“Your father is a nobleman?”
“My mother believes it and convinced him. So no one asked you out yet? Really?” He looked down and began to eat again, as if he had tossed the question into the air and didn’t expect me to answer.
“Why is that so important to you?”
He shrugged. “It’s a way of finding out what your defenses are,” he said, as if no other purpose could even be suggested. “Fencing again.”
“So, I repeat, why is that so important to you?”
He laughed and sat back. Then he looked up and nodded. “I’m always right with my first impressions of people I meet.”
“You’re always right? Doesn’t your arm hurt?”
“My arm?” He smiled, confused and amused.
“From reaching over your shoulder to pat yourself on the back so much?”
He looked stunned for a moment, and then he laughed. “I repeat,” he said. “I’m always right. I thought you were different. I just haven’t figured out why yet.” His eyes narrowed as if he was studying me scientifically. “It’s like you’re some kind of an observer here, above and beyond the din, like wiser or something. You seem to have more patience than other girls your age, too. I watch how you move. It’s like . . . you
’re afraid you’re going to step on a land mine or something.”
“When are you watching me?” I asked, now not sure it had been smart to join him at his table. “And so closely?”
He looked away quickly. “Anytime I see you, I guess.” He said it nonchalantly and then started eating again.
I ate some of my salad. He glanced at me as if he was waiting for me to respond. For any other girl, what he’d said would be quite flattering, but the idea that someone had been watching me so intently without my knowing it only made my nerves vibrate like piano strings.
“Well, now that you bring it up, everything you said about me also applies to you, and from what I hear, I’m far from the only one here who thinks so.”
“Birds of a feather,” he replied.
“I didn’t say I accepted your analysis of me.”
“Which only proves I’m right about you,” he replied with a smug expression of self-satisfaction. “There’s something wiser about you. You’re more concerned with what you wear, how everything coordinates. You’re just neater, better put together than the other girls here. Frankly, I think most of the boys are intimidated by you.”
“What?”
“You challenge anything anyone says and take nothing at face value.”
“How do you know all that so quickly? What are you, a mind reader or something?”
“Something,” he said. “Maybe you’ll tell me what I am.” He suddenly sounded more depressed than witty. He looked down at his food and then sat back again and took on a more formal, stiffer posture. “What brought you to Littlefield? I mean, why this school?”
“You sound like a guidance counselor or . . .” I stopped myself from saying therapist.
“So? What would you tell a guidance counselor?”
“My father researched it and thought it was a good choice.”
“You always do what your father wants you to do?” he asked, and immediately looked at his food again.
“I thought it looked good and was willing to try it. I’m not a puppet,” I added, my building rage undisguised. Maybe Marcy was completely right about him, I thought.
He looked unscathed, not even blinking fast. “Where else did you go?” he asked.
“Public school. This is my first private school. Anything else?”
“Any conclusions yet?”