Weredog Tart (8)

   
   "Weredog Tart (8)"
   
   Lance sat down next to Siria with icy cool, having no lunch as he was from the wrong side of the tracks, grabbing only a can of this or that here and there.  Siria swallowed some of the white bread, salami, and extra mayo with a canine gulp; next, glared hard into his pretty boy, shamrock-green eyes, noticing his mane of sunshine yellow, and he glued his vibrant-green orbs onto her arctic-blue--the twosome caught in a game of strategic telepathy.  Then, the conversation ignited.

SIRIA
You're the school's backup quarterback.  Never talked to me once--why here, why now?

LANCE
I haven't spoken yet.  But let me say, doing school work and memorizing the entire offensive playbook, in Pittsburgh no less, is tough on a guy, and I never noticed you till now--here, stuck in the stink of summer school.  But believe me girl--you should have been noticed, my mistake.

SIRIA
You're the only one who doesn't give me creepy looks, I like that.

LANCE
Well we should make it official and get a chili dog sometime--my treat.

SIRIA
No suspicion detected.  Her instincts said he was just a nice guy; plus, smelled like cheap yet clean aftershave.  Okay.  Tomorrow is hump day, and I mean that in the cleanest sense.  We can take the bus downtown and get some meat, beans, sauce, and a bun to wrap it in.

LANCE
A puzzled look on his face.  Just like that?

SIRIA
I'm not easy; I just know a decent dude when I see one--somebody who seems to smell and act very clean.  Nice hair by the way--eyes too.  Siria got up and started to walk off, but turned around real swiftly.  After school, remember.

LANCE
How could I ever forget?