Page 62 of Eye of the Beholder
Ah. Right.
I hesitate and then say the only thing that comes to my mind. “I don’t know what to say to that.”
He shrugs, his grin widening. “It’s all right. All women find themselves drawn to me. It’s a burden, really.”
I bite my lower lip to keep myself from smiling. “I don’t think that’s true atall. And now I’d rather talk about reading comprehension than have this conversation with you.”
***
Overall he does well on the reading. We go through several passages together, identifying topic sentences and whatnot, and I do my best to keep my distance from him, because he’s strangely distracting. I end up having to lean awkwardly over his shoulder in a way that sort of hurts my back—close enough that I can see what he’s doing and point things out but far enough that I’m not pressed up against him. It would easier if he had another chair in his room, but he doesn’t.
“That’s good,” I say, finally straightening up and massaging my lower back. “That’s really good. I think you’ve mostly got it. I’m leaving you with homework, though.”
Cohen puts his pencil down and leans back in the chair as he swivels to face me. “I already have homework.”
“Now you have more,” I say, smiling sweetly at him.
He grins at me. “You’re mean.” He shifts in his chair and then says, “Okay. Do you want to talk to Lydia now, or do you want to do my lesson first? Choose carefully. You will not like either one.”
I narrow my eyes at him. “I’m afraid to ask.”
“Mine it is,” he says. He reaches for his computer in the corner of his desk. He opens it, and I try not to look too interested. But you can tell a lot about a person by what they have as their desktop picture.
“Blue?” I say when I see it. “That’s it? Your desktop is blue?”
He shrugs, pulling open his browser. “I like blue. What did you expect?”
“I don’t know,” I say. “Something more interesting. Or something like a bunch of football players.”
“Speaking of football,” he says, looking sideways at me. “Jack likes sports. So we’re going to teach you how to talk about football.”
“Ew. No,” I say, shaking my head. “No sports.”
No man is worth that.
“I thought you would protest,” he says with a smile. “So I was going to tempt you with chocolate.” And he pulls a chocolate bar out of the top drawer of his desk.
“That is a low blow,” I say. “I will not go along with whatever you say just for a chocolate bar.”
But I haven’t eaten since lunch, and I want that chocolate.
“You’re not going along with ‘whatever I say.’ You’re just letting me explain football a little bit. And the chocolate is to make you happy where you would otherwise be grumpy about it.”
Realistically, as much as I protest, I would do the football thing anyway. Anything to increase my database of potential conversation topics. But since he’s offering, I may as well milk it…
“Two,” I say.
“Two?” he says, frowning.
“Two chocolate bars.” I take the one he’s offering, and he looks startled as I snatch it out of his hands. “You can give me another one tomorrow. And yes, if youinsist, you may make it king size.”
He looks at me for a second and then starts to laugh. He holds up his hands as if in surrender. “A king-sized chocolate bar will come your way tomorrow. Now,” he says, gesturing to his bed. “Football.”
He sits cross-legged in the middle of his bed and puts the laptop down in front of him. I settle next to him, unwrapping the candy bar.
He eyes it. “Are you going to share any of that?”
I snort. “Definitely not. Get your own.”
