Page 28 of The Hacker
His attempt at diversion hadn’t worked. “Fair is fair. You have to tell me where you went to school.”
Her gaze flicked away and back so quickly that he almost missed it. “Public school all the way. My family lived a couple of towns over from here and the public schools were good there. The regional high school was only okay.”
“Bigger isn’t always better,” he said.
“It was a financial thing for the towns around here,” she said with a shrug. “The property taxes just couldn’t support a local high school. What about Burnes-Fielding?”
“It was a private day school so I didn’t live there.” He’d had to take two buses to get to and from school, leaving at five thirty in the morning and returning home at six thirty in the evening. His mother had seen him off with a brown-bag lunch every morning, but she was often still working one of her three jobs when he got home in the evening.
“Did you have to wear a uniform? I always thought that would be weird.”
“A very ugly tan blazer with the school’s crest on the pocket and an even uglier brown, gold, and maroon tie. Whoever picked the school colors should have been forced to wear them for the rest of their lives.” A memory surfaced of his mother singing along to Spanish pop music on the radio while she ironed the white shirts he had to wear with the god-awful blazer.
Dawn laughed, the music of it surprising him since she didn’t laugh often. “At least you all looked equally terrible in your ugly blazers.”
Yet somehow they hadn’t. The rich boys, most of whom had been at the academy since pre-K, had polo ponies embroidered on their shirt pockets. Some even had their initials sewn onto the cuffs in elegant block letters. Their navy trousers were from Brooks Brothers. His were from the local thrift store. “I added black-rimmed nerd glasses to complete the ensemble, so I earned the worst-dressed prize.” He said it in a light tone, passing off the remembered pain as a joke.
Not light enough, because Dawn reached across the table to touch the back of his hand. “High school is hard on everyone. I was a metal mouth myself. Even worse, I had brothers who called me Train Tracks. On the other hand, they’d beat up anyone else who called me that.”
“How many brothers?”
“Two. And three sisters.” Dawn gave him a slanted smile. “My mother didn’t figure out that the rhythm method doesn’t work until after I was born. Then she wised up.”
“I envy you,” he said. “I’m an only child.” Raised by a hardworking single parent. It had been lonely, so he’d sought companionship within the cyberworld on the school library’s computers. He couldn’t regret it since it had led him to where he was.
“You ready to order?” The server’s question made him start. Neither of them had opened their menus.
He looked at Dawn. “Whatever you recommend. The lasagna?”
She nodded and rattled off a list of Italian dishes while the server scribbled on her order pad and departed.
“That sounds like a lot of food,” he said.
“You’ve earned it.” She gave him a sideways look over the rim of her glass. “I worked you hard this week.”
“So you admit it.”
“I knew you would thrive on a challenge.”
That was gratifying. “I’d like you to continue to train me, even after the data problem is resolved.” When had he made that decision?
Her eyebrows rose. “You’re going to trek out to Jersey on a regular basis?”
“I was hoping you would come to the city,” he improvised. “I’d provide transportation and pay for your travel time.”
She sat back in her chair. “You don’t need to go to so much trouble and expense. There are plenty of excellent trainers in Manhattan. I could even recommend a couple.”
“I’ve tried other trainers.” A lie. “I like your style and I can afford to indulge myself for the benefit of my health.”
“You’ve only worked with me for three sessions so I’m not sure you know my style.”
“Okay, I like you and I trust you.” Odd how true the latter was.
She raised her glass as though toasting him. “Thanks. I like you too. We’ll discuss it once the issues at Work It Out are resolved.”
The server appeared with a large platter and a basket of breadsticks. “Your antipasto.” She looked at Dawn. “Shall I tell you what’s on the plate?”
“No, I’ve got this,” Dawn said. She pushed the platter closer to Leland and began pointing to the various foods artistically arranged on a bed of dark-red radicchio leaves. “Soppressata, olives, fresh mozzarella balls, figs, roasted red peppers, provolone cubes, prosciutto, Genoa salami, artichoke hearts. And don’t miss the breadsticks. They’re the best.” She pulled one from the basket and bit down on it with a crunch, closing her eyes as she chewed.
