So that’s where the crossword puzzle has been hiding!”
I open my eyes. I’ve fallen asleep on the couch in the back of the library. My textbook is in my lap with the unfinished crossword puzzle tucked inside it.
A boy I don’t know snatches it away and takes it to the table. “And you’re the one who gets them all wrong.”
“I don’t get them all wrong,” I say, blinking myself awake and sitting up straight.
“You’re not supposed to sleep in the library,” he says.
“I’m not sleeping. I’m resting.”
“You should photocopy these puzzles, if you’re gonna mess them up so bad.”
“Who are you?” I say, staring at this utterly obnoxious boy.
“Martin Farris. You should know that. We’re in Yearbook together.”
“Right. Yearbook,” I say, Yearbook being the easiest, dumbest extracurricular there is at our school. I sleep in there a bit too.
Martin begins reading through the clues I’ve filled in. “You don’t know who Jimi Hendrix is?” he asks. “Nineteen Down? Purple Haze composer?”
“I don’t listen to classic rock.”
“You should still know that. Jimi Hendrix was from Seattle.”
“What difference does that make?”
“It’s called knowing about music that’s from your area? Like if you lived in Liverpool you would probably know of a little band called the Beatles?”
“You’re kidding, right?”
He goes back to the crossword: “And Turkey’s capital city is Ankara,” he says. “Not ‘ankle’, or whatever it was you were trying to write.”
I stare at him. “Look at you. You’re like a total dork.”
“I’m not a dork. I’m a geek,” says Martin without hesitating. “Dorks are physically uncoordinated. Geeks have specialized knowledge of complex systems.”
“Wow,” I say.
“So where did you transfer from?” says Martin, still studying my crossword failures.
“I’m not a transfer.”
“You weren’t here last semester.”
“Yes, I was.”
“No, you weren’t,” he says. “I happen to work on Yearbook. I know who was here and who wasn’t.”
“I took some time off.”
“What for?”
“Personal reasons.”
“What sort of personal reasons?” he asks.
“None of your business.”
He pretends to think: “Well…let’s see…personal reasons. That could be health. That could be psychological issues. Maybe you were impregnated by Satan and had to give birth to your demon child in a secret location.…”
“You’re hilarious,” I say. I gather my stuff, since the bell is about to ring.
He continues to cruise through the puzzle. “Twenty-two down. Kind of guard. Point,” he says, writing it in.
I stand up with my backpack. “Thanks a lot, nerd boy,” I say.
“No prob,” he says, without looking up. “See you in Yearbook.”