He has an accent. It’s kind of Italian, sort of Irish, and not at all Japanese. It’s a mixture of lilting and rolling syllables. It’s almost certainly affected. He’s always about image, even when he isn’t.

He listens to techno, to violent Japanese rock, to seductive Italian pop, to trashy Europop, to horrible indie synthpop, to classical music, baroque period. It all says “I’m eclectic and quirky.” It says “I’m hip without being trendy.” “I’m so much cooler than you that my musical taste doesn’t affect my image in the slightest” is what it really means in his mind, and people pick up on that.

He is cool.

“I prefer Ray,” he says, and grins at me, dark eyes dancing impishly behind the red safety goggles.

“I just said hi,” I respond dryly and adjust my vest.

He just grins.

He’s barely five-and-a-half feet tall, but he acts like he can look down on the world. In a very cheerful way, of course. Because he’s rich, and he’s been all over the world, but that doesn’t make him a snob. Expensive Armani suits and tasteful silk ties don’t make him a snob either, because he gets into cheerful scuffles in the middle of the halls between classes, and outside at lunch, and there’s grass stains on the knees of his slacks when he comes back in.

He wore a tuxedo in the soccer game against John A. High last week, on a dare.

He plays goal.

He didn’t get detention, because he’s cool and he’s charming.

He got detention for something else, the next day.

He holds court in study hall.

He’s not a snob. He’s an idiot.

“You sit behind me in Canadian history,” he says. He’s not looking at me, he’s looking at his gun, turning it over, admiring it. Grinning. “Evans, right?”

“Anne.” I watch him. He still falls under the category of new kid, because St. Faustus doesn’t get new kids very often, especially not in their senior year. He’s the subject of much curiosity on the part of most of the different groups and cliques.

He was dating Alexandra Thorhild last time I heard someone mention him, unless it was Diana Martin.

He said at lunch on Thursday that he plans on becoming student body president. Not running for. Becoming.

He’s used to getting his own way.

“You’re Italian,” I say, since he seems to like conversations that tend toward the obvious.

He must find this funny, because he laughs and grins again. He grins a lot. He has a dimple in his cheek. “Usually,” he says cheerfully, elbows resting on knees. Tossing the gun from one hand to the other. He’s very casual. He’s always very casual, even when he’s coming into class late on his very first day, even when he’s getting into arguments with teachers in the middle of classes, even when he’s being hauled bodily to the principal’s office, he’s casual.

“You don’t seem like the kind of guy who’d hang out here,” is what I want to say, because most St. Faustus boys who dress like he does and come from money have other places to be. “You here by yourself?” I ask instead.

He’s weird, but he doesn’t seem like the kind of guy who’d take a girlfriend out to play laser tag, and he hasn’t really cemented himself in with any of the guys, I don’t think, soccer team or no. They’re all waiting to see if he’s going to get himself expelled within a month.

“Yeah. I like the lights,” he says with an easy shrug.

He’s like a little kid.

“You?”

“I came with some friends.” Sort of. Mark, the computer science genius, except he’s been banned from the school labs for the duration of his education. Andre, who swears to God he isn’t gay and isn’t lusting after Mark. Prudence, who none of us really want around but don’t have the heart to turn away because she’s so hopelessly, stupidly in love with Andre. And Tammy, who really needs to stop hitting on me. It was my turn to pick the Friday afternoon activity.

He makes an exaggerated point of looking around the dark space where we’re both sitting. “Invisible ones?” he asks, and there’s that damn grin again.

“I took them out.” It’s true. Only Mark’s really any good.

He doesn’t ask why I’m just sitting here in the dark, in one of the little narrow spots off the main corridors where you can hide to plan an ambush on the unsuspecting. I don’t ask him either, so I suppose it’s fair. Sometimes, you have the urge to be away from your friends at the weirdest, most inconvenient moments.

“Must be good,” he says, and I shrug. It’s my turn to play vague and uncommunicative, but I’m not as good at it as he is. I don’t have the grin to divert attention.

He stands up, stretches. “You’re the one who’s a genius in maths, right, Anne?” I shrug again, which he takes for a confirmation.

“Awesome.” His grin again, the red and blue lights of the arena reflecting off white, white teeth. He rattles off his phone number, high speed. “Call me,” he says cheerfully, and fires.