Wrong Impression

7. Where does soy milk come from?

Angie entered Café Hoff at ten to four on Thursday, thinking just how stupid she was. Why would Tom help her? And what did he know about biology anyway? He was a freaking DJ. He probably just wanted to see her in the daylight and maybe try to grope her. Even if he didn't look like a sleaze bag. Maybe he was a well-disguised sleaze bag.

Still, she sat at a corner table, her eyes fixed on the door, waiting. Because if by some chance this was for real, she needed all the help she could get. And she wished Tom would show up already, because she had no money to spend on coffee so they'd let her keep the table. Maybe she should have waited outside.

Three minutes after four, Angie was still staring at the door, heart pounding, counting the seconds until it was reasonable to bolt. Waiting for just five minutes was socially acceptable, right?

"Hey." Tom slid into the seat in front of her, scaring her half to death.

"Where'd you come from?" she asked, shocked. Because she'd been staring at the door the whole time. Unless she'd completely zoned out.

"Biologically speaking?" he asked, dropping a stack of books and notebooks on the table and propping a skateboard against his chair.

Angie studied him in the daylight. His hair really was black, the kind of black that almost had blue highlights. His skin was smooth and tanned and he looked a little bigger in proper light. His shoulders were broad, his biceps defined and he obviously worked out or did sports or something. He was pretty thin, though. She could tell by the way his t-shirt clung off him.

Today, it was a green shirt with the picture of an iPod with a golden chain hanging around its neck and a flat cap and the inscription So Player. She chuckled.

"What?" he asked, reaching out and pulling her notebooks towards him.

"Do all your t-shirts have puns on them?"

Tom looked down at his chest as if he couldn't remember what he was wearing. "Yup, pretty much." And he opened the nearest notebook at random.

He seemed awfully in a hurry. Maybe he was and she'd just gotten in his way. Heat rose to her cheeks. She was probably blushing like an idiot for no reason. This was his idea. But she had no way of telling if he looked annoyed or curious or what. Those sunglasses were really starting to bug her.

"What the hell?" he said all of a sudden. He pulled out her test, the one she'd gotten a B on.

Her stomach clenched uncomfortably. "Don't tell me you've never gotten a B." Or maybe he realized she wasn't trying to bounce back from an F and he was out of his league.

"No, I haven't. And you shouldn't have gotten a B either," he answered to her surprise. "Your answer is correct. The correction is wrong."

"What?" Angie pulled the paper out of his hands. She'd been so dejected, she hadn't even bothered to check. Because she knew she hadn't given her best.

Tom took one of his books, opened it and pushed towards her. "See? Your answer is correct."

Angie looked from the beat down manual to her test, and a shiver sent goosebumps on her arms. This was hardly a reason for celebration. It meant the teacher had it in for her bad. She almost groaned.

"And for some reason, that doesn't make you happy," he noticed flatly.

Well, he was perceptive. She shook her head, but didn't elaborate. It was none of his business. Instead, she reached over the table and took out her latest project. If he could spot the mistake, maybe he could help with this, too.

Tom seemed to stare at her for a moment before he focused on her homework and she was left to admire herself in his blue lenses.

"Why do you wear those glasses?" she found herself asking.