The next morning I was back at my spot by the window, picking up the book where I'd left off. But this time I found I couldn't focus the way I had the day before. The harder I tried to bury myself in the page, the more the page seemed to push me back out. Turtle's image kept filling my head, pulling my attention loose. She'd gotten under my skin so badly that whenever I glanced up and around the room, anything even vaguely round made me think, for a split second, it was an eye: the buttons on an old cross-striped jacket hanging on the wall, a bent nail in the post, a water stain on the wall panel, a rusted hook.
Then, at some point, I realized that by the wardrobe, in the gap between two panels, there really was a pair of eyes watching me. When I spotted her, I flinched — just a small jolt — but caught myself at once. I pretended not to notice, dropped my eyes back to the page, and read on, head bent.
I sat still in my chair, trying not to look toward where she was hiding, but my ears were straining, listening for whether she'd leave.
For a long while, I heard nothing. So she was still out there. Still watching me through the crack in the wall. And now I found myself genuinely stuck, not knowing what to do next. I knew if I stood up, she'd bolt for sure. But I couldn't just sit there like a statue forever either.
Finally I took a chance and spoke, still without lifting my head, doing my best to sound sweet, friendly:
"Do you like reading?"
A rustle came from the direction of the wall in answer. Turtle must have been startled into making the sound, then quickly stifled it.
Hearing no footsteps running off, I began to relax a little. Still in the same position, I asked again, gently:
"What kind of books do you like, Turtle?"
This time, hearing herself called by name, she knew I'd spotted her. Like me, she was probably at a loss for what to do — run, stay frozen in place, or answer.
Inside, I was holding my breath too, waiting, because honestly I had no idea how she'd react.
A tense hush settled over the whole house. The wind hissing through the treetops reached my ears with startling clarity. The bickering of the two magpie-robins in the tamarind tree by Thuc's gate seemed shriller than usual. In short, I could hear everything — even the grass rustling out back, even the faint murmur drifting over from the distant hill. I heard it all, except Turtle.
I licked my lips and said, with no real hope left, "Come on in and play, then."
I sighed when I heard her footsteps walking away, and just as I'd given up expecting her to come back, that odd haircut of hers suddenly appeared right at my window.
I looked up at her and smiled, and only now did I notice her hair was a reddish-brown, probably from running around in the sun so much. In contrast to that ragged hair, she had a rather lovely face, and her eyes especially were bright and glistening, like two drops of water.
Two drops of water looked at me, and I looked back at them.
For a long moment, neither of us said anything. My smile had started to feel forced, and just as my face was about to stiffen up like wood, Turtle rescued me. She asked:
"Do you like reading, then?"
"I do! I like it a lot!" I answered in a rush, my delight embarrassingly obvious. "There's nothing better in the world than reading, you know."
My tone, dripping with the enthusiasm of a salesman, worked on her at once. She licked her lips.
"Really?"
"Really!" I held the book out through the window, generous. "Take this one home and read it. I'll lend it to you."
Turtle took the book, flipped through a few pages, then set it back down on the table, to my surprise.
"Never mind."
"Why not?"
She answered with a shy little smile:
"I only read comic books."
