Four Of A Kind - Chapter 191: [4.9] How to Study a Storm

Chapter 191: [4.9] How to Study a Storm

I’d been stupid enough to think the morning would improve after breakfast. Rookie mistake.

The library felt colder than usual as Cassidy and I settled at the massive mahogany table that dominated the center of the room. Real libraries have that hushed, paper-scented atmosphere that makes you want to whisper. This one—all twenty-foot ceilings, leather-bound first editions, and custom shelving—felt like somewhere people got murdered in mystery novels.

“So,” I said, pulling out my laptop and chemistry notebook. “You wanted to talk about the math test?”

Cassidy perched on the edge of the table instead of sitting in a chair like a normal person. Her jean shorts rode high on her thighs, and she swung one leg back and forth, combat boot dangling from her toes.

“Yeah.”

One word. Super helpful.

I waited for her to continue while my laptop booted up. The silence stretched between us until it became obvious she wasn’t going to elaborate.

“Care to be more specific?” I prompted, typing my password. “Like, do you want to go over what you got wrong? Talk about the next unit? Plan your revenge on Mr. Chen?”

Cassidy’s lips twitched. “That last one sounds fun.”

“I’ll add it to the curriculum.”

She slid off the table and moved behind me, leaning over my shoulder to look at my screen. Her wine-red hair fell forward, brushing against my neck.

“Chemistry?” she asked.

“Due Monday.”

“Hmm.” Her breath tickled my ear. “Seems boring.”

“It is. But I need to finish it.”

“Before we talk about the math test?”

I sighed and turned to face her, which was a mistake because now we were inches apart. Her purple eyes locked onto mine, challenging me. Always challenging me.

“Cassidy. You’ve been standing here for five minutes and haven’t said a single thing about the math test.”

“I’m building up to it,” she said defensively.

“Build faster. I have until four, remember?”

She straightened up, crossing her arms over her chest. The movement emphasized her curves under her loose band t-shirt. I forced my eyes to stay on her face.

“I want you to teach me how to study,” she said finally. “When you’re not here.”

I blinked. Of all the things I’d expected—complaints, excuses, flirting, threats—that hadn’t made the list.

“You want me to teach you how to study?”

“Don’t make me repeat myself.” She paced between the bookshelves, her combat boots making soft thuds against the hardwood floors. “I need to pass the first nine weeks.”

“You will.”

“Not if I bomb every test when you’re not around.”

I leaned back in my chair, studying her. This wasn’t the Cassidy I’d come to know—all fire and fuck-the-world attitude. This was something new. Something vulnerable.

“What happened?”

She stopped pacing. “What?”

“Something happened. You’re not exactly the ’teach me to fish’ type. You’re more the ’give me the fish or I’ll stab you’ type.”

“Fuck off.”

“See? There’s the Cassidy I know.”

She glared at me, but I could see the tension in her shoulders easing. Anger was comfortable territory for her. Vulnerability wasn’t.

“My mom called this morning,” she said after a moment. “Before breakfast.”

“Ah.”

“Yeah. ’Ah.’ She saw my progress report.”

I winced. “And how did that go?”

“How do you think?” Cassidy resumed pacing. “She gave me her disappointed speech about Valentine standards and expectations. Then she reminded me that if my GPA doesn’t improve by half a point, you get fired.”

So that’s what this was about. Not the studying itself—she was worried about my job.

“Cassidy—”

“I’m not doing this for you,” she interrupted quickly, cheeks flushing. “I just don’t want to deal with another tutor. They’d probably be some boring old guy who smells like mothballs.”

“Of course,” I agreed, hiding my smile. “Totally understandable.”

“So will you help me or not?”

I closed my laptop. Chemistry would have to wait.

“What specifically do you struggle with when studying alone?”

She sank into the chair across from me, elbows on the table, chin propped in her hands. “Everything? I sit down to study and my brain just… goes blank. Or it focuses on literally anything else.”

“Like what?”

“Like…” She waved her hand vaguely. “Songs. People. Things I need to do later. Tennis moves I want to try. Whether aliens exist. If I could beat Vivienne in a knife fight.”

“Could you?”

“Probably not. She fights dirty.” Cassidy shook her head. “See? That’s the problem. We’re supposed to be talking about studying and now we’re discussing knife fights with my sister.”

I couldn’t help laughing. “That’s actually normal, you know. Everyone’s brain does that.”

“Yours doesn’t.”

“My brain is a disaster zone. I’ve just learned to work around it.”

Her eyes widened slightly. “Really?”

“Really. I daydream constantly. I forget shit all the time. I once wrote an entire essay on The Scarlet Letter while thinking about chicken wings.”

“What’d you get on it?”

“A-minus. Teacher said my comparison of Colonel Sanders to Puritan values was ’unexpected but compelling.’”

She laughed, and the sound warmed something inside me. Cassidy didn’t laugh enough.

“So how do you do it?” she asked. “Focus, I mean.”

I thought about it. “I break everything into small pieces. Big tasks freak me out. Small ones I can handle.”

“Like what?”

“Like…” I pulled out a piece of paper. “Instead of ’study for math test,’ I write ’do practice problems 1-5’ or ’review quadratic formula for 10 minutes.’”

“That sounds stupidly simple.”

“Most good ideas are. Complex ideas are usually bullshit designed to make someone sound smart.”

She snorted. “Is that your life philosophy?”

“That and ’free food is always worth the trouble.’”

Cassidy reached across the table and took the paper from me. “What else?”

For the next hour, I taught her every study hack I’d developed over years of balancing school, work, and raising Iris. How to create visual memory hooks. How to take notes that actually made sense the next day. How to use timers to focus in short bursts.

“The key is knowing yourself,” I explained. “Your brain doesn’t like the graph paper by accident. It helps you organize information spatially.”

“So I should always use graph paper?”

“For math, definitely. For other stuff, experiment. Maybe color-coding works for you. Maybe drawings. Maybe recording yourself explaining concepts and listening back.”

She leaned forward, absorbing everything with an intensity that surprised me. This wasn’t the girl who set her textbook on fire last month because “the Chapter was boring.”

“Show me how you would study for…” She glanced at my laptop. “Your chemistry thing.”

I opened my notebook and turned it toward her. “First, I break down what’s due. This project needs three parts—experimental design, data collection, and analysis. I can do them in any order, but design is fastest for me.”

“Why start with the fastest part?”

“Psychology. Getting something completely finished gives me momentum.”

She nodded seriously. “That makes sense.”

“Then I set a timer. Twenty minutes of work, five minute break. During the break, I do something completely different—stretch, get water, text Felix back and tell him to stop bothering me.”

“Does that work?”

“Fuck no. He just sends more messages.”

She laughed again, and I found myself trying to think of other ways to make that sound happen.

“So,” I said, “what subject do you want to focus on first?”

Cassidy bit her lip. “Math, I guess. It’s my worst.”

“Okay. Let’s make a study plan for you.” I pulled out a fresh sheet of paper. “When’s your next test?”

“Friday.”

“Perfect. That gives us—”

“Actually,” she interrupted, “there’s something else I wanted to talk about first.”