going to eat today, and I quickly pick out Sarah in the crowd. It’s become second nature for me to identify her wherever I go just to make sure I can avoid her. She’s doing her usual routine of pretending to waffle over whether to eat a salad or splurge on pizza. She'll probably get both again—she always does. By the time she decides and waits in line, though, her twenty-minute lunch break will be almost over. Ah, the luxury of choice.
I don't have her problem—nobody's ever in line for the stand I order from.
I push through the milling throng of students, squeeze between the tacos and the mall-style Chinese food, and head straight to the tiny lunch counter nestled in the back near the sinks.
The bored-looking lunch-lady slumps behind a point of sale system that probably costs more than a year supply of the bland, unappetizing food it's about to ring up.
"Good afternoon, Mrs. Harris," I greet the rotund woman behind the counter as I hand her my lunch card. She dips her hair-netted beehive respectfully in reply, punches my card and then slaps a plate of gray, runny stroganoff onto my plate alongside a poppy seed muffin left over from breakfast. She goes back to what looks to be a very lonely game of tic-tac-toe scribbled on a napkin next to the register.
This is the lunch counter for students who can't afford the other stands—my own personal lunch counter. I'm the only Fdivll
"Thank you, Mrs. Harris."
She bobs her enormous hair again as I duck back into the jostling crowd, jealously guarding my lunch as I fight my way toward the tables. It’s almost pathetic how much my body wants me to eat this crap. It's as if my stomach's forgotten what real food tastes like and thinks this stuff will actually be delicious.
A girl I don't even know sticks her foot out in front of me, but I'm way ahead of her. I cut to the left, dodge her attempt to trip me and make my way safely out of the crowd. Woodbridge isn't so much a school as an obstacle course to me. Every student is a potential hazard, someone looking for the opportunity to humiliate me. Even the ones who don't bother me... well, I can't trust them anymore. I never know who hates me and who is just indifferent to my presence here. I hate feeling as if I always have to be on guard, always ready for the next person to try to drive me out of their precious school. I knew it'd be like this if I went to the high school downtown, but out here? No way.
At least I’m adapting. Sort of.
"Now where to sit today..." I mutter to myself, scanning the cafeteria as I wander along the rows of tables. I don't know why I'm even bothering to look; I always end up sitting in the same place anyway. You always expect the popular clique to look down on you, but even the usual high school outcasts want nothing to do with me here. I'm in a class of my own at the very bottom of the food chain.
"Don't even think about sitting here, Nina," calls out a blond, pig-tailed girl from my Algebra class, her voice high and irritatingly nasal-sounding as she drops her backpack on the empty seat next to her. "We don't want you at our table."
The girls sitting at her table snicker, but I just roll my eyes and keep on walking. They're the last people on earth I'd want to sit with.
"Had no intention, Katie," I tell her as I pass. "I saw you sitting there yesterday and I wouldn't want to catch whatever diseases you left on the seat."
Katie's face turns bright red in embarrassment and fury as the table erupts in laughter. Good—let her have a taste of her own medicine for once. I’ll probably pay for it later, but it feels awesome to have the upper hand for now.
The next five tables are full, the sixth has a seat reserved for Sarah and the seventh spreads out to cover every seat when they see me coming. I knew this was coming but it still disappoints me all the same. A part of me still desperately wants to connect with someone here, even if
I don't have her problem—nobody's ever in line for the stand I order from.
I push through the milling throng of students, squeeze between the tacos and the mall-style Chinese food, and head straight to the tiny lunch counter nestled in the back near the sinks.
The bored-looking lunch-lady slumps behind a point of sale system that probably costs more than a year supply of the bland, unappetizing food it's about to ring up.
"Good afternoon, Mrs. Harris," I greet the rotund woman behind the counter as I hand her my lunch card. She dips her hair-netted beehive respectfully in reply, punches my card and then slaps a plate of gray, runny stroganoff onto my plate alongside a poppy seed muffin left over from breakfast. She goes back to what looks to be a very lonely game of tic-tac-toe scribbled on a napkin next to the register.
This is the lunch counter for students who can't afford the other stands—my own personal lunch counter. I'm the only Fdivll
"Thank you, Mrs. Harris."
She bobs her enormous hair again as I duck back into the jostling crowd, jealously guarding my lunch as I fight my way toward the tables. It’s almost pathetic how much my body wants me to eat this crap. It's as if my stomach's forgotten what real food tastes like and thinks this stuff will actually be delicious.
A girl I don't even know sticks her foot out in front of me, but I'm way ahead of her. I cut to the left, dodge her attempt to trip me and make my way safely out of the crowd. Woodbridge isn't so much a school as an obstacle course to me. Every student is a potential hazard, someone looking for the opportunity to humiliate me. Even the ones who don't bother me... well, I can't trust them anymore. I never know who hates me and who is just indifferent to my presence here. I hate feeling as if I always have to be on guard, always ready for the next person to try to drive me out of their precious school. I knew it'd be like this if I went to the high school downtown, but out here? No way.
At least I’m adapting. Sort of.
"Now where to sit today..." I mutter to myself, scanning the cafeteria as I wander along the rows of tables. I don't know why I'm even bothering to look; I always end up sitting in the same place anyway. You always expect the popular clique to look down on you, but even the usual high school outcasts want nothing to do with me here. I'm in a class of my own at the very bottom of the food chain.
"Don't even think about sitting here, Nina," calls out a blond, pig-tailed girl from my Algebra class, her voice high and irritatingly nasal-sounding as she drops her backpack on the empty seat next to her. "We don't want you at our table."
The girls sitting at her table snicker, but I just roll my eyes and keep on walking. They're the last people on earth I'd want to sit with.
"Had no intention, Katie," I tell her as I pass. "I saw you sitting there yesterday and I wouldn't want to catch whatever diseases you left on the seat."
Katie's face turns bright red in embarrassment and fury as the table erupts in laughter. Good—let her have a taste of her own medicine for once. I’ll probably pay for it later, but it feels awesome to have the upper hand for now.
The next five tables are full, the sixth has a seat reserved for Sarah and the seventh spreads out to cover every seat when they see me coming. I knew this was coming but it still disappoints me all the same. A part of me still desperately wants to connect with someone here, even if
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