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the
    bathroom and sticking a finger
    down her throat.
    Anyway. Whatever. She could
    still read. There was enough light
    coming in from the window.
    Park
    She read stuff as fast as he could
    give it to her. And when she
    handed it back to him the next
    morning, she always acted as if
    she were handing him something
    fragile. Something precious. You
    wouldn’t even know that she
    touched the comics except for the
    smell.
    Every book Park lent her came
    back smelling like perfume. Not
    like the perfume his mom wore.
    (Imari.) And not like the new girl;
    she smelled like vanilla.
    But she made his comics smell
    like roses. A whole field of them.
    She’d read all of his Alan
    Moore in less than three weeks.
    Now he was giving her X-Men
    comics five at a time, and he could
    tell that she liked them because
    she wrote the characters’ names
    on her books, in between band
    names and song lyrics.
    They still didn’t talk on the
    bus, but it had become a less
    confrontational silence. Almost
    friendly. (But not quite.)
    Park would have to talk to her
    today – to tell her that he didn’t
    have anything to give her. He’d
    overslept, then forgotten to grab
    the stack of comics he’d set out
    for her the night before. He hadn’t
    even had time to eat breakfast or
    brush his teeth, which made him
    self-conscious, knowing he was
    going to be sitting so close to her.
    But when she got on the bus
    and
    handed
    him
    yesterday’s
    comics, all Park did was shrug.
    She looked away. They both
    looked down.
    She was wearing that ugly
    necktie again. Today it was tied
    around her wrist. Her arms and
    wrists
    were
    scattered
    with
    freckles, layers of them in
    different shades of gold and pink,
    even on the back of her hands.
    Little-boy hands, his mom would
    call them, with short-short nails
    and ragged cuticles.
    She stared down at the books
    in her lap. Maybe she thought he
    was mad at her. He stared at her
    books, too – covered in ink and
    Art Nouveau doodles.
    ‘So,’ he said, before he knew
    what to say next, ‘you like the
    Smiths?’ He was careful not to
    blow his morning breath on her.
    She looked up, surprised.
    Maybe confused. He pointed at
    her book, where she’d written
    ‘How Soon Is Now?’ in tall green
    letters.
    ‘I don’t know,’ she said. ‘I’ve
    never heard them.’
    ‘So you just want people to
    think you like the Smiths?’ He
    couldn’t
    help
    but
    sound
    disdainful.
    ‘Yeah,’ she said, looking
    around the bus. ‘I’m trying to
    impress the locals.’
    He didn’t know if she could
    help but sound like a smartass, but
    she sure wasn’t trying. The air
    soured between them. Park shifted
    against the wall. She looked
    across the aisle to stare out the
    window.
    When he got to English, he
    tried to catch her eye, but she
    looked away. He felt like she was
    trying so hard to ignore him that
    she wouldn’t even participate in
    class.
    Mr Stessman kept trying to
    draw her out – she was his new
    favorite target whenever things got
    sleepy in class. Today they were
    supposed to be discussing Romeo
    and Juliet , but nobody wanted to
    talk.
    ‘You don’t seem troubled by
    their deaths, Miss Douglas.’
    ‘I’m sorry?’ she said. She
    narrowed her eyes at him.
    ‘It doesn’t strike you as sad?’
    Mr Stessman asked. ‘Two young
    lovers lay dead. Never was a story
    of more woe . Doesn’t that get to
    you?’
    ‘I guess not,’ she said.
    ‘Are you so cold? So cool?’
    He was standing over her desk,
    pretending to plead with her.
    ‘No …’ she said. ‘I just don’t
    think it’s a tragedy.’
    ‘It’s the tragedy,’ Mr Stessman
    said.
    She rolled her eyes. She was
    wearing two or three necklaces,
    old fake pearls, like Park’s
    grandmother wore to church, and
    she twisted them while she talked.
    ‘But he’s so obviously making
    fun of them,’ she said.
    ‘Who is?’
    ‘Shakespeare.’
    ‘Do tell …’
    She rolled her eyes again. She
    knew Mr Stessman’s game