"Am I wrong?"
I tried to ignore him, but my eyes fell on him like they always did.64
"I didn't think so," he murmured smugly.
"What does it matter to you?" I asked, irritated that he seemed to care about my life more than I did. I kept my eyes away, watching the teacher make his rounds.
"That's a very good question," he muttered, so quietly that I wondered if he was talking to himself. However, after a few seconds of silence, I decided that was the only answer I was going to get. He wasn't a very good conversationalist.
I sighed, scowling at the blackboard.
"Am I annoying you?" he asked. He sounded amused.
I glanced at him without thinking... and told the truth again. "Not exactly. I'm more annoyed at myself. My face is so easy to read—my mother always calls me her open book." I frowned, thinking of how few books my mother had read in her lifetime.
"On the contrary, I find you very difficult to read." Despite everything that I'd said and he'd guessed, he sounded like he meant it. I began to suspect that he wasn't much of a reader, either.
"You must be a good reader then," I replied kindly, in a manner which featured a hint of flirtiness.
"Usually." He smiled wildly65, flashing a set of perfect, ultrawhite teeth lining his crooked mouth.
Mr. Banner called the class to order then, and I turned with relief to listen. I was in disbelief that I'd just explained my dreary life to this bizarre, beautiful boy who may or may not despise me. He'd seemed engrossed in our conversation, but now I could see, from the corner of my eye, that he was leaning away from me again, his hands gripping the edge of the table with unmistakable tension.
I tried to appear super attentive as Mr. Banner illustrated, with transparencies on the overhead projector, what I had
64. Woops.
65. The reader can only imagine Fredward throwing his head to and fro.