“You know, you’ll lose your little bad-boy reputation if you keep badgering me,” I say as I sit down. “No one is going to think you’re cool and aloof anymore.”

In the last few periods, I’ve managed to calm down. As lunch came to an end, I saw Xander sitting only a few tables away from us. No wonder Ace was acting so boldly.

“I didn’t ask for that reputation,” Ace says, putting his feet on the table and crossing them at the ankle. He’s wearing heavy combat boots that are at odds with his designer skinny jeans. “Though I am pretty cool and aloof.”

I raise an eyebrow. “You like mint chocolate ice cream, playing the piano, and space.”

“But only you know that,” Ace says, taking out a black marker from his jacket and uncapping it. I nearly smack it out of his hands when he starts doodling on the table.

“Isn’t that destruction of public property?” I say, hoping it will dissuade him, but he only snorts. “Ace, please stop?”

He looks up at me, his eyes more blue than green today, and his marker falters. “Yeah, okay.”

I blink. “Really?” That was easier than I thought it would be.

“Yeah, Ahmed. What are we looking at today?”

It takes a moment for that to sink in before a smile pulls at my lips. “I was thinking we could take a break—”

“I’ve been saying that.”

“—from reading comprehension and focus on poetry.”

He sighs. “I suppose.”

I roll my eyes. “Hear me out. Just pretend they’re song lyrics. You love music, right? That’s why I thought poetry might work better for you. We have that poetry project coming up next month, anyway.”

He hums, looking at me with an inscrutable expression. “You’re something else, Ahmed.”

I frown. “What? Did I say something wrong?”

“It’s not a bad thing,” Ace says. “You’re thoughtful. I like it.”

“Oh.” My clothes suddenly feel too hot. Is it possible to blush with your full body? I grab my bag and take out the collections I snagged from my bookshelf so I have something to do with my hands. “I brought some poetry books from home. Is that okay?”

“Of course,” Ace says, reaching for one. “Can you show me your favorite poem?”

“Yeah, sure,” I say and grab a translated Bengali poetry collection. I’m flipping through the pages when I realize Ace isn’t holding a poetry book at all. Oh shit. “Hey, wait, Ace—”

“Did you write these?” Ace asks, gaze straying from the frayed brown journal in his hands to look at me.

My nose wrinkles and I wring my hands helplessly. I should’ve been more careful when taking my books out, but being around Ace makes me lose my head. “Yeah, but it’s just for school. It’s not anything serious.”