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don’t you like to read?”
    When he didn’t answer and resumed looking out the window, I tried to read again. But my thoughts swam wildly in my head, and I stared blankly at the page. I felt despondent that I had wounded someone who had so recently come to my rescue. I tried again.
    “I’m sorry Samuel,” I said awkwardly. “I didn’t mean to hurt your feelings.”
    He snorted and looked at me, raising one eyebrow. “I’m not a little girl. I don’t get my feelings hurt.” His voice was slightly mocking. He took the book from my hands and began to read from the page.
    “‘I can listen no longer in silence. I must speak to you by such means as are within my reach. You pierce my soul. I am half agony, half hope. Tell me not that I am too late, that such precious feelings are gone forever.’”
    Samuel’s intent had been to prove his reading skill, but he stopped suddenly, embarrassed by the deeply romantic missive from Captain Wentworth to Anne.
    We both sat unmoving, staring down at the book. I couldn’t help myself. I started to laugh.
    Samuel scowled for a minute. Then his lips twitched and he seemed to exhale his discomfort.
    “How old are you?” He questioned his eyebrows slightly raised.
    “Thirteen,” I replied defensively. I always felt defensive about my age. I didn’t feel thirteen, and I didn’t look thirteen, so I hated being thirteen.
    Samuel’s eyes widened in surprise. “Thirteen?’ It didn’t sound like a question, but more like a doubtful exclamation. “So you’re what, in seventh grade?” He said this in the same flat, yet incredulous, voice.
    I pushed my glasses up on my nose and sighed. “That’s right.” I took my book out of his hands and prepared to tune him out.
    “Isn’t that book a little....grown-up for a seventh grader?” He argued. He pulled the book out of my hands again and read on, this time silently. “I don’t even understand what most of these words mean. It’s like a different language!”
    “That’s why I read with a dictionary...although I don’t bring it to school with me. It’s way too heavy.” I looked down at the book again, feeling shy. “In some ways it is a different language. My teacher, Mrs. Grimaldi, says our language is disintegrating.”
    Samuel just looked at me, his face incredulous.
    “I’m sure it’s not as different as Navajo is from English, though,” I continued, trying to draw him into further conversation, surprised he was speaking to me at all, especially now that he knew I was just a lowly seventh grader.
    “Yeah, Navajo is very different.” Something shuttered over his face, and he turned away from me, looking out the window again, ending our very brief exchange.

     
    It was several more bus rides before Samuel spoke to me once more. I had been shut down on our last conversation, and was unwilling to try again.
    “I hate to read.” His tone was argumentative, and he glared at me. As usual, I was tucked into my book, my knees drawn up to support its weight. I looked at him, wondering what he wanted me to say.
    “Okay...?”
    He drew a book out of his backpack and tossed it on top of the copy of Pride and Prejudice that was opened on my lap. The book was Wuthering Heights . I almost groaned in sympathy. I hadn’t tried to finish it after Sonja had relieved me from it the first time. I had no desire to spend any more time with it. With school work, piano lessons, and piano practice, along with all the chores that came from living with two men - Jared and Jacob were up and mostly out of the house by then - my reading mostly took place on the bus and at bedtime, when I faithfully looked up all my undefined words. I still read a couple books a month, but I didn’t plow through them as I had in the summer. Wuthering Heights was NOT on my list of Books-To-Read and yes, I did have an actual list.
    “I’ve read parts of this book,” I said cautiously, not understanding why he’d tossed the book in my lap.
    “I was