On graduation day, I deleted all his contact information, thinking I’d cut ties with my youthful past for good.
Ten years later, at a class reunion, an old, worn notebook turns up.
When I open it, I discover it’s my collection of math problems I got wrong throughout high school. Beside every red-ink correction, someone has added new handwriting.
“Thirty-sixth review. I finally understand it completely. Too bad I can’t tell you in person.”
A note is tucked into the last page: “Actually, I was waiting for you to ask me about those problems all along.”
