talent or the intelligence?â
He paused, as if he were really waiting for an answer.
When I didnât respond, he went on, âOr canât as in I could if I wanted to, but I wonât?â
âWell, since you ask. Wonât. Itâs a matter of policy,â I explained.
âThat sounds very official. But arenât you being a little unreasonable? Considering that we just met?â He smiled in a way that I think was supposed to be winning. I scowled back. âYou donât even know my name.â
I sat up a little straighter, folded my hands in my lap, and gave him a demure look.
âYouâre absolutely right,â I said. âSo. Whatâs your name?â
âLuke.â
âLuke. Very nice to meet you,â I said formally.
He matched my tone. âLikewise, Iâm sure.â
âAnd how long have you been dead?â I continued, still using that ultrapolite voice that adults bring out when they talk to people they barely know.
âAlmost a year now. See, weâre getting to know each other better all the time.â
âNot to be rude or anything,â I said, âbut I donât want to know anything more about you. And I donât want you to know anything at all about me.â
He leaned back and squinted at me. âOh, I already know a great deal about you.â
âYou do?â That made me feel uneasy. âLike what?â
âWell, your name, for one thing. And that youâre a sophomore in high school. Itâs a new school, so youâre nervous. You want to make friends without revealing too much of yourself, a terrible plan, by the way. Doomed to failure. You worry too much about all the wrong things. Your best subject is English, your French is très misérable , you need to pay more attention in biology, andâletâs see, what else? Oh, yes, youâve got a tremendous psychic gift, which youâre determined not to use. How am I doing so far?â
After a long moment I said, âIâm doing just fine in biology.â
âMmm. Well, youâre going to have a pop quiz next Friday,â he said. âSo weâll see.â
My pulse jumped a little at this news.
âBut enough about you. Letâs talk about me.â
âOh, yes. Letâs,â I muttered sarcastically.
âYou see,â he announced, âI have a mission.â He hummed a few bars of the Mission: Impossible theme song.
âOf course you do,â I said, rather pleased with the way I had colored my voice with a bitter, knowing edge.
Then I had a sudden, brilliant thought. âWhy donât you contact my mother? Or my sister Oriole? They would love to help you!â
He tilted his head, considering this. âI could do that,â he said thoughtfully.
I relaxed a tiny bit.
âIâm sure theyâd understand why you had to give me a referral, instead of using your gifts to help a poor lost wandering soul.â He smiled innocently at me. âIs that really what you want me to do?â
I glared back. Somehow he knew that this was the last thing I wanted and that he had just got the upper hand. âOh, forget it,â I snarled.
âThen I guess weâre back to Plan A.â He added woodenly, âHelp me, Obi-Wan Kenobi. Youâre my only hope.â
I gave him a cool look. âThatâs a terrible Princess Leia impression.â
âThe worst in the tristate area, if not the entire eastern seaboard,â he said cheerfully. âUnfortunately doing bad impressions of pop culture icons is pretty much my only party trick. Although,â he added, âpeople did seem to like it when I flipped my eyelids inside out.â He demonstrated.
I winced. âYuck.â
He shrugged and flipped his eyelids back to the position that most people consider both normal and desirable. Then he gave me a melting look (one that Iâm sure worked on all the girls when he
C. J. Cherryh
Learning to Kill: Stories
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