was told how amazing it is to have a teacher of his caliber working outside a university. So he wrote a few books, big deal, Genny thinks.
“Cooke is an ass.”
Genny’s eyes blink and she wonders if she said the words aloud. Impossible. It’s not her voice she’s hearing, but his. Deep, even as a whisper. Velvet-smooth as it curls through her ears and calls the little hairs on her neck to attention.
“He’s a brilliant mind,” Genny stutters. “An authority on the Civil War and the South.”
Truman laughs. It moves through his chest like a purr, at least that’s how she hears it.
“That’s your parents talking,” he chides.
Genny’s blush sets her face on fire. She cringes and sinks back into her seat.
“You’re right,” she admits. She avoids looking at him and starts doodling on the cover of her notebook.
“I embarrassed you,” he points out. “Sorry.”
She shakes her head. “I don’t know what I was doing, defending Cooke like that.”
“Good manners,” Truman decides. “Come from a good heart.”
He probably heard that from his parents.
She peers at him from the corner of her eye. Truman’s mouth is set in a grim line.
“He doesn’t deserve your defense,” he explains. “He’s sour, straight through.”
He seems to know a lot, for a new kid, Genny thinks.
“Sometimes it takes a fresh perspective to see things in their true light.”
“How did you do that?” she asks. And so she doesn’t look at him and fall victim to another dose of brain-freeze, she begins rubbing at an ink blot on her desk.
“What?”
“Know what I was thinking,” she says.
“You were frowning,” he explains. “It wasn’t hard to guess.”
But she has the very uncomfortable feeling that he knows her, too. And that’s not possible. Until two days ago, Genny never heard of Truman Lennox. Never even caught a glimpse of him.
But he spoke of her near-miss with the Mercedes as though he should have known beforehand that they would be in that moment together.
Yesterday, in the park, he seemed to know what she was thinking, when she felt totally drown by the rain and by her emotions. “You look fine.” She can hear his words curl through her brain as a whisper. And even that feels intrusive on a level she’s not used to.
Genny has heard about people with extraordinary perception. The TV is filled with shows on that kind of stuff; some of it even looks real.
She doesn’t get the chance to explore the possibility further, though, because Truman snags her attention with her least favorite observation.
“So, you’re Genevieve Vout,” he says. “Of the best pedigree—super model mother, professional athlete father.”
She turns her head and stares directly into his face. Glare is more like it. It has the very opposite effect she was hoping for. Truman tips his head back and laughs. Genny feels the weight in her lips as they thin into a fierce frown, but that just makes him laugh harder and cover his stomach with his hands.
“Great Santa impersonation,” Genny mutters. Her scowl deepens and then she finally looks away.
“Sorry,” Truman says. “Again. But you’re very funny. Most people don’t have a problem looking at me,” he reveals, like she didn’t already know that. “You’re different.”
“ In different,” Genny corrects. And even
“Cooke is an ass.”
Genny’s eyes blink and she wonders if she said the words aloud. Impossible. It’s not her voice she’s hearing, but his. Deep, even as a whisper. Velvet-smooth as it curls through her ears and calls the little hairs on her neck to attention.
“He’s a brilliant mind,” Genny stutters. “An authority on the Civil War and the South.”
Truman laughs. It moves through his chest like a purr, at least that’s how she hears it.
“That’s your parents talking,” he chides.
Genny’s blush sets her face on fire. She cringes and sinks back into her seat.
“You’re right,” she admits. She avoids looking at him and starts doodling on the cover of her notebook.
“I embarrassed you,” he points out. “Sorry.”
She shakes her head. “I don’t know what I was doing, defending Cooke like that.”
“Good manners,” Truman decides. “Come from a good heart.”
He probably heard that from his parents.
She peers at him from the corner of her eye. Truman’s mouth is set in a grim line.
“He doesn’t deserve your defense,” he explains. “He’s sour, straight through.”
He seems to know a lot, for a new kid, Genny thinks.
“Sometimes it takes a fresh perspective to see things in their true light.”
“How did you do that?” she asks. And so she doesn’t look at him and fall victim to another dose of brain-freeze, she begins rubbing at an ink blot on her desk.
“What?”
“Know what I was thinking,” she says.
“You were frowning,” he explains. “It wasn’t hard to guess.”
But she has the very uncomfortable feeling that he knows her, too. And that’s not possible. Until two days ago, Genny never heard of Truman Lennox. Never even caught a glimpse of him.
But he spoke of her near-miss with the Mercedes as though he should have known beforehand that they would be in that moment together.
Yesterday, in the park, he seemed to know what she was thinking, when she felt totally drown by the rain and by her emotions. “You look fine.” She can hear his words curl through her brain as a whisper. And even that feels intrusive on a level she’s not used to.
Genny has heard about people with extraordinary perception. The TV is filled with shows on that kind of stuff; some of it even looks real.
She doesn’t get the chance to explore the possibility further, though, because Truman snags her attention with her least favorite observation.
“So, you’re Genevieve Vout,” he says. “Of the best pedigree—super model mother, professional athlete father.”
She turns her head and stares directly into his face. Glare is more like it. It has the very opposite effect she was hoping for. Truman tips his head back and laughs. Genny feels the weight in her lips as they thin into a fierce frown, but that just makes him laugh harder and cover his stomach with his hands.
“Great Santa impersonation,” Genny mutters. Her scowl deepens and then she finally looks away.
“Sorry,” Truman says. “Again. But you’re very funny. Most people don’t have a problem looking at me,” he reveals, like she didn’t already know that. “You’re different.”
“ In different,” Genny corrects. And even
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