Chapter 6: Bee Boy

The all-night diner on Pike Street had one rule.

It was written on a laminated card at every table: Checks are split by what you ate.

"Wait," Cassian said. "Everyone pays for their own plate?"

"Yes," said the girl with the label maker.

"Even if I'd like to get it?"

"Especially," said one of the twins.

It was Thursday night, and the Statistics test was behind them.

At the door Noah had said only, "Come meet people. Say what you want. Don't say sure."

Now Cassian sat in a booth with six strangers and a plate of pancakes he had picked himself.

The girl with the label maker had labelled the sugar.

The twins finished each other's sentences.

A man from the bus stop, who sold lemonade in the summer, was explaining why he sold it in winter, too.

"Spite," said the lemonade man.

"Spite sells," said the first twin.

"Every day of the year," said the second.

They had all heard of Cassian. It showed in how carefully they looked at his cardigan.

"You're Haverstock," the label maker girl said. "As in the library."

"My family paid for it. I didn't build it."

"Did you carry anybody's bags?"

"No." He set down his fork. "I was in my car. I was listening to a lecture about bees."

There was a pause.

"What part?" asked the lemonade man.

"The drones die after they mate."

The table considered this seriously.

"Bee Boy," said the first twin.

"Bee Boy," said the second, and the whole booth took it up.

The label maker girl printed it on a strip of tape and stuck it to his sleeve.

Cassian looked down at it.

Nobody had given him a nickname before.

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