Greg stretched out his legs and ignored the glare he received from the counter girl. He'd appropriated a table in the Commons without buying anything, a cardinal sin in a place this crowded.

She'll be here soon. Bramble was an early riser. No doubt she'd already put in two hours of practice and another hour of study. That it was Sunday morning would make no difference to her; she always came here for a cup of weak coffee and an hour or two of reading.

It was two weeks since the fuckup in Toledo. In that time Bramble had retreated into her routine so far she was almost invisible. He hadn't tried to talk to her, but maybe by now she'd relaxed enough to at least listen to him. He felt an irrational urge to explain himself, and that bothered him. If he ambushed her here he could get it done and over with and everything would go back to normal.

She came in a few minutes later, bundled in a thick sweater and jeans under her shabby jacket, a couple of books tucked in the crook of her arm. She looked tired, but when she stepped up to the counter she chatted with the girl and smiled a little, polite as always. Greg slipped into line behind her as she started to order.

"I'll have whatever she's having." He filled his words with plenty of fake cheerfulness. To her credit, Bramble didn't so much as cringe. The counter girl glanced from him to her.

"Is that okay?"

For answer Bramble handed her a five and gave a single nod. The girl shot him another glance, shrugged and went off to get the coffees.

"I've got a table in the corner. You can hide there if you like," Greg announced. No reaction. "The silent treatment won't work with me, by the way."

The counter girl returned. "Two coffees." She set them down and offered his quarry a small sympathetic smile.

They sat at the table he'd chosen, and talked—well, he talked. "Crandall's still pissed at me but he'll come around. The ex split for Buffalo. One of her girlfriends said the bitch has a bench warrant out for theft or something." He sipped his coffee and grimaced. "I don't know why you bother to come here, you could get better brew at the cafeteria." He pulled her books over and checked the titles. "More science? If you plan to spend your career doling out music lessons you don't have to understand the theory of relativity." He pushed the books toward her and decided to try a compliment. They usually worked to get girls talking. "You . . . um, you look nice."

Bramble took the books. For the first time in two weeks she faced him. Her gaze held anger, and a bleak resignation that came as an unwelcome surprise. "Don't lie, I already know you think I'm a freak. I just don't understand why you bothered to ask me out when . . . when . . ." Her voice faltered, stopped; she stood, grabbed her jacket and headed from the café into the rain and wind of an overcast morning. Greg watched her walk away. He'd hurt her somehow—where the hell had she gotten the idea he thought she was some kind of sideshow attraction? Something else was going on, something not of his making.

He didn't have Crandall to talk to for the moment, so Greg spent the next couple of days gathering intelligence. What he found was unsurprising, but annoyed him all the same: the ex had made it her business to suggest he hung out with Bramble on a frat-house bet to take her virginity. Now he was stuck in a difficult position. If he tried to deny the rumors, he looked twice as guilty; if he said nothing, his silence implied agreement. He would have to go straight to the innocent victim and clear things up by using his last option, but it would require finesse.

The rest of the week was taken up by necessary schoolwork and labs. He dealt with them in a welter of impatience as he plotted his next move. He'd visit her home ground, where she felt safest; there was a better than fair chance she'd reject him, but he had to try. He took Crandall's previous advice and brought some music with him, as well as his poker winnings in case she wanted dinner. He owed her after Toledo, even if she was just unintended collateral damage. She'd been handed a crapfest when she'd agreed to go out in good faith, she deserved some compensation.

Greg chose Saturday night to make his move. Nearly everyone else would be out, which would give him easier access to her room. No doubt she was curled up with a book on remedial physics or something equally boring. Some blues would liven up her evening, and his too.

When he reached her floor, it was a surprise to find Bramble in the cramped telephone booth next to the stairs. He stayed out of sight and listened to her conversation.

"Can't come home next weekend. I've got tests coming up . . . I'll see you and Dad at Thanksgiving and over Christmas vacation . . . It was nice of Doctor Worthing to call you, but everything's fine here. I'm not working too hard . . . Mom . . . can we not have this conversation? . . . I don't want . . . I want to teach. You know that . . . Okay. Yeah, we'll talk about it when I come home. Okay. Yes. Love you Mom. Give my love to Dad too."

When she emerged from the booth and saw him, her expression shocked him once again. She looked almost frightened. Then she lifted her chin and brushed by him.

"Hey." He followed her. "We need to talk." She didn't reply. "I didn't start those rumors. Crandall's ex did that. I said she was an unstable bitch, but no one believed me."

They'd reached her door. She opened it, then turned to face him. There were tears in her eyes, on her cheeks. "Why don't you admit I'm just some kind of lab rat for your experiments? That's how you see people, isn't it? We're here to keep the genius from getting bored."

"I'm not a genius," he snapped. "Who told you—"

"Come on, I know who you are. I knew from the start. Greg House, the great mind. Everyone says you're headed for honors and advanced placement after med school. What do you care about—" She drew in an unsteady breath and swiped at her tears, angry little gestures that told him she hadn't planned to cry in public. "Anyway, you got what you wanted from me. Go away."

"God, you're such a prickly little shit!" He didn't know what to do, but she needed to stop leaking salt water; it was annoying as hell. "I don't think of you that way—well, not any more than I do anyone else. You're right about people being boring, I'll admit that, but you—you're—you're not that. I mean not boring. Okay?"

She sniffled and eyed him with suspicion. "I'm not?"

"No, not until right now. So cut it out. We need to talk." He offered her the albums. "I brought music."

They ended up getting Chinese delivered, at his insistence—mu shu pork for him, Szechuan chicken for her, and shared noodles between them. To his pleased surprise, she knew how to use chopsticks. "Don't be so shocked when someone besides you shows a little expertise," she said in that tart tone he'd grown to like. He threw a fortune cookie at her.

"Smartass. We need to do something about the rumors."

Bramble lifted her brows. "We do?"

"Sure." He took a few seconds to stuff a wad of pancake and pork into his mouth, chewed and swallowed.

"You don't care what people think about you, or anyone else."

"True. But we still can't let that bitch win."

Bramble shook her head. "I think she already has."

"That's defeatist talk." He searched for another pancake, annoyed he'd forgotten to order extras. "If I do something mean to someone it's on my own terms."

"I see." Something in her tone made him look over at her. She was trying not to smile, damn her.

"What?"

"Nothing. Tell me what you have in mind." She took some noodles.

"A counter attack. We launch our own rumors. But for it to work . . ." He chose a piece of pork with care. "You'd have to hang out with me for a while."

"I don't think that's a good idea," she said after a brief silence.

"You're afraid to be seen with me." He didn't believe that, but it was provocative enough to get a response. Not the one he expected though.

"I think this is more about your reputation than mine."

"You're not a freak." He frowned when she laughed this time.

"Yeah, right. What was your first impression when we met? Big butt, big belly, no looks, a virgin for sure." She sipped her Coke. "Everyone else thinks the same thing. Nothing's gonna change that. But you got stuck with a bunch of rumors that say you and I screwed around even though you think I'm a total dog. So you're the one who needs to get things straightened out. My being around you would just confirm those rumors."

It was a fair assessment, but he wouldn't let her know that. "So you won't do it."

"Maybe I need convincing." She set aside her container of chicken and picked up the fortune cookie he'd thrown at her, opened the wrapper and broke the cookie. She removed the slip of paper. "'Nothing astonishes men so much as common sense and plain dealing.'"

"'—in bed.'" Greg smiled a little when she laughed. He dug around and found his own cookie. "'Let the deeds speak.'" He gave Bramble an encouraging look.

"'In bed.'" She laughed again. Her whole face lit up when she did that; he knew then she was wrong. She was beautiful in her own way, and he was the only one to see it. Much better. He leaned forward a bit.

"Come on, wild child. Hang out with me. If you do, eventually everyone will lose interest. And I'll . . . I'll owe you a couple of favors, if you want to look at it that way."

She studied him for a few moments, her head tilted to one side. "Let me think about it."

"No, because you'll say no." He ate the last pancake and set the rest of the pork aside. "Your mom is upset with you."

The humor faded from her expression. "None of your business."

"Sure it's my business. We can't let outside elements upset the plan." He took a long swallow of beer. "Worthing called and pushed his own agenda."

"He always does that." The bleakness had returned. Greg finished his beer and set the bottle aside, opened another one.

"He's an asshole. You need to find someone else."

"There is no one else right now. Anyway, it's just for another year after this one. After that I'll be on my own." She stirred her chicken with a chopstick. "Back to your plan."

"Our plan," he corrected her, and gave a loud belch. She rolled her eyes.

"Why do boys like being gross?"

"Why do girls think gas is gross?" He chuckled at her mock-glare. "Enough idle bullshit. Let's figure this out."

By the end of the evening they had something worked out, though he could tell Bramble wasn't completely sold. "Trust me," he said at the door. "Deal with this now and we'll avoid trouble in future." Bramble shook her head but said nothing. "Come on, it'll be fun. Besides, you owe me an exchange."

That made her fire up, as he'd expected. "No I don't! We're even."

"But you want to know more." He waggled his brows at her. "You know you do."

She rolled her eyes and looked away, but not before he caught a little flash of amusement. So the hook was set . . . and yet he didn't think of her as a fish to be caught-more like a partner in crime. The idea surprised him. He mulled it over all the way back to the frat house and came to no satisfactory conclusion, then shrugged and set it aside. Everything would work out, he'd make sure of it.

'Focus', Hocus Pocus