Part 5 (2/2)

She reaches for something in her locker and leans in so far that I can't see her face. I hear her say, ”Yeah,” and it echoes a little bit. I try to think of a response, but suddenly my brain is like a television that doesn't work: just static. So I stand there, quiet. She finishes filling up her bag with books and leans toward me.

”This is the part of the conversation,” she says, ”where you you tell me something about yourself. Something similar to what I told you. This is where the interrogation turns into an exchange.” tell me something about yourself. Something similar to what I told you. This is where the interrogation turns into an exchange.”

”You're asking if I'm I'm queer?” queer?”

She lifts an eyebrow at me. I feel stupid.

”No,” I say. ”I'm not.”

She closes her locker. ”Well, I know it sounds crazy. But I've heard that your kind and my kind can coexist quite peacefully.” She smiles and this time it's in a nice way. ”I'm going to that noodle place on Webster,” she says, and I realize that she isn't going to ask me to come again. She isn't desperate.

”I'll go, too,” I say.

We walk out of the science hall.

”Do you have a car?” I ask her.

”No,” she says, like I just asked if she had a hundred bucks she wanted to loan me. ”Do you know how many problems would be solved if people stopped using oil so much? Wars, terrorism, air pollution . . . Just to name a few.” she says, like I just asked if she had a hundred bucks she wanted to loan me. ”Do you know how many problems would be solved if people stopped using oil so much? Wars, terrorism, air pollution . . . Just to name a few.”

As we step on to the street, Alicia McIntosh stares at us from the window of her boyfriend's Camero. I pretend I don't see her.

23.

The noodle place serves Thai soups in huge bowls, but inside it looks like the diner it used to be-posters of Elvis on the wall, lit-up jukebox by the entrance. We slide into opposite sides of a booth with red vinyl seats. Even here, Dylan slouches. She drums her fingers on the table and reads the menu. She doesn't seem to need to talk to be comfortable. I, on the other hand, am desperate for something to say. I read the menu and decide on coconut-milk pineapple soup. Dylan orders hot and sour soup with mushrooms and green beans and a large coffee. She looks so rowdy, but she's really polite to the waiter. She smiles and says ”thanks” like she means it.

”So why did you change your mind?” she asks me.

”What do you mean?”

”I mean what happened the first time? When I asked if you wanted to come. You just weren't hungry or something?”

I'm not used to people being so direct, and I don't know how to answer her. ”I can't remember,” I say.

She nods slowly, like she knows I'm lying, then looks down at her paper place mat and smiles.

”So what song did you write about?” she asks.

” ' Close to Me,' ” I say, even though I doubt she's heard it.

”The Cure, right?”

”Yeah, you like them?”

”Sure,” she says. ”My parents have a couple of their alb.u.ms.”

The waiter brings our drinks to the table.

”Cream and sugar?” he asks her.

”No thanks.”

She hunches over her coffee and breathes in the steam.

”So what was your a.n.a.lysis?” she asks.

I open my backpack to get my paper out, and notice that the section holding Ingrid's journal is half unzipped. The top corner of the journal peeks up at me. I yank the zipper closed and pull out my paper, hoping to find a couple sentences that at least sound fairly intelligent.

” ' The song deals with feelings of regret,' ” I read, ” ' and not having the ability to know someone well enough, or to understand them completely.' ” I stop there and shrug. ”Well, there's more,” I say. ”It goes on.”

The waiter brings our soups to the table.

”Thanks so much,” Dylan says, looking up at him.

”Thank you,” I say after.

We start to fill deep spoons with our soup, holding them for a little while, letting them cool.

”So what did you write about?”

”A Bob Dylan song,” she says. ”Appropriately.” She fishes out a mushroom, then adds, ”I'm named after him.”

”Oh,” I say. ”That makes sense.”

”I chose 'The Times They Are a-Changin' ' but really just used it to talk about how our generation is really different than his, and that it would be great if that song applied to us, but it doesn't. We're complacent.”

I'm not really sure what she's talking about, so I just say, ”I don't think I know any of his songs.”

She doesn't respond, and for a while we just eat. The silence starts getting to me. Not only do I not know a single Bob Dylan song, but I also have nothing interesting to say. She finishes her coffee and asks for another. I look around at the other tables, where people are talking and nodding their heads.

”I heard you got kicked out of your old school for making out with a girl in the bathroom,” I blurt.

Her eyebrows rise. She looks into her soup bowl, like it might tell her how to react if she concentrates hard enough. Then she starts to laugh.

”This school is so weird,” she says, shaking her head. She brushes a strand of hair away from her face. ”I mean, really. And I'm still not over the fact that all the houses in this town are really just one design that was copied over and over and then painted alternating colors.” She spoons herself a green bean. ”It's no wonder most of the students at Vista are all clones of each other. Before we moved here, I had no idea that a place like this could exist so close to the city.”

Even though Los Cerros isn't my favorite place in the world, I feel a little protective of it. ”It isn't all like that,” I say. ”It has some good parts.”

”Well, let's go, then,” Dylan says. ”Show me.”

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