I started eating, watching him carefully. He was staring, blank astonishment was the only expression on his face. The pain was still there, but it seemed more distant now, safer. I began talking again, “So, what’s your next hour?”
He didn’t answer. I went for a different tactic, “Mine’s PreCalc, not my best subject.”
His brow furrowed slightly, I wondered what he was thinking. The look didn’t seem pained so I continued talking about myself, “So, as you know, I’m from Florida…”
Bingo. He’d flinched. This was worse than I’d expected. I’d been collecting information about him all morning. Cynthia came here from Florida, died seven months ago, had black hair, an alcoholic dad, and had lived in 13 states. He was living with his single mom, his dad was a police officer in the area, and his best friend used to be George. I say used to be because Drew didn’t talk much anymore. People had given up trying. I also knew that he was never seen without his iPod. I decided to get the pretenses out of the way.