The Watchers by Lynnie Purcell Page A

willing to forgive them, because the
‘why’ behind the act was good….I like to imagine all the possible
‘whys’ before I leap to a conclusion. I think it helps me not judge
too hastily when someone does something I don’t like. Now,” I
raised an eyebrow at him, “will you tell me why you are asking?”
    He smiled and looked down at his hands. He
had stopped tapping. “I was wondering where you stood, if you’d
thought about it at all.”
    “That’s a peculiar way to initiate a
conversation, don’t you think?”
    “Should I have started with the old, ‘if a
tree fell in the forest,’ routine? Would that have been
better?”
    I made a face at him. “Why you would ask a
question like that at all is the puzzle, I think.”
    “Yes, why was the question.” His eyes danced with mine
playfully. “Can’t a guy just be curious?”
    I gave him another mocking look, trying to
follow his shifting moods.
    “Oh, I get it. A guy can’t be curious, or
think about philosophical things, if he’s a football player. We’re
too stupid.”
    I rolled my eyes at his assumption. I had
been thinking more along the lines that people didn’t ask something
like that unless they had an agenda.
    “Yep. You guys are too stupid, and live too
much in the present, to be truly deep. All that beer chugging and
grunting gets in the way.”
    “So, what, you think you’re deeper than me,
because you look like you just stepped out of a Nine Inch Nails
concert?”
    “I prefer Black Sabbath. And no, I think I’m
deeper than you, because I don’t expect people to kiss my ass.”
    He actually laughed; a real laugh. I could
tell from the way it reached his eyes. “I don’t expect people to
kiss my ass!”
    “Whether you expect it or not, they obviously
do,” I replied.
    “What’s that supposed to mean?”
    I pointed to the girls looking at him with
dreamboat eyes, my face sarcastic. He turned back to me, his face
wry. “Point taken.” He appraised me for a moment. “You’re kind of
contentious, aren’t you?”
    “No.” I sighed uncertainly, swiveling my head
in my hand. “Maybe. Being contentious is better than being everyone
else.”
    “True…I think.”
    I looked away from his strange eyes, wanting
some relative clarity in order to think over our conversation. He
had an easy-going familiarity I felt was partly an act but partly
not. I could tell he knew how to talk to people, to make them see
what he wanted them to see, but I could also tell he thought about
things seriously. It drew me out and reeled me in, fascinating me
more than I was willing to admit. I had never met a stranger so
capable of doing that to me. But what was real? The sarcasm or the
side which thought seriously about things?
    Mrs. Heart started her lesson on Shakespeare
then, on a play I had already studied, ending our conversation. My
mind wandered as she lectured, and I glanced over at Daniel,
wanting to look at his face, to puzzle out his mystery, his
questions, and was surprised to see that he was looking back at me.
His head was in his hand, mirroring me, except that he was tapping
impatiently on the desk again. As our eyes connected, he shifted
his attention back to the front but not before he gave me a look
that was both mocking and smug. I frowned at the side of his face I
could see, not able to follow his shifting and contradicting
actions. One second he was angry, because I had beat him in some
stupid tennis game, the next he was asking philosophical questions
and staring at me like he’d never seen a girl with punk hair
before. I focused again, trying to hear anything from him, even a
thought of what he was going to have for dinner. I shifted through
all the thoughts slowly, taking my time, so I wouldn’t miss
anything, but still…nothing. Where was he?
    I scowled at Mrs. Heart as she started
questioning the class, my confusion making me irritable. She called
on me after a moment of questions, to get a feel for what I had
learned in