I pretend I don't see him.

Like a mature and well-adjusted adult, I pretend I don't see or hear Hazel as I approach the bus and load my pack into the back alongside everyone else's. Fortunately, we're on a tight schedule, and because the bus that got me here was running behind, I'm almost late, so there's no time for lengthy introductions. As Professor MacDowell proclaims, we'll all know each other as well, and possibly better, than we care to before our time together ends.

Though the last to arrive, I'm the first to take a seat. I choose one in the row beside the window, where I expect to be left in peace—at least until a guy wearing a Jurassic Park shirt takes the seat next to me and introduces himself with a simple question.

"Star Trek, or Star Wars?"

Figuring he might leave me alone if I choose poorly, I stack my bets and go with "both."

Unfortunately, my gamble doesn't pay off this time.

"Oh, cool! Me, too! I'm George, by the way. Just like George Lucas," he adds, as if George wasn't a fairly common name and there was more than one way to spell it.

"Sweet. I'm Charlie."

"Like Charlie Brown?"

George gives me his undivided attention, as if this question is very important to him, and I catch on that, if not exactly missing marbles, he's likely playing with a different set than most people.

"Yeah, just like Charlie Brown."

George grins, evidently pleased. Bracing myself for two hours of debating whether the Romulans or the Cardassians were better villains and what went wrong with the prequels apart from Jar Jar Binks, I settle in for the ride, when something even worse happens.

"Hey, uh, you're in my seat."

I look up. Hazel stands in the aisle beside George, rubbing the back of his neck and grinning sheepishly. "Sorry about that."

George jumps up like he sat on a tack. "Oh, sorry! I didn't know the seats were assigned!"

"They're not," Hazel says. "I picked this one out earlier, is all. Do you mind? "

"Oh, no, not at all."

George gathers his pack and moves up the aisle to take the last remaining seat, where I hear him introduce himself again with the same question. Unfortunately, the guy he sat next to this time gives an answer I hadn't even considered—"Neither, I hate sci-fi,"—and I cringe at the idea of what the next two and half hours holds for the pair in terms of conversation.

As the driver starts the engine and the bus rumbles into motion, Hazel drops into the seat next to me and treats me to a dazzling smile. Without conscious effort, I note he's still as handsome as my first half-drowned impression led me to believe. His eyes are a brilliant blue framed by dark lashes, and his hair—perfectly tousled—is a fitting hazelnut brown.

Frowning, I ask, "Did you really reserve that seat?"

"Not this one, specifically," he admits amicably. "Just whichever seat was next to you."

Heat creeps up my neck to my face, and I look out the window. "Guess you wanted a quiet ride, then. I told you not to talk to me."

"I know. I wanted to apologize."

"So apologize in writing."

"Okay. Give me your number."

"What?" Surprised, I twist in my seat to look at him. His eyes sparkle with humor.

"So I can text you my apology. My handwriting sucks."

I shake my head, deflating, and turn away again. "Forget it. I overreacted anyway."

"Nah, man I get it. Posting that vid was a shitty thing to do. I just... I don't think things all the way through sometimes, you know? I get excited, and whatever I'm excited about is all I can focus on. I didn't even think about how you might feel. I'm really sorry. Can we start over?"

As far as off-the-cuff apologies go, it isn't terrible.

"Sure," I mumble. "We can start over."

He bumps my shoulder playfully. "Awesome. So, Charlie, what do you like to do besides dig up dead clams and swim in the sea?"

Mildly affronted, I frown, but his grin disarms me. He's teasing, but there's no ill intent behind his words.

"At the moment, not much," I hedge. Admitting that shopping trips with my roommate comprise the entirety of my social life, or that homework, video games, and sleep represent the sum of my daily activities doesn't make for the most thrilling introduction. Most people enjoy talking about themselves, though, and the best way to avoid the topic is to hand the question right back. "What do you do besides surf and rescue people?"

Hazel laughs easily and repeats my words. "At the moment, not much."

Uncertain if he's still teasing or not, my expression twitches towards a frown. Smiling, he elaborates.

"I'm not in school," he says. "Dropped out after one semester. Dad still hasn't forgiven me." He lowers his voice conspiratorially and nods towards the front of the van, where Professor MacDowell sits in the first row behind the driver's seat, deep in conversation with one of his two grad students. "He's still trying to drag me back to the pits of academia."

"Is that why you're here?" I ask.

"Pretty much," he says. "I'm at loose ends, and he figured some hard work would be good for me. Basically, I'm the camp pack mule."

"There are people who would give a lot to be in that seat," I say, blurting the words before I can consider whether accusing him of being ungrateful for an unwanted opportunity is the best exercise of diplomacy.

"Oh, I know it," he says, and winks at me. "Personally, I don't see the appeal in spending a month with my dad. I'd much rather be surfing. But to each their own."

"What do you do for a living?" I ask, attempting to steer the conversation to safer ground.

"I drive for Door Dash to make ends meet," he says. "But what I really want is to—" He stops mid-sentence and winces.

Remembering what he'd said when he showed me the video and why he'd been so excited about the number of views, I take a guess. "You want to be an influencer?"

"Not really an influencer," he says, his voice rising with enthusiasm. "Just a social media personality. I want to showcase surfing, especially. I want to have a business where I teach people how to surf and how to be safe on the waves, too. Swimming in the ocean isn't like swimming in a pool."

"Tell me about it." I offer him a weak, self-deprecating smile.

"You were in a bad spot," he says generously. "In a channel like that, with riptides and everything, the best you can do is try not to panic, which isn't always possible. You did pretty well, given the circumstances."

"I can't swim," I admit. "If you hadn't been there, I'd have drowned."

Hazel's eyes go round as saucers. If I'd claimed that I was from Mars, I don't think he'd have looked more incredulous.

"Dude, we gotta fix that."

"We... do?"

"Sure. We're friends now, right? I can't let a friend go walking around not knowing how to swim. There's this Chinese saying: if you save a life, you're responsible for it. Wouldn't be very responsible of me not to teach you."

All kinds of thoughts flash through my brain—mostly images of Hazel in swim trunks—and the part that handles speech freezes up. Instead of something cool, I go the way of the obnoxious nerd.

"Actually, that's not a real saying. White American radio and film writers made it up back when all they had to do to make something seem 'exotic' was to throw in something 'Asian.' I only know that because my Asian Studies professor mentioned it," I add, in a vain attempt to sound less nerdy—an impossible feat; once you've started a sentence with 'actually,' it's already too late.

"Why'd you take Asian Studies?" Hazel asks, looking at me as if trying to discern something other than European in my features.

"Because I didn't know much about it and I wanted to learn something new. You should try it sometime."

In truth, I took it because Lana was taking it, and it fulfilled one of my general education requirements.

A fleeting expression crosses Hazel's face, there and gone, and I mentally wince as I recognize it as a look of hurt.

Great. Good job, Charlie. Accept the man's apology and then insult his intelligence. Nice.

"I like learning new things," Hazel says, his easy manner inviting me to think I imagined anything else. "But I have a hard time learning the way they teach things in school. Deadlines and homework just stress me out. Then nothing sinks in."

He knocks on the side of his head with his fist, as if to show the thickness of his skull.

Feeling incredibly awkward, I attempt to mitigate the unintended consequences of my thoughtlessness. "Hey, um... I didn't mean..."

The bus accelerates, the rumble of the engine making conversation difficult, and I glance out the window and see we've left campus, traveled through town, and reached the highway already. When I turn back to Hazel, he's got earbuds in and is looking at something on his phone. Loathing my lack of social skills, I do the same, listening to Cannons and promising myself I'll try again when I get the chance.

I don't get one for the rest of the ride, though, and when we arrive at the airport, Hazel is too busy helping arrange our luggage and get everyone where we need to go to spare me a glance. When we board the plane, he sits next to someone else. River, the girl with blue hair, sits next to me and promptly dons a pair of headphones without a word.

As we prepare to take off, Hazel twists in his seat and catches me looking at him. He winks, then goes back to laughing at something with his seatmate. When the other guy turns and looks back at me, too, I can't help wondering if what they're laughing at is me.

I get out my book and do my best to ignore everything else.

It's definitely not the best start to the trip, and I can only hope it gets better from here. The best way to ensure it does, I decide, is to avoid Hazel at all costs.