RYDER: I know this is random, particularly since we’re not in the same class, but you have Mrs. Perkins for English, right? Have you written the paper on Julius Caesar yet?

ME: Funny. I was literally about to start on that. I know. I’ve procrastinated.

And then, because I couldn’t help myself:

ME: I bet the kids back at your school in DC weren’t so irresponsible.

RYDER: Ha-ha. I know. I bring up my old school too much. Is it that annoying?

ME: Yes.

ME: Incredibly.

RYDER: Sorry.

RYDER: But, if it helps, whether the kids in my old school procrastinate or not, I do. At least with English.

RYDER: Especially with Shakespeare.

ME: Not a fan of the bard?

RYDER: I wouldn’t say I’m not a fan. But I am not the best with iambic pentameter. Every word of dialogue goes right over my head.

ME: Alert the press! Ryder Cross just admitted he’s not perfect at something. Quick, has hell frozen over?

RYDER: Never mind. Forget I said anything.

ME: I suck with Shakespeare, too.

RYDER: Yeah?

ME: Yeah.

It was true. I was the most miserable translator to have ever touched the work of Sir William. Last year, when we were studying Macbeth, I got so lost trying to understand it that at one point I threw my book across Amy’s bedroom and swore I’d never go to school again. “Who needs English?” I’d asked her. “I’ll be a mime. I’ll join the circus. Screw my education!”

Lucky for me, Amy is excellent at deciphering Shakespeare’s long monologues, and she taught me a trick — it all starts making sense if you hear it. Seeing the words on the page is too much, too difficult to find the rhythm, but if you hear it, it becomes clearer. And lucky for me, Amy, who would make a brilliant thespian if she weren’t so painfully shy, was willing to read to me.

I’d gotten an A on my Macbeth paper because of her, and now I was about to have an encore performance with my Julius Caesar paper. Amy had read me the play two nights ago, and she hadn’t had to do nearly as much explaining this time.

ME: It helps to hear it.

RYDER: What?

ME: If you can get someone to read it to you — someone who understands it — it starts making a lot more sense.

RYDER: Oh. I don’t really have anyone who could read it to me.

RYDER: My mom could, but I’m not asking her.

ME: What about a study buddy? Someone else from English class?

RYDER: Again, I’m not the most well-liked guy at school right now. Even the teachers can’t stand me.

I didn’t know why, but somehow his honesty about this surprised me. Not that it was a secret. No one really tried too hard to hide their disdain for Ryder, but he was so arrogant, so conceited, that I just assumed he thought the world was as fond of him as he was of himself.

But just then, he didn’t seem too conceited. Actually, he was almost tolerable.

RYDER: Which, if you ask me, is entirely unprofessional. Not that I’m surprised. Most of these people are hardly qualified to call themselves educators.

Scratch that part about tolerable.

ME: I’m going to ignore that.

ME: Maybe you could watch a staged play? I bet you could find a video online. Or at the library?

RYDER: That’s not a bad idea, actually.

When he didn’t type anything else, I assumed the conversation was over. I went back to my paper, but after writing, deleting, rewriting, and deleting the first paragraph, I realized there was no way I could focus right now. Something Ryder said had lingered in my head, and perhaps I am nosy, but I just had to ask.

ME: Why won’t you ask your mom for help?

RYDER: It’s … complicated.

A minute later:

RYDER: Do you really want to know?

ME: Sure. It’s not like I’m doing anything else right now.

RYDER: What about your paper?

ME: I already told you I’m a procrastinator. I’m sure your parental drama is far more interesting than Brutus’s betrayal of Caesar.

ME: Though hopefully less bloody?

RYDER: LOL. Yes, less bloody.

ME: My, my, Ryder Cross. I never took you for the chat-speak type. LOL indeed.

RYDER: That’s my dirty little secret. I sometimes write like an actual teenager. Don’t tell anyone.

ME: Too late. I now have dirt on you. Mission accomplished.

He wrote back with an emoticon of a face sticking its tongue out at me. I laughed.

ME: More dirt! This is my lucky night!

RYDER: Damn it. I’m playing right into your hands, aren’t I?

ME: That you are, sir. That you are.

Whoa, wait. Was I bantering with Ryder Cross? My archnemesis? The Lex Luthor to my Superman? The Loki to my Thor? The peanut butter to my jelly? Okay, I know most of the world thinks those last two go together, but I personally find the combination rather abhorrent and just ew.

But I totally was. Ryder Cross and I were teasing each other in a surprisingly nonhostile way. I suppose this was the power of the Internet.

ME: So … your mom?

It took Ryder a little while to type out his response.

RYDER: My mom left my dad. But instead of just divorcing him and moving to a new house and letting me continue at the school I’ve been attending since I was five, she insisted on packing up everything, moving hundreds of miles away, and dragging me with her. It’s like she didn’t care what I wanted. I had friends in DC. I had a girlfriend. I was at one of the top schools in the country. But that didn’t matter. She had gotten a new job and I had to come with her to this tiny town in the middle of nowhere. I freaking hate it here.

RYDER: Sorry. I know my saying that is why everyone here hates me. I guess to be fair, it’s not so much the town as the situation. I don’t want to be here.

ME: No … I get it, actually.

And I did. I knew Ryder didn’t like Hamilton — everyone knew that — but I’d never really thought about it from his perspective. Being pulled out of a place where you were happy, where you had friends, couldn’t be easy. I couldn’t imagine how miserable I’d be if I’d been forced to move somewhere hundreds of miles from Hamilton. From Amy.

I’d probably be kind of an asshole, too.

RYDER: So, yes. That’s why I’m not asking my mom for help. I’ve barely spoken to her since we got here in August. Petty, I know.

ME: You’re seventeen. I think you’re allowed to be petty. Especially about something like this.

ME: But why can’t you go back? Live with your dad?

Again, Ryder took a while to write his answer.

RYDER: I asked. Before we left, I asked to stay. But my mom wouldn’t let me.

ME: Why?

RYDER: I have no idea. Because she’s selfish? Because she wants to punish my dad by keeping me away? Not that she has any right to punish him. She’s the one who left. She’s the one who asked for the divorce. Dad doesn’t want it. He still hasn’t signed the papers.

ME: Do you think they might get back together?

RYDER: That would be difficult with her being a few states away and all.

RYDER: I don’t know. And lately, I can never get ahold of my dad. His secretary always says he’s busy, and he doesn’t answer his cell. I know he’s got a lot going on in Washington, but …

RYDER: Okay, I know this isn’t the cool thing to say, but I miss him.

ME: I’m sorry, Ryder.

RYDER: I don’t want you to be sorry. I don’t want anyone to be sorry. Except maybe my mom.

I pulled up Google and tried to find a picture of Ryder and his family. I figured it wouldn’t be hard since his dad was in Congress. They probably had plenty of photos from the campaign trail.