Gun Games - Faye Kellerman [9]
“I know. I’m a runt.” She sat down and glanced over her shoulder, speaking softly as if they were conspiring. “Do you know how to get to the Music Center by bus?”
“I do.”
“Where do you find a bus?”
“At a bus stop.”
She bit her lip. “You must think I’m a doofus.”
“No, but you’re probably a pampered pooch who’s been carted around her entire life.”
Instead of taking offense, she nodded. “Carted everywhere except where I really want to go.” She sighed. “I love Alyssa Danielli. Her voice is so . . . pure.”
Gabe sat back in his chair and gave her face an honest appraisal. He admired passion in any form, but classical music was something he could relate to. “If you want to go to an opera so bad, just go.”
“It’s not that simple.”
“Why not?”
“You don’t understand Persian culture.”
“Is there something in Persian genes that make them not like opera?”
“My father wants me to be a doctor.”
“I’m sure there are doctors who are opera fans.” He took a bite of his bagel. “You want some coffee or something?”
“I’ll get it.” She stomped away, but left her backpack behind. A few minutes later she was back with something foamy. A sheen of sweat coated her forehead. “People are starting to come in.”
“That’s good. It’ll keep the place in business.”
“I mean it’s . . .” She glanced at her watch and sipped her coffee. “Is taking the bus dangerous?”
“I wouldn’t go in the wee hours of the morning, but this is a matinee.” Gabe rubbed his neck. “If you’re going to continue to talk to me, could you please sit down?”
She sat.
He said, “Look . . . whatever your name is. How about if I give you directions by bus? If you’re at the bus stop, then we’ll go together. If not, I’ll buy you a CD and write you a review.”
She sighed. “Maybe we can go by cab.”
“A cab is like twenty times the money.”
“I’ll pay for it.”
Gabe stared at her. Who was she? “I’m not pleading poverty. I’ll pay for the cab if you definitely go. Otherwise, I’m going to go by bus.”
“How about this?” the girl said. “You’ll pay for the cab if I go, and if I don’t go, I’ll pay you back.”
Gabe shook his head. “This is getting very complicated.”
“Please?” she implored.
“Fine.” He rolled his eyes. “You’ll pay me back for the cab if you crap out . . . which doesn’t make any sense because I have to pick you up anyway and by that time, you should know whether or not you’re going.”
Her big eyes got even wider. “You can’t pick me up at my house. I’ll meet you a few blocks away.”
“Aha.” Gabe got it. “You’re sneaking around your parents.”
“Sorta.”
“Jeez, it’s not like you’re going to a rave; it’s a freakin’ opera.” When she didn’t say anything, he said, “It’s not just the opera; it’s going with me to the opera. Because I’m not Jewish.”
She stared at him. “You’re not Jewish?”
“Nope. I’m Catholic.”
“Oh God. My dad would kill me just for going with a white boy.” She leaned over and spoke softly. “Why were you in a Jewish school if you’re not Jewish?”
“It’s a long story.” He paused. “This isn’t a good idea. I don’t want to be responsible for getting you into trouble. Would you like your ticket back?”
“No, of course not. If you don’t use it, it really will go to waste.” She blew out air again. “I mean, it’s just going to the opera, right?”
“Yes, it’s just going to the opera. It is not a date.” He studied her face again. “How old are you?”
“Fourteen.”
“You look around ten.”
“Thank you very much,” she snapped. It was clearly something she heard all the time.
“You look young, but you’re very cute.” Gabe said it to mollify her, but he actually meant it. “This is what I’m going to do. I’m going to give you my phone number and you call or text me if you can make it.” He waited a moment. “You have a cell, right?”
“Of course.”
“So Persians can have cell phones—”
“Ha, ha!”
“Take down my cell number. Do you know my name?”
“Gabriel Whitman.”
“Excellent.” He gave the girl his number. “I’ll take your phone number now. But