Page 41 of Switch!
Sarah peers at me. “Are you religious?”
“Not particularly. You?”
“Nope. Not at all. In fact, I’m an atheist.”
I can tell she’s waiting for a reaction. I’m not sure what it should be so I simply respond with, “Cool.”
She stares at me for so long that I have to extend an arm to stop her from running into a lamppost. “Thanks,” she says. “You’re difficult to get a read on.”
“Then stop guessing and start asking,” I say. “The only catch is that we both have to answer. No dodging questions.”
We take turns learning the basics about each other as we continue walking. I tell her where I’m from and find out that she’s always lived in Tacoma. We both prefer TV series to movies. She likes cats, I’d rather have a dog. When she says she intends to become a teacher, I admit that I’m not sure what I want to do.
“Are you in school?” she asks.
“Of course. Aren’t you?”
“Yeah. I go to UDub.”
I shake my head. “What’s that?”
“That’s what locals call the University of Washington. It’s easier than saying you-double-you.”
We need to cross another street to reach the park, but my hand misses the crosswalk signal in my surprise. “Wait, you’re in college?”
“Yes. I assumed that you are too.”
“Sure!” I say, scratching the back of my head sheepishly. “Although it’s more like pre-college. Umm.”
Sarah’s eyes go wide. “You mean high school?”
I muster up all the wit at my disposal and reply with a suave, “Ha ha ha! Er…”
Her mouth falls open. Then it snaps shut again. “Next question. How old are you?”
“Twenty-seven,” I say, making my voice even deeper.
“Seriously.”
The light has turned green, so I nod at it and resume walking. “How old do I look?”
“I don’t know. Twenty. Twenty-one maybe.”
“Close enough.”
Sarah stops in the middle of the road and crosses her arms. “Tell me!”
I spin around to face her. “I’m seventeen.”
“Seventeen?” she cries.
“Yes. And that means I’m old enough to know how a road should be crossed. Come on.”
She follows me to the other side of the intersection. “Seventeen,” she repeats.
“If it helps, I turn eighteen in August.”
“Two years difference is better than three,” she murmurs. “Still…”
