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Asian Experience, checked out the menu at Mangia Mangia, and finally settled on a turkey sandwich and Coke from the Seacrest Gourmet Deli. I found an empty table near an exit and attacked the food.
    “You a fan?”
    I turned. Standing behind me was a guy my age, with uncombed long dark brown hair and a thin, prominent nose set on a narrow face. He was lanky and thin, and he was pointing to my backpack.
    Raising my defenses, I lashed out. “Yeah, I’m a fan. So what? You probably wouldn’t know good music if you fell over it.”
    “Dude, I don’t even know what that means.”
    “It means you’d have to be a musician to appreciate a group like the Doors.”
    “I am a musician. Robby Krieger . . . the guy was a genius on the Gibson.”
    “You play guitar?”
    “When I’m not being pissed on by cripples. Sorry, I know you had a rough day.” Pulling out a chair he sat beside me, propping his retro Converse on the table. “Jesse Gordon. So? You paralyzed or hurt?”
    “Paralyzed.”
    “That must suck. You were in my biology class this morning until you took off like a bat out of hell.”
    “It was an accident.”
    “Ley sure got a big laugh out of it.”
    “Who’s Ley?”
    “Stephen Ley, the dumb jock asshole who was sitting behind you. Real dick. Basketball star. Hates Jews, Blacks, Browns, and I’m guessing Asians, too.” A security guard walked by, prompting Jesse to lower his feet. “You play?”
    “Basketball?”
    “Basketball? Dude, how can you play basketball without any legs? Music. I play in a garage band. We do a lot of sixties stuff, that’s why I was curious about the Doors. Can you sing? Our singer sucks. He’s like a lounge singer, plus he can’t remember the words or when to come in. He’s like musically retarded.”
    “I can sing a little, but I’m better on harmonica.”
    “You play harp? Excellent. Give me your number. We’re trying to set up a practice at my house on Saturday around three.”
    “Saturday? Yeah . . . I just need to see about a ride. Text me your address.”
    We programmed each other’s numbers in our cell phones as the school bell rang, ending seventh period. I tossed the rest of my sandwich in a trash can and followed Jesse out the café exit to the pickup area.
    And then I saw her. She was standing by the curb next to an Asian girl, the two of them texting.
    “Jesse, who is that?” My voice trailed off, growing hoarse.
    “The hot Indian girl? Anya something. Her dad’s some big-shot professor at FAU.”
    “She’s beautiful.”
    “Not my type. Smart chicks think too much. You should go talk to her.”
    “Me? No.”
    “Go on. You’re a brainiac. Plus you’re a harmonica player in an up-and-coming rock band. Plus I hear she’s into gimps.”
    “Really?”
    “No, man, I’m just messing with your head. But go on, what have you got to lose . . . your virginity? Sorry. Seriously though, how’s that work? Is there any way to prop it up?”
    Ignoring the sex comment, I unlocked the brake on my chair. “Call you later about Saturday.”
    I wheeled away from Jesse and down the sidewalk toward Anya, my mind racing. Anya was obviously part Indian. What did I know about India . . .
    I braked, smiling stupidly. “So . . . how about that Taj Mahal?”
    She looked up from texting.
    Her Asian girlfriend gave me an oh no, you didn’t just say that look.
    “Is that all you know about India—what you learned from watching Slumdog Millionaire ? Do you even know what region the Taj Mahal is located?”
    “The Northern Province.”
    Her eyebrows rose. “Congratulations. That makes you smarter than ninety percent of the students in this school. Anya Patel. And I’m only part Indian. My mother is from London. This is my friend, Li-ling Chang.”
    “Let me guess . . . Beijing?”
    “America,” she sneered. “Born in North Miami, Mr. South Korean know-it-all.”
    “I’m only half Korean.”
    “Yeah? Which half? The half that works?”
    “Li-ling’s just