Total pages in book: 77
Estimated words: 76075 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 380(@200wpm)___ 304(@250wpm)___ 254(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 76075 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 380(@200wpm)___ 304(@250wpm)___ 254(@300wpm)
The tall man—Benson—shrugged. “It’s easier to allow them to think what they want than to correct them and be required to explain my situation.”
Hoax grumbled something under his breath and left without another word, leaving the two girls gaping at him as he went.
I snorted in laughter at the look of affront on the girls’ faces. “What, it doesn’t feel good to be called names?”
The two left without another word, and I contemplated asking the man what the hell, but decided if he wanted to talk to me, he would.
Instead, I went back to my book, and got another eight pages in before Benson started to talk.
“I do have Asperger’s. I’m not dumb, though.”
I looked up sharply to see him staring at something over my left shoulder.
I turned around to see if there was anything there, but there wasn’t.
Just a dark back area in the helicopter that I hadn’t had a chance to explore yet.
Turning back around, I said, “Are you talking to me?”
His eyes skittered to my eyes, then immediately looked away. “Yes.”
I nervously started to fiddle with my necklace—a silver star-shaped necklace with fake Swarovski diamonds on it.
His eyes immediately fixated on the necklace.
“Then what did you want?” I asked.
“I wanted nothing. I was explaining myself,” he said.
“I never thought you were dumb,” I told him.
He blinked. “Oh.”
He still hadn’t looked back at me, though.
“And you should stick up for yourself, or they’re going to do that every time they see you,” I said. “That’s incredibly rude of them, but they are members of society. They should act like they’re not assholes, and you should call them on it if they are.”
His mouth twitched. “I’ve found it easier not to say a word when it comes to me. It only invites them to ask questions.”
“And what’s wrong with them asking you questions?” I questioned. “Asking questions is a sign of intelligence. That, and maybe they really are trying to get to know you better.”
He shrugged. “Thanks, Fancy. But I think I’ll just keep to myself like I’ve been doing. It’s worked well for me.”
“Fancy?” I asked, pausing at playing with my necklace as I watched his eyes become more and more fixated. “Did you just call me Fancy?”
Keeping my hand on the star-shape, I waited for him to answer my question.
His eyes followed the movement, now staying fixated not on my hand fiddling with my jewelry anymore, but elsewhere.
In fact, it wasn’t the necklace at all that he was staring at. It was the tattoo on my wrist.
“You have a tattoo,” he said, ignoring my question.
I brought my forearm down and glanced at my wrist.
“I do.”
“I like it,” he admitted. “But aren’t you a little young to be having a tattoo?”
I grinned and said, “Yes. But my father signed a waiver saying I could get it, and it was done by a family friend. My mom about died of a coronary, though.”
“Why’d you get that particular design?” he asked, sounding so interested in the answer that it was hard not to tell him everything.
“We have hummingbirds at our place,” I said. “From about May to October, they’re all over the place. We started feeding them when I was a young girl, and I’ve loved them ever since. I can’t really explain. I just liked it. Why?”
He shrugged, not answering me.
Then the silence continued for long enough for me to pull my e-reader back out and finish the chapter before he spoke again.
“I’m not normal.”
I clicked my e-reader off and looked up at him with a frown. “What do you mean you’re not normal?”
“I’m not normal,” he repeated. “I’m not mentally retarded, however.”
“Let’s not say that word anymore,” I suggested. “And why do you feel like you have to justify yourself?”
He shifted in the darkness and came to lean near the front of the aircraft.
Now, partially out of the shadows, I could make out more of his face and eyes. Though those eyes still wouldn’t meet my own.
Hazel, I decided.
They weren’t completely gray. Or green. More like mostly gray, with a ring of green, and a hint of blue around the pupils.
He had eyelashes that were longer than mine.
And those lips. They were surrounded by a few days’ worth of scruff that came in surprisingly well for how young he was. All the men that I knew that were his age were still trying to be cool and grow beards, but all they ended up growing were little patches of hair here and there that looked scragglier than anything else. Benson didn’t have that problem.
He had a scar on his right eyebrow that ran the length of it, denoting an injury—and likely a pretty bad one—of some kind that was lucky enough to be hidden by his brow.
He had a nose that was crooked, likely due to a break, but other than those two things, he really was quite striking.