Page 25 of Seven Days in June

Okay, he was looking less angelic. But now that she was standing in front of him, it was too late to turn back. He peered up at her with mild curiosity and then went back to his book. James Baldwin’sAnother Country.

“Hey,” she said. “Can I sit here?”

Silence.

Before she lost her nerve, she plopped down next to him.

“I’m Genevieve Mercier.” She pronounced itJohn-vee-EV Mare-see-AY.

He frowned at her.

“It’s French.”

He gave her a look likeno shit.

“Is it cool that I’m sitting here?”

“No.”

“Are you an asshole?”

“Oui.”

Social experiment, failed. Genevieve knew better than to equate beauty with perfection. She lived with a former Miss Louisiana who looked pristine but had once dusted their entire apartment with a Neutrogena face wipe.

She still had fifteen minutes until the bell would ring—and in the meantime, the sun was slaughtering her head. Clumsily, she rifled through her backpack and pulled out a palm-sized roller vial of lavender-peppermint essential oil and rubbed it over her temples. It tingled pleasantly.

Then Genevieve noticed he was watching her, his book abandoned.

“I get migraines,” she explained. “It’s so bad, I barely ever move my head. For example, if I want to look to the right, I have to move my whole body. Like this.”

She swiveled from her waist to face him. His expression was cloudy with distrust and confusion.

“Is this a setup? Is someone about to jump me?” His voice was drowsy and bored. “You a dealer? My bad if I owe you money.”

“I look like a dealer to you?”

“I’ve had girl dealers.” He shrugged. “I’m a feminist.”

“I wouldn’t set you up to get jumped. I’d do it myself.”

He checked her petite frame. “You’re the size of a Jolly Rancher.”

“I have a Napoleon complex.”

“Girls can’t have that.”

“Okay,feminist.” Genevieve rolled her eyes, causing a small tornado in her temples. Two girls walked by, glanced up at them, and giggled before scurrying away.

He scowled at her. “Why are you here?”

“I’m trying to make friends,” said Genevieve.

“I don’t have friends.”

“Can’t imagine why.”

“I don’t know what to say to people.” He stuck the eraser end of a pencil into his cast and, in slo-mo, dragged it back and forth. “What do normal people talk about? Prom? Murder Inc.?”

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