terrified him, and he did not make any effort to get off
the scooter.
"What?"
"That's all right. I've got to get home." "Really?"
"You can hold onto the notebook until
tomorrow. I'll come by the cafe and pick them up." He kick-started the scooter.
"I didn't mean to scare you off," I said dryly. "You're not scaring me off. I just don't want to
watch you reading my poems," he added with a note
of belligerence.
I almost threw the notebook hack at him. "If I'm sitting there, you'll feel obligated to say
nice things," he added with a little less anger in his
voice. "I would not. I would say what I believe." "Fine. I'll hear it tomorrow then," he said and
turned the scooter around.
He didn't even say good night. He shot off into the night, the tiny rear light of the scooter looking like a red eye that closed and was gone, leaving me
fuming on the driveway.
He had to be the most infuriating, impolite,
arrogant and annoying boy on the face of the planet, I
thought, not to mention confusing. Why was it
important to him to take me home and then ignore
me?
Aunt Zipporah was right. I didn't need someone
with just as many, if not more, emotional and psychological problems, I told myself. I'm dangling on my
own high wire.
And yet it was just that danger and the danger
that hovered about him that filled me with
disappointment and frustration at his leaving me
standing in the dark driveway.
I gazed at his notebook. No matter how he had
behaved, I was filled with curiosity and interest in
what he had written.