Riff liked you so much because you were incredibly different from him. Unfortunately, that’s what made his friends hate your guts. But he frankly couldn’t give a damn what his idiot friends thought. To him, you were the seventh wonder of the world.

You were clean and well-groomed, like you had the means and the care to keep yourself together. You were smart — book smart, unlike him. You read, and write, and you’re nice to people just ‘cause you want to be. You dress different, too. If Riff didn’t know any better, he’d say you weren’t even from the West Side at all.

Riff sits with you at a wooden picnic table next to the basketball court, listening to the scuff of shoes as he focuses on you and your fancy words. You’re telling him a story about the big city — one you read in a book, nonetheless. Riff is captivated.

“Whoa, wait—“ he holds up his hands to stop you. “What? What did you just say?” His brows are furrowed. He’d caught a word in your story that he didn’t recognize, and he wanted to understand better.