The following Thursday, Johnny is on his second day of his third week of tutoring. It ain't as bad as he expected. To say the least. Besides yesterday, when Randy got off rambling on and on social justice or something and Johnny nearly fell asleep, everything's gone smoothly.

Randy stays on task and explains ideas clearly and slowly. He's a patient teacher. When he repeats himself, he rephrases what he says, instead of just banging the same words into Johnny's head over and over, expecting him to magically get it, like teachers have done to him in the past. Randy also asks questions riddled with hints. Just enough hints that Johnny is able to figure out the answer, without having been told directly. Johnny likes those moments the best.

It's weird, because he's supposed to hate Randy. He guesses he does hate Randy. But he's started to look forward to coming to his lessons. There's a rush he gets when he understands, and all he wants to do is keep learning and learning. It's almost like being good at school is addictive. Well, he's not good, but he's gotten better. He understands now why Pony's always holed up in his room, reading books. He would be like that too if he could understand things real quick.

The lesson has just started. But instead of handing him notes, or immediately digging into the lesson like usual, Randy asks, "So what are your plans for this weekend?" As if they're old friends.

Johnny gives him a suspicious look before answering. They don't talk about personal stuff. They talk about school. "Nothing, I guess."

"Sounds like a lot of fun," says Randy.

Johnny shoots him a look of contempt, and Randy laughs.

"Come on, I'm just trying to start a conversation. I want to get to know you better since we have to spend so much time together. And anyway, you're too quiet. You should talk more."

"You should talk less."

Randy laughs again. "So I've been told. But since I'm your tutor and all, I figure I'll give you a few socializing tips, okay? First pointer. When someone asks you a question, you actually answer it and engage with that person. And then, you thank them for asking you, and ask them the same question."

"So you want me to ask you what you're doing this weekend?"

Randy puts his head in his hand and shakes. "Not when you phrase it like the task is a death sentence."

Johnny blows up at his bangs. They're so heavy with grease they don't move off his forehead. "So what are you doing this weekend?" Johnny asks, as politely as he can muster. Which isn't terribly polite, because he's irritated at Randy for prying. He doesn't want to get to know him deeper than homework, books, and teacher's dirty looks.

"Why, thank you for asking, Mr. Cade. I happen to have a most horrendous weekend approaching."

"Stop talking like that."

"Like what?"

"Like you're in a damn play where the characters wear top hats and tailcoats and have fake British accents. You sound stupid. Anyway, what's so bad about this weekend?"

Randy shrugs. "I'm heading up to North Carolina with my dad. He wants to introduce me to one of his old fraternity pals from back in the day. He's a Dean now at Duke."

"Yeah. Sounds horrible," Johnny answers sarcastically.

"Well, you know how it is," Randy answers, incredulous that Johnny's not agreeing with him. And then, he looks embarrassed. Because he realizes Johnny doesn't know how it is. Not at all. For a moment, they were having a normal conversation. Person to person. Now they're back to being greasers and Socs.

"So how is it?" Johnny asks.

"Do you really want to know?"

"Naw. I was just being nice." Johnny grins at him.

"Jerk," Randy says, without any conviction. Then he gives in, because he suspects Johnny actually does want to know. And even if he doesn't, Randy wants to tell.

"First they're going to insult each other by pretending to compliment each other. 'So I hear you lost that case to the D.A. Too bad. Too bad. You were a mighty good sport about it, though. I say, if I had lost that case in such a manner, no way would I take that standing. How's the Midwest these days?'"

Randy is good at accents. He bends his face to give himself an artificial double chin, and speaks in a grumbly coastal Southern twang, the high-class, slow-talking sort. He sounds fatter somehow, Johnny thinks.

"Then they're going to drink overpriced cognac, reminisce about all the classes they skipped, the women they seduced, the touchdowns they scored, and the freshman they tormented before drunkenly singing the school song. 'Fight! Blue devils, fight!'" Randy fist-pumps the air to the beat.

"And that's not the worst of it. After that comes the life advice, which usually revolves around euphemisms for wearing a condom and not sleeping with lower-class women who have venereal diseases and will try to entrap me in an unsuitable marriage through pregnancy because they're after my money. Since you know, nobody could actually love me if I didn't have any money.

"Finally, when the evening is almost over, my dad's friend is going to say something unbearable. Like, 'you're such a chip of the old block.' Or he'll call my mom a 'real looker.' And then he's going to assure me that I'll get into Duke no question, wink wink. So I'll never know if I actually got in on my own merit or if it was just favoritism."

Randy pauses. "I guess it doesn't really sound that bad."

"No, that actually sounds pretty horrible," Johnny agrees.

"Wow."

"Wow what?"

"I can't believe I just told you all that."

Johnny shrugs. "Guess you needed to get it off your chest."

"Hey, thanks grease."

Johnny frowns at him. From a greaser, being called grease is compliment, a call of camaraderie. From a Soc, it's an insult.

"I'm sorry. I meant...thanks, kid. Thanks Johnny. I appreciate it, you listening. I really do."

Johnny hates the sincerity in his voice. Or maybe he hates himself for not hating it. He doesn't know what to say, so he says the customary thing. "You're welcome."