Chapter 4

We packed our things, and I broke up the modular tiles I'd used to map out the dungeon on the table. We returned those, and everything else we'd used, to its place.

There was a steakhouse nearby, and that's where we usually ate lunch on Saturdays. The food was excellent, the portions generous and the help was polite. Mostly college kids, rather than high school brats. Thinking of my calling them 'kids', at my venerable age of sixteen, brought a brief smile to my face.

Everyone noticed how quiet I was. They were chattering away at each other, the usual catching up, in which I normally participated. Chris was also quiet, and I noticed her stealing glances at me. It was sweet, really.

But I wasn't brooding over Chris. I was thinking of what she'd said. She might have been just fifteen, but I was the last person to look down upon mere youth. That redhead was certainly perceptive. I'd noticed it over the year and something since her father brought her into the group. She didn't miss much. Unlike me... if she really had a crush on me, I'd been completely clueless. That was a very bad sign, but it wouldn't surprise me. I was generally clueless where anything female was concerned.

It wasn't that lack of perception that had me thinking so hard. It was what she'd said — 'You never just ask something. There's always a purpose.'

Was it true? Did Chris have it right? I knew I was selfish. Hell, in many cases I made deliberately selfish choices. Essentially, it was mostly true. I did not like small talk. I didn't... perhaps I was misconstruing her intent.

I went through the meal like an automaton.

"Mr. Reeves," someone said. "Logan!" I looked up. Everyone was laughing, and even Chris was grinning widely.

"Hey! Nobody calls me mister outside of class," I said, and felt even sillier.

"Do you have an extra helmet?" Matt asked.

"Yes," I replied, puzzled, "always".

"Good," he smiled suddenly, "you and Chris need to talk. Bring her home later. And drive carefully. Go on you two," he waved, "shoo. A good thing I know you're not the suicidal type," he added, which translated as 'don't you even think about harming a hair on her head'.

Chris, mortified and very red, kicked him in the shin and ran off. I nodded and ran after her.

She didn't run very far. She just stood in front of a clothing store's display staring into the glass, hugging herself.

I touched her lightly on the shoulder and said, "Ice cream?"

She swiveled, stared at me wild eyed and grunted, "Huh?"

"Hindeed. Ice cream. My treat," I pointed at the counter, five meters away. "What's your favorite flavor?"

"Oh," she breathed out sharply, doing interesting things to her chest. "I like cherry," she licked her lips suggestively. Or maybe I was imagining things. Her face had regained its liveliness, and she was smiling. So whatever she was so angry or conflicted about, it probably had little or nothing to do with me.

"I favor lemon, myself," I took her by the arm and led her over to the counter, and we picked our cones. I left a twenty, waving away the change.

"You know," she giggled suddenly, "who's going to pay for the meal over there?" she pointed at the steakhouse, "it always goes on your credit card. They'll end up bickering for hours, each one trying to pick up the tab," she laughed, and I joined her. I tried not to laugh out loud too much. I usually sounded like a braying donkey, and Lee for one never failed to remark on it. I'd actually practiced laughing in private. Now that was really pathetic, though it did work — when I remembered to do it right.

But she was right, and the thought was amusing. I'd never had to be cheap about the little things, and since I had my own money now, and lots of it, it was probably even more pronounced. When I was present, I usually picked up the tab.

We sat and ate our ice cream, nibbled, licked and bit in comfortable silence, exchanging looks.

"You were thinking," she broke the ice. "We could all see the cogs turning and twisting. I could almost hear them spinning. Care to talk about it?" she asked carefully.

"Yes. In fact, that's what I wanted to do, talk about it with you. It's about what you said, remember?" I asked.

She blinked in confusion, "What I said? What do you mean?"

"You never just ask something. There's always a purpose," I repeated, trying to mimic her voice and failing miserably. "What did you mean by that?"

"I... uh," she bit her lip and stopped to think for a moment. "I meant exactly what I said, literally. It's like... you exude purpose. Everything you do is so... so precise. Not machine-like, that's not what I mean, but, well, I think you could call it 'sharp'. There's an edge, and it never goes away. People notice. You're always on, well, unless you're thinking deep thoughts," she giggled nervously. "You're so perfectly proper, it's like you ingested the 'guide to polite society'. The way you talk, it's like something out of a book. You use words nobody else does. I mean, did you hear what you said to that poor guy at the counter when you asked for ice cream? 'I'd like to purchase a pair of cones, ' for god's sake. I mean, really Logan, who the fuck uses the word 'purchase'?"

She stared at me for a moment. "The guy looked lost for a moment. He just didn't understand you. You're like a sixty year old sometimes, not sixteen. It's frightening. You're almost alien."

"Do I frighten you?" I asked, with the same measure of care she had earlier, when she'd questioned me about my 'deep thoughts'.

"No, not really. I mean, not unless I was standing between you and something you really wanted," she laughed nervously and reddened. "I mean, look, I've known you for more than a year. You're always the supreme hero. Your characters, I'm not sure if you noticed, have nothing evil or really negative about them, and they're always willing to stand up for their convictions, kill and die for them. You're like, so upright," she raised an eyebrow, asking if I got it.

She was right, but it wasn't something that came about accidentally. It was a conscious choice.

I returned a nod. "Yes, I see what you mean. But what about you, what do you think and feel about this? I mean, I asked you out because I was thinking of girls, and I noticed all of a sudden that there was a pretty girl I could talk to about something other than the weather right there, someone I liked. With me, decision and action go hand in hand. If you're not interested in an alien... you know the old saying?"

"What's that?" she jumped on the question, "what old saying?"

"A woman marries a man and expects to change him, a man marries a woman and expects her to never change. I don't think I'll be changing any time soon, not in any way you'd consider 'normal'. Do you see?" I said softly.

"See? What are you trying to say? Marriage?" she seemed confused.

"I'm giving you an opportunity to bow out," I explained. "I'm interested in you, and if you don't feel the same, you really don't have to waste Monday evening. I understand that with everyone there, you were under a lot of pressure."

Boy, but was I smooth. At least I didn't mention that the pressure was all her fault... which it probably wasn't.

"No! That's not what I meant," she stumbled over the words, "you're not weird in any sort of bad way. The guys at school are like... , well, you know. Assholes. Do you have any idea what sort of compliment is an 'I like you' from you? That you think I'm smart? Even dad looks at you as something special. I mean, he works for your dad, and I've heard more out of him about you than about Alex. Asking me out, you've just made his bloody year!" she exclaimed.

"And that is exactly what I meant when I said pressure. I'm not trying to date your father," I smiled, "and you forgot the beautiful part."

"Yeah, right," she frowned, "beautiful. I'm fatter than Miss Piggy," she spat out.

"More like a cow," I deadpanned, looked very deliberately at her tits, "I mean, you'd give Bill some serious competition in the weight department."

Her eyes went really wide and her mouth opened yet wider. "Why you..."

I ducked aside, dodging the remnants of the cone. I was splattered with a few droplets of cherry juice, but I'd survive. The shirt might not.

"Just kidding! Mercy!" I clasped my arms around my head to protect it, "Just trying to be agreeable! Less alien, more asshole..." I peeked from between my arms, and while she hadn't tried to hit me or throw anything else, she was frowning quite darkly. Obviously, jokes about her weight were not welcome. I really should have figured that out on my own. I'd managed to mess things up, as usual.

I let my arms down, and looked at her. "I'd like to apologize, and I promise that I'll never joke about your weight again. I do, however, wish to offer you a bet — and please believe, I'm perfectly serious. Will you listen and think about it, seriously?"

Her frown deepened. I enjoy betting, and I always bet on sure things. I'm pretty sure she'd noticed that I never lost a bet.

"I'll listen," she pursed her lips and leaned back, obviously distancing herself.

"What would you consider your ideal weight? What do you want to weigh?"

I couldn't believe the number she gave me. Did she want to die? What bitch was digging sharpened heels into her back, tormenting her about her weight? She wasn't anywhere near fat.

"Impossible," I spat out. "If you were a meter thirty tall, that would make you thin. For... how tall are you, exactly?"

She started at the ferocity of my response, and replied without thinking, "One sixty four. So tell me, oh learned one, what is my ideal weight?"

I pulled out the laptop, and checked for a connection. Goodness praise, there was a net to connect to. She was laughing, low rippling sounds of amusement, which was ever so much better. Even if she was laughing at me.

The first five sites I found were all in inches, lbs. and feet, so I went to onlineconversion. com, and we had to measure the elbow breadth to learn that she was medium frame. She was ticklish, so it left her giggling. All the better.