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"Not really," I said. "I'll have whatever you have."

He poured us both some iced tea. There was a place setting all ready for him at the dining-room table. It was a large, oval, dark oak table with thick legs. There were twelve captain's chairs set around the table, and above us a large chandelier dangled on a gold chain. Behind us, the wall was all mirror. Against the far wall was a grand hutch with matching wood, filled with dishes and glasses that all looked very expensive.

Bernie brought his food out and set it down. "Our maid is a good cook. Otherwise I'd starve," he quipped.

"Your mother doesn't cook?"

"My mother? She couldn't boil water without burning it," he said.

"You can't burn water."

"It's a joke. At least, it was supposed to be:' "How often do you eat alone like this?" I asked. He paused and thought, as if I had given him a difficult question to answer. "On the average, I'd say four times a week."

"Four!"

"I said average, so you know that there are weeks when it's more," he lectured.

"You should be a teacher," I said. "You like pointing things out, and I bet you love correcting people." He gazed at me a moment and then smiled. "You want to do our math homework after I eat?" he asked.

"I did it before dinner," I said.

"I did it on the bus," he countered.

"So why did you ask?"

He shrugged. "I thought I'd help you."

"Maybe I would have helped you?'

He laughed again and then grew serious, his eyes small and fixed on me intently. Bernie had a way of looking at people as if they were under his microscope. It made me a little uncomfortable.

"What?" I said.

"I was wondering what it was like for you, living in an orphanage," he said.

"Here I go again." I moaned.

"What?"

"That's all anyone wants to know."

"I was just curious, from a scientific point of view," he added.

"You really want to know?I'll tell you, it was hard,"

I fired at him "I didn't feel like I was anyone. I felt like I was dangling, waiting for my life to start. Everyone is jealous of whatever lucky thing happens to anyone else. Counselors, social workers, adults who come around to choose a child make you feel like you're . ."

"Under a microscope?"

"Yes, exactly. And it's no fun. You're afraid to make friends with someone because he or she might be gone the next month."

"What about your real parents?" he asked.

"What about them?"

"Why did they give you up?"