“No. Why would you ask that?”
There’s a strange hint of defensiveness in his voice as he throws a me a look over his shoulder.
“I was just asking because I’m full and still have half a bag of chips here,” I reply, treading carefully. I’m thrown by his weird behaviour. Have I somehow offendedhim?
“Oh,” he responds, his shoulders sagging slightly. “No, thanks.”
He turns back to his book.
“Are you in grade eleven?” I ask, trying to start a conversation. I said I wouldn’t beloud,not that I wouldn’t talk at all.
“Yes. Same as you.”
He doesn’t bother turning around this time, but my heart flips all the same.
“You know who I am?” I ask.
He turns at the giddiness in my voice and answers me with a cocked brow.
“Who doesn’t?” He says slowly, eyes boring into mine. “You’re Gianna Morello.”
My cheeks burn a deep blush across my face. His gaze lingers there before he slowly turns back to his book. I cross my ankles and prop my open book down on my lap.
“What’s your name?”
If he’s irritated at my questions, he doesn’t show it. In fact, his earlier irritation seems to melt away the more I speak to him.
“Zayn.”
“You look like a Zayn,” I blurt before I even know what I’m saying.
“Oh yeah?” I notice his pen stops scribbling and hovers over his pad. “What does a Zayn look like?”
I’m glad he’s turned away from me, as I’m sure my face is bright red by now.
“I don’t know. Just… like you.” I answer lamely. I’m definitely not about to tell him that his name is dark and broody like him and embarrass myself further.
“Well, you look like a Gianna.”
“Oh yeah?” I throw his words back at him with a stupid grin forming on my face. “What does a Gianna look like?”
“A beautiful girl.”
He doesn’t miss a beat, continuing to take notes while I die a happy death on the steps behind him. It’s not the first time I’ve been called beautiful, but it’s the first time those words have felt like someone’s inflated my chest with a bike pump. I’m positivelyeuphoric.
“I take physics, too,” I say, changing the subject in the hopes that my cheeks will return to their usual olive colour in the meantime.
“I know,” he scoffs. “I’m in your class.”
“No you’re not,” I say automatically. “I would have seen you.”
Wouldn’t I? It’s not like the class is that big. His only response to my words is a tensing of his shoulders as he continues to pore over his book.
“Why are you studying here?”
He’s quiet for so long that I’m not sure he even heard me, but then he puts his pen down and I see from here that he starts to work his jaw once again.
“It’s quieter than home.”
