“Arthur is being tactless. But also accurate.” She patted his arm. “I’ll make a quick dash upstairs.” And smiled at me. “Continue on!”

I flashed her a thumbs-up then cringed because, resentful or not, that was plain goofy on my part, but she was gone before I could moderate my dorkiness.

I turned to Arthur.

“Ready?” I asked.

He gave me a thumbs-up. I flipped him off. He smirked. And I shoved a steel bowl with butter, sugar, and vanilla extract into his midriff with more force than necessary. Crush or no crush, the “ooomph” was worth it.

“That goes with the mixer.” I pointed to the aqua Kitchen-Aid mixer on the counter behind him.

He seemed puzzled. “Do you expect me to mix this?”

“Why else are you here? The commentary?”

“I assumed I’d be the taste tester.”

“Gotta make something to taste first.”

I pointed again and he seemed resigned to being more of an active participant than he’d originally envisioned. After watching him spend more time than I thought possible attempting to figure out the tilt mechanism and flat beater, he flipped the speed knob straight to ten, which, no. Just . . . no.

He caught on quickly, but a good amount of the vanilla hit his apron.

I added some more and he mixed much slower while I warmed some chocolate baking squares on the stove. The amount of concentration showing in his face reminded me of some of the tests we took back in school, and it occurred to me how little I knew of him. On a basic level. His love of James Bond and Jammie Dodgers aside.

“How long have you been at Barrington?” I asked.

He glanced at me. “What?”

“Barrington.”

“Oh. Um, a year.” He really was focused.

“Why’d you come to America?”

“The cheeseburgers. Americans have the upper hand when it comes to any meal cooked over an open flame.”

“I’m serious.”

“As am I.” He grabbed a scraper spatula out of a utensil jar.

“Do you not want to talk about it?

“Cheeseburgers?”

“Now who’s being evasive?”

He kicked up the mixer speed a notch, keeping his eyes on the mixing bowl.

“It’s just,” I continued, feeling dogged. “Most Americans think the British have the upper hand in education.”

“Unquestionably.”

“Then why did you come to America? You’re rich, or your parents are. And you’re annoyingly smart.”

“I shall take that as an unintended compliment.” He tentatively used the spatula to push some batter away from the sides.

“So I’m thinking you could go anywhere.”

“I could have, yes.”

“But you chose Barrington.”

“I did.” Finally he looked up to meet my eyes for a moment. “Barrington is, as you know, exceptional, even by English standards.” Back to the bowl. “And Auntie Esha is friends with Sonya Martinez.”

“Ms. Martinez?” I asked. “Who teaches Honors Biology?”

“Correct. She is also on the admissions board.”

“Oh. That explains it.”