American history 101 started at 9:00 in the morning, necessitating a quick breakfast of his now familiar bread and honey and a rapid shower and shave. Marco slipped into his jeans, blue t-shirt and warm grey sweater and left the building, pausing before the signpost to search for the Art Building, which was supposedly directly on the way to the group of lecture theatres. He found the Art Building easily enough but spent a few minutes wandering the various lecture theatres admiring their floor to ceiling glass windows before discovering his own.

A crowd of students stood outside, shivering in the breeze, a few of them rubbing their eyes. Several of them appeared well acquainted, chatting about mutual friends. Groups of young men stood around, most of them discussing the previous afternoon's game. Marco stood a little way from them, overcome by shyness. It appeared they all had far better clothes than he wore and exuded a confidence he was unable to share. They were at home despite it being their first day, secure in their groups. He stood alone, the only foreigner in the crowd.

Five minutes after the lecture was scheduled to begin a professor appeared in a great hurry, unlocking the door and motioning them in. The cheerful students hastened to the front, opening notepads and pencil cases while he grabbed a seat in the back row praying no one would notice him. His heart thumped wildly in his ribcage, not helped by the professor's delivery of his first ever lecture in English. Whilst the quality of what he could hear was outstanding, the professor's delivery of it was dismal. He mumbled, turning his back unexpectedly to write something on the board in the middle of a sentence, rubbing it off before the end, whilst interrupting himself with another rambling thought. Marco's brain span, his high school English pushed to its limit. This is not working at all, Almeida. It's your fault too, they all warned you. They told you it would be a real nightmare trying to study in English and you ignored all of them! Serves you right! The lecture continued, Marco taking frantic notes from the points he understood, stressed to the point of considering purchasing a ticket home that evening when the door opened silently and a latecomer slid inside. His mouth fell open as he stared at her before he recalled his manners and shut it in a hurry.

Never, anywhere in his life had he seen a more gorgeous girl, he was certain of it. Long dark hair hung down to her waist, slightly wavy at the tip, accentuating her pale pink dress with its mini skirt. A black necklace brought out the almond shaped eyes, glittering dark brown as she glanced around guiltily. Frozen to his seat he gaped at her, cursing himself for his inability to smile and pat the seat beside him as any of his brothers would have done. 'Oh God, please,' he prayed silently, unable to complete his dearest wish. Get a grip, Almeida. Why in the world would anyone that beautiful want to sit anywhere near you? Stop dreaming! 'I'm sorry,' he finished his incomplete prayer regretfully. 'I had no right to beg. The days of miracles are long over.'

It appeared they were not. The girl looked towards the front and decided against attracting attention to her late arrival, electing to slide unnoticed into the back row instead. 'Is anyone sitting here?' she asked, her whisper rich and husky. It took him a few moments to emerge from his trance enough to shake his head.

She settled, laying her books on the table. 'Rita Torres,' she said, throwing him a warm smile. 'Am I late?'

Marco wasn't sure what he answered though he spent the rest of his life attempting to recall it, but it satisfied her. Smiling warmly she bent her head closer to his, the scent of her perfume drifting over to him. 'I'm always a little late,' she confessed merrily. 'Always have been. I get that from my father, I expect.' He watched her enchanted, a smile creeping over his own face while he offered up a rapid prayer of thanks. Say something to her, Almeida! She's talking to you. She'll leave if you sit there like a donkey. Try as he might he was unable to formulate the simplest sentence.

It appeared Rita accepted his silence as normal. 'You're the sort who gets to an appointment ten minutes early, I expect,' she continued cheerfully. 'I can tell just by looking at you. You remind me of my cousin, he's always on time for everything. Not that he was that way when he was little, of course, but they taught him punctuality in the army. My brother usually gets to places on time too; it's only me who just can't get her act together. Why are you smiling like that?' she asked, stopping her chatter to fix him with a curious gaze.

'You're very beautiful,' he whispered, blushing furiously the moment the words left his mouth. You're a fool, Almeida. They've been telling you so for years, and they were right. He cursed himself, wishing he were more like his brothers.

'Did you just say I was beautiful?' the girl questioned, blushing a rosier shade than her dress.

He nodded. 'Sí, I did. I'm sorry; I didn't mean to offend you.'

'You didn't offend me,' Rita assured him, her cheeks turning darker. 'Do you say that to every girl?'

Horrified, he shook his head. 'No. I don't usually speak much to girls, apart from my cousins, of course.' He chewed his lower lip, expecting a scornful laugh. Once a full minute had passed without it he raised his eyes, noting her examining him.

'You know, it sounds crazy but I believe it,' she said, surprised herself at the startling way her throat constricted when he threw her that hopeful look. For the briefest moment she imagined slipping an arm around him before she told herself off sternly. Get a grip, Rita! What kinda person are you anyway? You just met the guy and you're already imagining what his kiss would be like. She chewed her own lip, examining the table in her turn. The silence stretched while Marco frantically cast his mind around a suitable reply. Realizing that he would fail to speak, she threw him an inquisitive look. 'So why didn't you speak to girls? Where were you hiding?'

'I wasn't hiding,' he replied, stealing a glance at her from the corner of his eyes to make certain she was not mocking him. 'I went to a boys' boarding school and then the army. We were along the border in southern Mexico.' He fell silent, wishing he could sound more entertaining.

'A boarding school,' she echoed, surprised. 'Is your family very rich?'

He shook his head in a hurry. 'Not really. They have a farm in a very small village and there was no school beyond the seventh grade. My brother and I went to a school in Chihuahua during the week and we went home on the weekends. My father came to collect us.' He swallowed hurriedly as the memory of his father's arrival twisted his heart. You're a long way from home, Almeida.

Rita appeared to sense his distress for she asked him how many people he knew in Chicago, startled to hear he was alone. Kind hearted by nature she pitied the young man who struggled so obviously against loneliness. She stole another quick look at his face, seizing up his wavy dark hair, his suntanned face and intelligent dark eyes, reading a deep calmness within them. He was a steady young man, obviously used to helping his family at home. She was in luck, with the struggle he exhibited putting two words together while staring at her openly, she could be certain he had no previous girlfriends. Somehow that last observation reassured her – the thought of anther girl claiming her new friend enough to tighten her hands into fists. 'So why did you pick Chicago?' she asked.

'I always wanted to come here. It's the first city to build high rises,' he explained, warming to his topic. 'I applied and got a scholarship, so I came after I completed my national service.'

'You like high rises?' she asked amazed. 'What are you studying, anyway?'

'Architecture,' he replied, and she nodded. She had judged him correctly, he was indeed intelligent. Very intelligent too, if he had won a scholarship – a world away from her own poor grades which barely got a her place at all.

The professor's annoyed glance cut their conversation off as they bent guiltily over their notes. With a pang of dismay he realized the lecture was now half over and he had little idea of its contents. Listening closely he struggled to comprehend the remainder of it, giving up in despair. 'I don't understand that man at all,' he admitted, shaking his head. 'I should go home; it's too hard to think in English.'

An alarmed look crossed Rita's face as she collected her notebook. 'You gotta be kidding!' she cried. 'You can't just run out on a scholarship.'

Marco blushed, collecting his own things. 'I know. It would be a terrible thing to do. Someone else could have taken my place, but maybe if I quit now they can still start.'

Rita gazed at him in gathering dismay. The most handsome man she had ever spoken to in her entire life was about to pack his bags and flee back over the border before she could get to know him, all because of that dismal lecture by that incompetent professor. Longing to wring his neck as he left the auditorium, she turned to the Mexican instead, taking his hand. 'You can't quit just like that. That guy was pathetic, nobody understood him. I'll listen real hard next week and take notes and share them with you. It'll get easier, you know, as you practice,' she said in a rush, her cheeks turning scarlet again.

Marco squeezed her hand gently, his heart warmed by her words. 'You really think so?' he asked, longing to hear her speak a few more sentences to him before she joined the group so clearly waiting for her and left him alone.

'I know it,' she insisted. 'Hey, what are you doing now?'

He shrugged. 'I'll read through the course book and take my own notes,' he said quietly. 'And I must go to the tax department and get a number after lunch.'

'I'll take you,' she decided, equally reluctant to part company and hunt the campus hoping to run into him by chance for an entire week.

'Are you sure?' he asked eagerly, delighted at the chance to spend a little more time with her. 'It's not a very exciting place.'

'I'll take you to see my favorite spot right afterwards,' she decided. 'You haven't got anything else on today, have you?'

'Not until 7:30,' he told her.

'Great. I'll pick you up around one, then,' she said, waving to him as she joined her friends, her curiosity peaked. She longed to hear where a stranger who had been in her city only two days had to be at 7:30 on a Wednesday after he had just finished telling her he knew no one.

The question bothered her during lunch as she picked through her food struggling to concentrate on her mother's conversation.

Catalina Torres studied her only daughter in blatant disapproval, a familiar frown on her face. It was obvious that the girl had met someone, the way her face flushed unexpectedly at the strangest places in the conversation, the dreamy expression on her face telling her she was right. She determined to discover his identity by whatever means it took, determined her daughter would marry Javier Palma, son of her dearest and much envied friend, each of whose properties was worth more than her own expensive house. Rita would marry Javier in a year or so, she would see to it. She had, after all, decided on the union several years ago, and nothing would thwart her plans!

'Did you have a nice day, sweetheart?' she questioned.

Rita nodded, explaining her history lecture to her parents. The subject was harder than she had thought; she would need to spend the afternoon back in the library if she had a hope of passing the course. Her father nodded, his mind on his coin collection. Antenna tuned to the lie her mother watched her, determined to call a few of her friends whose daughters had just started at UIC to see what they could discover.

Marco returned to his room, relieved to discover it free of Pale Eyes and settled down on his bed, pillow behind his back. Idly he flipped his history reader open, his mind lodged firmly in the present – the future too, if he was absolutely honest. Rita Torres was going to accompany him to the taxation department! Rita Torres. He ran the name over his tongue slowly, loving each individual syllable.

Swallowing, his eyes skimmed the first page and the second, his mind far removed from the Declaration of Independence. He struggled to picture her in his mind – five foot three, slightly short but with a personality that would help her stand out in any gathering. Cheerful, talkative, and with a flash of temper, she would make his life in Chicago interesting. Let's face it, Almeida. You're an awfully boring kind of guy. Your idea of fun is to wander the streets alone searching for unusual buildings that capture your imagination and design them at home. It's time you met a girl…He wondered briefly what his parents would think of her dress before he shrugged the thought aside. She was young and this was Chicago, and it suited her to perfection. Without remembering a single point he turned the third page, instinctively numbering the main points. Shocked, he stared at his little finger held before his face, unable to recall a single thing. Get a grip, Almeida, he ordered himself sternly. This really won't do. So you met a gorgeous girl. So she likes you. You've still gotta concentrate and pass your subjects, and you're going to have a battle on your hands if all lecturers speak like that one did. Concentrate on your studies; it'll hurt less when she'll leave you. She WILL leave you, you should know that. She's real beautiful and she's pretty wealthy. Enjoy the friendship while it lasts.

By 11:00 he gave up the futile attempt at concentration, eating some more pieces of bread with honey. Unable to settle, he went for a walk around the university, relieved to feel a warm sunshine. The previous days' icy wind had disappeared and he removed his sweater for the first time since he entered the States, welcoming the sun on his skin. It appeared the birds sang louder and the leaves turned brighter as he strolled the grounds dreaming about her.

'Ready?' she questioned as he reached the deserted lecture theatre at the appointed time.

He nodded, smiling at her. 'You got here early!'

She blushed, turning away to stare at the buildings behind her. 'Traffic was pretty good. You got your passport with your visa?'

Marco nodded, withdrawing it from his pocket. Eager fingers took it from him, examining his details with interest. 'Marco Tomas Antonio Almeida,' she read, impressed. 'That goes well together. Are you named after anyone in particular?'

'Sí. My father is Tomas, and my eldest brother was Antonio. He got a fever when he was a baby and died…My parents say I look exactly like him. Mama wanted to name me Antonio, but Papa said it was bad luck.' He studied her from the corner of his eyes, pleased to see her nod.

'Very bad luck,' she agreed. 'One sibling should never be named after another.' She kept up with him as he moved through the grounds at the pace of a forced march, slowing once he realized she was panting. 'Isn't your mother worried about bad luck?' she questioned, determined to discover everything about him.

'My mother is Spanish,' Marco explained, pausing to pretend to examine a building, waiting for her to catch her breath. She walks real fast, for a woman. She'd walk lot faster too, were she to stop talking. Watching her take a few deep breaths he hoped she would talk all afternoon.

'My family's all Spanish too, but we do believe in bad luck,' Rita told him.

'Mama doesn't,' Marco told her, amused. 'My father is real traditional though. He looks at the sky and can tell you exactly what the weather will be, and he offends no one. They're complete opposites.'

'Usually works well that way,' Rita said, considering how different he was from her, good at all subjects she barely passed. 'That's my car.' She unlocked her door and he climbed into an Impala, narrowing his eyes. 'It was a present from my father for getting into UIC by one point,' she explained, seeing his expression.

Marco nodded as though it were the most natural thing in the world to present a child with an expensive vehicle as a gift. These people are loaded, Almeida! She certainly won't want to spend time with you for long. You shouldn't allow yourself to love her, it's wrong. He averted his eyes, watching the traffic.

Rita cast him a few questioning glances, wishing she knew what he was thinking about. He had fallen silent as the car started up, barely looking her way. 'Did I say anything?' she asked worriedly.

Marco stared at her, shaking his head. 'No. Do we have to go far?' he asked, scolding himself for his poor manners.

'Not too far,' she replied, grinning at him in relief. 'I thought for a moment you hated my car,' she said in a rush. 'Dammit!' She pressed the horn, glaring at a driver that had attempted to cut in the lane ahead of her. 'Just watch it, mister. I'll ram you!'

Marco's eyes widened as she inched forward deftly, cutting the other driver off. She's certainly got spirit, this one! He grinned at her outraged face in amusement. 'Isn't it us men who are supposed to be aggressive drivers?' he inquired, noting her eyes flash in his direction.

'You haven't seen aggressive yet,' she assured him, eyeing the other driver with satisfaction. 'Just stay in your lane!'

He followed her into the tax department slightly awed by its size, noting the crowd of people sitting on sofas, the handful of whining children and a few frustrated women pacing the floor. Looks like they've been here quite a while, Almeida. He turned to his friend to tell her she had better leave, only to discover she had moved over to a counter, pulling a number.

'You're I 407,' she explained, handing it to him. 'It will flash up on that screen.'

He nodded gratefully. 'Thanks. Listen, Rita, this place is real busy right now. I'll be okay by myself.'

The number on the screen changed, I 198. Marco groaned faintly, foreseeing an afternoon of pacing. 'Gee, they're busy today,' Rita commented. 'Well, we're not waiting around for that! I'll take you to my favorite spot and we'll have some lunch, or the sandwiches will cook, and we'll get back!'

Marco stared at her in amazement. 'I really need this number today,' he said hesitantly. 'I can't afford to miss my place in the line.'

'You won't,' she assured him, marching boldly up to the counter labeled 'Inquiries'. 'How long is the wait today?' she asked, smiling sweetly at a middle aged man. 'Honest truth, now!'

'Around two and a half hours, miss. It's tax return time, half the city wants to ask something…'

'Thanks, we'll come back later,' she said, grabbing Marco by the arm. 'Let's go, we got plenty of time.'

'But…'

'Look, I'll get you that number if we do miss it, don't you worry,' she assured him confidently. Without waiting for further protests she tightened her grip, dragging him back through the door. 'Don't worry. We're going on a picnic!'

Marco nodded, aware protest would be futile. 'Sí. Why not?'