She came out from behind the stacks, rounded the corner of the bookshelf and sat herself down at the boy’s table, across from him.
“Hello,” she said.
The boy did not seem in the least surprised that a skinny tall girl with bitten-off dark hair should so unceremoniously plunk herself down in front of him and say hello. In fact, he said hello back. And smiled, to boot.
“Who are you?” asked Libby, without further preliminaries.
“I’m a writer,” said the boy, and as he said it Libby saw that the book he held was not a storybook at all, but a notebook, and inside it (from what she could see) were a great many scribbled words.
“Well, I’m a reader,” said Libby, and folded her hands on the tabletop.
The boy smiled again. “Then,” he said, “we ought to get on very nicely.”