"You're late." Randy says. "An hour late." Half the lesson is already through. Johnny can at least be grateful for that, even if he did spend the first half being lectured by his mom. Maybe afterwards he can bum around with Two-Bit, Johnny vaguely recalls that he said something about a drag race. That's it. He'll act tuff and space out and think about other things, so it won't even be like he's at the library.

"You're lucky I'm here," Johnny grumbles. He tosses his backpack on the table, right over top of Randy's notebook.

"You're lucky I'm patient," Randy says as he picks up Johnny's backpack and moves it over. He clicks his fingernails against the table a few times. He clears his throat. "Look, I've been thinking about what happened yesterday, and I want to apologize."

Johnny's pulling out his chair, and he stops mid-motion. Surely this Soc is pulling his leg. After all, Johnny's the one who cussed him out. But when Johnny-narrow eyed and suspicious-checks Randy's face, he's wearing this sincere, corny-poke expression. Johnny sits down, across from Randy, secure in the divide of the table between them.

"It was rude of me to suggest I do your work for you," Randy continues. "If I have to tutor you, I'm going to do this the right way. So, this morning I got your schedule from Principal McConaughey and I talked to your teachers-"

"You talked to my teachers! What right-"

Randy pulls out a sheet of paper from his folder and Johnny balks. "Johnny Cade" is scrawled at the top of the page in his own sloppy letters, but there's nothing else written on it besides his teacher's fat red "0%" underlined three times at the top.

He's livid. First all of, it's humiliating. Second, he hates the fact that this stupid Soc actually went to all this trouble for him. Now, he's going to be in his debt. He can't be in a debt to a Soc.

"You got a zero on your math quiz," Randy states, as if it weren't made obvious by the punishing red markings.

Johnny grazes his hand against his pocket, where he keeps his pack of cancer sticks. God, what he'd give for a smoke right now. "That's none of your business."

"Actually, as your tutor, it is entirely my business. And I repeat. A zero."

"It was only ten questions. So what."

"A zero." Randy shakes his head. "You didn't even fill out one problem. What did you do, just sit there for thirty minutes? Everybody knows Johnson is an easy A."

Johnny kicks his foot up on the table and gives Randy his toughest look. It takes him a second to recall his worn, disgusting shoes, worse still because it was raining earlier in the day and he had walked home and back to school through the mud. He puts his foot back down. "I don't need you to lecture me, asshole. I couldn't remember the formula, okay? So lay off."

"It's the quadratic formula," says Randy, as if that's supposed to mean something to him. "Everybody knows the quadratic formula."

That's it. It's bad enough he's forced to learn from this LLBean catalogue model, but Johnny won't tolerate sitting there and take being made fun of. He stands up, kicks in his chair, and turns to leave. He'll drop out for all he cares. And if his folks kick him out for dropping out, he'll just have to be homeless. He's not putting up with this.

Randy reaches over the table and grabs his arm. Johnny's turned around and doesn't see it coming. He flinches at the contact. Thank God he was facing away from him. Thank God the library is nearly empty. No one saw. He tries to calm his rapid breathing. Get off me. Get off me. Get off me.

"Maybe we're starting on the wrong foot," Randy says, oblivious to his fear. "Just, come on, sit back down. I'll help you."

"I don't need your help." Johnny's teeth are clenched, his hands balled in fists. Randy's still holding onto his arm.

"Well, maybe you don't, but I have to be here either way or my old man would kill me. So do me a favor and sit down. Like I said before, it's a win-win situation for us both." Randy drops his arm. Johnny thinks about his mom alone at home, throwing shit around the house and muttering to herself about what a disappointment he is. She started up when he was outside, still within hearing distance. Johnny turns back around, faces Randy, and sits down.

"Do you think you could tell me why you're having trouble remembering the formula?"

"I don't know."

Randy waves his hands in front of his chest, urging Johnny to elaborate. But nobody gets more from Johnny when he doesn't feel like speaking, which is most of the time.

"Well, what part of the formula do you remember?" Randy asks.

"I don't know."

Randy lets out a frustrated huff. "Why are you here if you don't even care?"

Johnny doesn't answer.

Randy pulls a hand through his stupid Beatles hair cut. "Okay. Let's try it this way. Why don't you care?"

"Because nobody ever gave me a reason to!" Johnny nearly shouts. Randy gives him that smug, stupid look, and Johnny lets it out, as if his angry words could hurt him. "It's just some weird symbols and numbers and stuff and it don't make no sense," and he's talking fast and frustrated.

"I look at it and I study, but then when we get the tests it's all so confusing and I can't remember. I mean, what is the point of shifting around all those numbers anyway? I'll tell you the point. There isn't a point. I don't know why I'm forced to do this. Besides, the quiz is over, so I don't need to learn it anymore. So why don't you just go on home and leave me alone?"

Randy grins, proud of himself. "So you do talk. And about that quiz...I got you a make-up."

"No. I'm not making up this stupid test. Look man, I can't learn this shit."

Randy's staring at him with a defiant gleam in his eye. Johnny shifts his eyes to floor, because he recognizes that look, and he doesn't like it at all. It's the look Ponyboy gets just before a track meet, the look Dally gets before a rumble. But there's something else there, too. A stubbornness born of never having met defeat, of never having been told no, of never having been denied anything, of never having struggled. It's the cocky self-assurance that only a Soc could have, although Johnny knows a lot of greasers who put on a good front.

"Yes, you can," Randy says. There's no doubt in his voice. "You can learn it. If I'm teaching you, you can. Now, let's start at the basics here. What do you use this formula for? What are you trying to solve for?"

Johnny crosses his arms. "Aren't you supposed to tell me?"

"You're trying to solve for the roots of quadratic equations."

"What's a root?"

Randy stares at him for a few seconds, trying to determine whether or not he's joking. He lets out a long breath. "Okay," he says, now that he's collected himself. "Let's review the previous chapters before we start in on quadratics. Get out your textbook." He speaks with a commanding assurance. He's accustomed to being listened to and obeyed. He sounds more intimidating than Johnny's math teacher.

Johnny pulls out his textbook from his schoolbag.