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The boy held the ratty notebook in front of him. Not in his lap, but straight before his face, arms suspended outward with a slight quiver.
Orson corked his head to the side when he approached him.
“Hi, Galen.”
“Hello,” he mumbled back, not looking at him.
Orson rolled his eyes. He invited himself to take the seat next to Galen, squeezing his body onto the bench that could not quite hold the two of them. Not comfortably, at least. For one of them.
Galen fumbled with his notebook, nearly dropping it. Nearly exposing the red in his cheeks.
“I came to say thank you for helping me study.”
Orson glanced at him from the side.
“I got my results back today. Near-perfect marks, thanks to you. I almost feel like I owe you, now.”
“You’re welcome. It was no trouble.”
“ ‘Spose not. Not for you, anyways. ‘Brentaal’s prodigy.’ ”
Galen had prepared a flinch at the words but it never came. When most people referred to him as a “prodigy” they made no effort to conceal the spite and jealousy in their voices. But the way Orson said it carried no resentment. Only a sort of genuineness. Admiration.
And before Galen could stop it, he felt a conversation rising in his throat.
“I may be Brentaal’s prodigy, but you’re Brentaal’s ‘night-time carouser.’ ”
Orson smiled.
“Oh, I haven’t done nearly enough here yet to have earned that title. Trust me, people haven’t even begun to witness the likes of Orson Callan Krennic.”
“Callan. It’s a nice middle name.”
“Maybe. My dad chose it.”
He removed his eyes from Galen’s notebook for a second to stare at the sky.
“What’s yours?”
“My what?”
“Your middle name.”
“Walton.”
“Hm, I reckon I like Walton better.”
Galen lowered his arms.
A group of students walked by, upperclassmen by the looks of it. Whispers and glances were stolen at Galen, befuddled expressions shifting to the boy sitting next to him. No one ever sat next to Galen Erso.
He bored his eyes into the pages of his notebook as they passed, deafening his ears by pretending to read the same line over and over again. Orson raised an eyebrow and stared after them.
He turned back to Galen.
“You know, the reason you don’t have any friends is because people think you’re unapproachable.”
Galen froze, arms dropping the notebook to his chest so he could gawk at Orson’s bluntness. The boy seemed unphased.
“You just stick your head in that little notebook of yours every time somebody passes by.”
Regaining his composure, Galen tore his eyes away from Orson and stuck them on the ground instead.
“I don’t think myself to be unapproachable. I’m fully aware of it.”
“You don’t care then? That you don’t have friends?”
“I guess not.” He shrugged.
Orson made a face.
“Well then, you’re lucky you have me. I’m perfectly content being your only friend if you are.”
Galen paused, letting the words settle in the air around them. Become tangible. Unforgettable. Then he smiled.
“Yeah. I think I am.”