COLBY

"This is the library." The pretty blonde giving me the "new kid" tour has made it clear she is single. She has worked it into the conversation twice now. She keeps flipping her hair. She keeps giving me coy smiles.

We walk around the high school, and her eyes linger again on the blue octopus tattoo wrapped around my right bicep. She commented on how incredibly tall she thinks I am—even complimented me on my broad shoulders.

She says, without being prompted, that is her type: Tall, dark-haired guys with tattoos.

She has all the telltale signs of being a popular girl. It shows in how many people she has shouted to or waved at as we walk around. And in the air of confidence that surrounds her as she struts through the halls. She must be a part of the High School royalty, which, in my experience, means dating equals too much work and a boatload of trouble.

Plus, I make it a rule never to start asking anyone out at a new school until I get the lay of the land. It takes a while to figure out who belongs to what social strata. Even longer to suss out who is dating who. Move too soon, and you get your ass beat by some linebacker because you asked out his recent ex.

We've reached the part of the tour where the lecture ends. No more pointing out classrooms. We have entered our final destination. Now in the library, her attention swings fully my way.

At each new school, nothing changes. I've done this same tour every two years since the third grade: different tour guide, but same school walkabout. The end of the tour always signals the start of the personal interrogation. Here comes the avalanche of questions. 

My answers flow smoothly without much thought.

Siblings? Yes, one sister beginning sophomore year at Harvard.

Parents? Still married.

Though I often wonder for how much longer.

What do my parents do? Mom works in marketing, and Dad is in the Coast Guard.

The Coast Guard part is why we move every two years: new orders, new city.

Do I play any sports? I did when I was younger.

It's part of the Brasen tradition for all the males in the family to play sports and, upon graduation, join the military. But I gave up wrestling and cross country my freshman year. Now a senior, I have successfully evaded all attempts by my father to get me back into sports. Neither his disappointment nor a bribe can get me to join a team.

Hobbies? I mostly lie about this part.

Usually cop to something like cars and computer games.

Do I have a girlfriend? Not currently.

"Susie," calls out a cute redhead from the hallway.

I honestly didn't log my tour guide's name when we were first introduced in the admin office.

Susie turns to me and says, "I have Alexia's keys in my locker. I'll be right back."

I watch her scramble away and drop the social smile I've been sporting for the last half hour.

No librarian stands behind the big desk that takes up one whole wall just inside the steel double doors. Not a surprise the place is empty. The bell announcing lunch hour rang ten minutes ago.

Left on my own, I browse the long metal shelves stacked with books. I'm pleasantly surprised to find this library is much bigger than my last school.

Up one stack and down another I travel. Occasionally, I stop to admire a familiar title. I also log new books I want to read. I hit the end of the history section. When I turn the corner, I stumble over something. No, a someone.

"Hey, watch it!" a female voice says.

"Sorry!" I answer, finding my balance just before I do a header into a metal shelf.

I look down at a girl sitting on the floor reading a book.

She grabs the book that tumbled off her lap when I bumped into her.

The book is The Name of the Rose by Umberto Eco.

"Good book, I read it this summer."

She just glares at me for a second, then opens the book and goes back to reading.

A female ignoring me doesn't happen often.  Not since I grew five inches at the beginning of freshman year.

"Did I hurt you?" I ask, looking down at the top of her head.

She shakes her head.

Her hair is in a ponytail. It's a pretty color—auburn red with the occasional blonde streak. Reminds me of a sunset. I wonder if it's natural.

"I'm Colby."

The silence after my question is long.

She finally answers, "Did I ask your name?"

"You did not." I can't help the wide smile. Such an artfully sarcastic tone is hard to pull off in so few words, but she managed it.

I keep standing there, and eventually she looks up. "Can I help you with something?"

"I'm just looking around." Why am I breaking one of my cardinal rules and engaging?

She narrows her eyes and gives me a very cold "Cool," before going back to her book. Followed shortly by a curt, "Don't let me keep you."

"You want me to go away."

"That would be amazing," she says, giving me a dazzling smile.

I don't often meet someone more annoyed by social interactions and questions than I am. I laugh and give her a slight bow as if graciously acknowledging my defeat.

I swear I see a twinkle of amusement in her eyes for a split second.

Something about this girl makes me want to linger, ask more questions, hear that sarcasm, and then see that amusement at my reaction shining in those green eyes. But she's made it clear she wants to be left alone, so I turn and take my leave.

I meet up with Susie in the hallway outside the library.

Susie starts asking me more questions, followed by more hair flips.

The girl with the book passes us without acknowledging our presence, and once she's out of earshot, I motion in her direction and ask Susie, "What's her name?"

Susie looks down the hall. "You mean Izzy?"

The annoyance on Susie's face when she says Izzy's name makes me wonder if Izzy's silence and curtness weren't just a me thing.

"Izzy's on the basketball team," Susie says.

Izzy. A basketball player who reads Umberto Eco. Usually, not much about new schools surprises me, but that does.

*****