Before I could come to my senses about Fiora, the bus hit a bump in the road, and it was as if one of my friends had pushed me into her at a school dance.

“I don’t think I’ve ever done a crossword puzzle in my life,” I blurted.

No reaction.

“Maybe I’ve done one or two . . .”

Fiora looked at me like I was a crazy person. A sharp pang of humiliation twisted my stomach. Quickly I resorted to sarcasm.

“Aw, shucks. I guess this means we can’t be seatmates. You could try switching seats with someone up front, although I recommend steering clear of the Asian guy with dreads. I’m suspicious of anyone that culturally juxtaposed.”

Fiora held back her laughter. Success.

“Good try,” she said. “I’ll stay right here, if you don’t mind. Unless your friend decides to come back from the bathroom. He must really be struggling in there.”

“Very funny, Fiora. Maybe I should go and look for my friend, it could take—”

“Also, culturally juxtaposed? Really?”

“It was a joke,” I mumbled. Fine, it was a stupid joke. I kicked at my backpack—in part because it was cramping my legroom, but also to relieve myself of our conversation’s awkward turn.

“The joke wasn’t going anywhere,” Fiora said. “That’s not the nature of our relationship, anyway.”

“What relationship? I’ve known you for all of, like, five waking minutes.”

Fiora lifted her knees from the seat back and bent down to reach her bag. She popped back up with a pack of Twizzlers, which she promptly shared.

“Our bus friendship. The one where we’re the kind of people taking a Monday-morning bus to get away from their . . . discombobulated circumstances.”

“Would you like to talk about it?” I asked.

“Nah. Not anymore.”

“You must be itching to get back to that crossword puzzle.”

Fiora rolled her eyes, smiling. “Why are you going to DC, anyhow?”

“To meet a Georgetown professor,” I said, biting off another chunk of Twizzler. In an attempt to sound cooler, I added, “I’m kind of running away from home.”

Fiora simply replied: “Cool.”

While I wasn’t going to let my microcrush on Fiora distract me from my real business in DC, I couldn’t help feeling a little turned on by her nonchalant reaction. Cool. No prying, no eyes-growing-wide with a side of “Oh my God!” She started taking these colorful bracelets off her wrist, two by two, and I swear, the casualness of it all gave me goose bumps.

“Well, I’m getting tired myself.” Fiora bent over to pack the wristbands, Twizzlers, and newspaper into her bag. “It’s been super chatting . . .”

“Scott,” I said, filling in her implied blank.

Fiora had barely closed her eyes when we hit another bump. A series of bumps, actually. She let out a theatrical groan.

“Is that your real name?” I blurted again. “Fiora?”

“Is your real name Scott?”

“Of course.”

“Don’t look Scottish to me. Unless you’re culturally, what was it? Juxtaposed?”