"Phil travels a lot. He plays ball for a living." I half-smiled.

　　"Have I heard of him?" he asked, smiling in response.

　　"Probably not. He doesn't play well. Strictly minor league. He moves around a lot."

　　"And your mother sent you here so that she could travel with him." He said it as an assumption again, not a question.

　　My chin raised a fraction. "No, she did not send me here. I sent myself."

　　His eyebrows knit together. "I don't understand," he admitted, and he seemed unnecessarily frustrated by that fact.

　　I sighed. Why was I explaining this to him? He continued to stare at me with obvious curiosity.

　　"She stayed with me at first, but she missed him. It made her unhappy… so I decided it was time to spend some quality time with Charlie." My voice was glum by the time I finished.

　　"But now you're unhappy," he pointed out.

　　"And?" I challenged.

　　"That doesn't seem fair." He shrugged, but his eyes were still intense.

　　I laughed without humor. "Hasn't anyone ever told you? Life isn't fair."

　　"I believe I have heard that somewhere before," he agreed dryly.

　　"So that's all," I insisted, wondering why he was still staring at me that way.

　　His gaze became appraising. "You put on a good show," he said slowly. "But I'd be willing to bet that you're suffering more than you let anyone see."

　　I grimaced at him, resisting the impulse to stick out my tongue like a five-year-old, and looked away.

　　"Am I wrong?"

　　I tried to ignore him.

　　"I didn't think so," he murmured smugly.

　　"Why does it matter to you?" I asked, irritated. 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.

　　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.

　　"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.

　　"You must be a good reader then," I replied.

　　"Usually." He smiled widely, flashing a set of perfect, ultrawhite teeth.

　　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 attentive as Mr. Banner illustrated, with transparencies on the overhead projector, what I had seen without difficulty through the microscope. But my thoughts were unmanageable.