Chapter 2 – The Art of Conversation

"I meant what I said and I said what I meant" – Dr. Seuss

The air is sticky. Her hair is loose and clings sweatily to the back of her neck as she sits Indian style on a bench. She blows a smoke ring; it looks carefully crafted, as if she has spent hours perfecting it. Turning the page of her book with the same hand that holds a cigarette, she reads on, while tapping at the cigarette lightly, letting the ash fall. A shadow falls on the ground in front of her, in the shape of a man, but she doesn't look up.

"The Great Gatsby? You don't strike me as the intellectual type."

Still not tearing her eyes away from the page, she replies, "And that doesn't strike me as your run-of-the-mill pick up line, but hey, things aren't always as they seem."

"What makes you think it was a pick up line?"

"Well there was that weird way that you stood, which is how guys stand when they try picking up a girl. And then, of course there was that cocky smirk. No explanations required there."

"What are you, a psychoanalyst? Besides, how do you know I was smirking, you didn't even look up."

Finally, she looks up. To no surprise, she is greeted by a smirk planted on the face of a rather – she must admit – good looking guy. "I'm right anyway. So how does it matter?"

The guy chooses to ignore this last comment, instead sticks out his hand. "Nathan Scott."

She does not return the favour, instead questions, a slight, but still apparent playfulness in her tone, "Now what makes you think I wanted to know that?"

"Most girls do."

"I'm not most girls."

"Yeah, I figured that when I saw you sitting here alone wearing shorts – even though it is November and cold – and reading The Great Gatsby while blasting rock music from your iPod."

"What's wrong with rock music and reading?"

"I just never thought the two went together."

"That's another thing to add to your list of the ways in which you're wrong."

"There's a list?"

"Have you seen yourself? There has to be a list."

For the second time that day, he chooses to ignore her comment. "So now that I've introduced myself ever so politely, aren't you going to?"

"I don't see the need to."

"But I did."

"But I didn't ask you too." However, a few seconds later (and she knows she'll ask herself why later one), she looks him straight in the eye and says, "Haley James."

"And what are you doing here, Haley James?"

"I stole a car and then drove around in it with a bag of marijuana."

"Nice."

"What did you do?"

"Killed a guy."

Haley raises one eyebrow, clearly not convinced.

"Fine, I vandalised a school. I also had a couple of drug dealing stints."

"You got any on you?"

Sarcastically he replies, "Yes because that it the sort of thing they allow in a correctional facility."

"Who says they have to allow it?"

"And there's another thing for me to add to my list about "Haley James: Bad ass". She's a rule breaker."

Haley laughs a little. Her stomach grumbles then, and now it's Nathan's turn to laugh. "Do you want to go to the cafeteria? We can grab a bite to eat. How long before your break ends?"

"I don't start until tomorrow. I only just got here. Besides, I wouldn't want to eat with you anyway."

"Why not?"

"Because I don't really like you." She flashes him a smirk, not unlike his and stands up off the bench. She's almost a foot shorter than him but her body language doesn't belittle her in any sense. She challenges him silently, one eyebrow raised, hands on hips, the whole shebang. When he chooses not to reply, which she has come to realise is his way of subtly giving in, she walks away from him.

"James!" He calls out, not having moved from his earlier position. She stops but doesn't turn back. "I don't like you either."

This time their smirks come simultaneously.