“I was named by Khun Yai.” He shifts forward. “Bandit is a Thai name, you know. It’s actually pronounced bun-dit and it means ‘one who is wise.’ Unfortunately, it has a different definition in English.”

“Did your khun yai know that when she chose it?” I will not think about how close he is. How less than a foot separates us. How that distance could be erased in a fraction of a second.

“No.” His lips flatline. “She had no idea she was essentially calling me a robber. My mom was out of it at the hospital. My dad was working. They left Khun Yai to fill out the paperwork, and by the time they bothered to find out what name she picked, it was too late.”

“I like your name,” I offer. “It’s different. Unique.”

“I got into more trouble because of it. Teachers automatically assumed the worst when it came to me.”

“Really?” I shouldn’t be surprised, but I am. Would I be the same girl if I were a Darcy or a Meg? I’m not sure. Like our appearance, like our demeanor, names can affect the way people perceive us. The way we see ourselves.

“Yeah.” He shrugs. “I think of my name as a challenge. Every day, in every interaction, I can fulfill people’s first impression of me and become the Bandit of the English language. Or I can live up to the Thai definition.” He looks straight at me. “I don’t want you to call me Bandit until you can believe in my name’s true meaning.”

My mouth parts. He’s not what I expected. He’s not just a basketball player with blue hair. Not just a really smart guy who thinks he’s better than everyone else.

Instead, I’m beginning to think he’s exactly who he says he is. He’s…Bandit. The real one, who is wise beyond his years.

Beep! Beep! Beep!

He lifts an eyebrow, silencing the alarm on his cell phone. “Gotta run. Try not to stalk me too much, okay?”

My cheeks, my neck, my ears—everything is burning. This is why I swore off relationships in high school. Because clearly my judgment of people is impaired. Male praying mantises (whose female partners eat them after sex) probably have better instincts than I do.

“I am. Not. Stalking. You!” I shout at his rapidly retreating form.

He doesn’t retort. Instead, he just looks over his shoulder…and winks.

Chapter 7

Chapter 7

Thirty seconds later, I’m at my locker down the hall, still fuming. Seriously? If I wanted to stalk someone, I’d photograph them. And do you see my beloved Canon Rebel in my hands? No, you do not. It is safely tucked in my backpack, where it belongs.

Shoving my hands into my hair, I look up to see Lalana in front of her locker, gaping at me. Perfect.