“Why?”
“Why what?”
“Why are you interested now?”
He looked away. I could see the frustration in his face from the way his neck strained and tightened his cheeks and jaw.
“I don’t want you to strain yourself thinking of a good answ
er, Ryder,” I said. “Forget it.”
“You are a tough nut to crack,” he said, turning back to me.
“You’re not exactly soft yogurt.”
He laughed. “No, I guess I’m not.”
He looked up, and then his eyes narrowed and the humor left his face. I saw that he was looking past me, and I turned to see his sister sitting between two boys. I kept eating and tried to ignore the new rage I could see building in his face.
“So, tell me,” I said, “why are you interested in learning about me now?”
“You want the truth?” he asked, sounding and looking so upset that I thought he was going to start shouting or something. But I wasn’t going to back down.
“Yes, I’d like that for a change. It’s like taking a shower or a bath here.”
“You’re the first girl I’ve met in a while who is at least vaguely interesting to me.”
“Vaguely? Well, I guess that’s sort of a compliment,” I said. “Maybe that’s the best you can do.”
“Maybe it is.”
“Okay.” I shrugged. “Next time I see you, I’ll bring along a magnifying glass so I don’t miss anything nice.”
He stared at me a moment and then he sat back, smiling and shaking his head. “What is your name?”
“You don’t know my name?”
“I heard our teachers call you Sasha, but what’s your whole name?”
“Gary didn’t tell you that, either?”
“I didn’t really feel like talking about you with Gary,” he admitted. “You show the slightest interest in someone, and the whole school has you practically married.”
“Sasha Fawne Porter. What’s yours?”
“Ryder Martin Garfield.”
I put my fork down, wiped my hand with my napkin, and then extended it.
He looked at it and took it.
“Enchantée,” I said.
“De la même manière.”
“You speak French?”
“A little. We lived in Paris for five months when my father was making a film there and my mother was doing some modeling for a French designer. What about you?”