencil to Gemma. She took it, but refused to look at the sheet.
“That’s not how I did my homework with Lisa,” Gemma complained. “I don’t know why you’re making me do this when I already told you I don’t know how.” She threw the pencil on the table and looked ready to cry.
“What do you mean?” I asked.
“Lisa always did the problems for me,” Gemma explained, her face mutinous. “She was my little helper, and she said that math wasn’t my subject but everyone knew I was smart. And that’s what you’re supposed to be too, my little helper. So why aren’t you helping me?”
My jaw dropped.
“I am helping you,” I cried, stung by the implication I wasn’t doing my job. “I’m showing you how to do the problems. Then I’ll check over everything you did to make sure it’s right.” My brain scrambled for another alternative Gemma would find more palatable. “Or, if you want, we can do the problems together. But if I just do them without you, how are you going to remember what to do on the test? Homework problems are supposed to help you prepare for tests and quizzes.”
Gemma perked up in her seat. “Don’t worry about that; they always give us take-home tests. Lisa did those too. I have an A in math.”
Take-home tests! How the hell was I supposed to handle this? I didn’t want to do all the work for her, but I didn’t want to lose a $150-an-hour job either.
“Okay,” I said. “How about if I do the next problem for you, but you watch, and then when you think you know what’s going on, you take over. How’s that?”
“Fine.” Gemma agreed. She twirled a strand of black hair around her finger and giggled.
I reached for the pencil and got started on the next problem. Gemma reclined in her seat, math
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