maybe Hannah Mornell was right—maybe a look at un popularity would be more interesting.”
I shook my head and stood up tall, which was a rare occurrence seeing that slumping was my default mode. “No. This is our opportunity to make a difference, like Robert Redford and Dustin Hoffman as Bob Woodward and Carl Bernstein in All the President’s Men when they exposed Watergate. Or Sally Field as Norma Rae in Norma Rae when she got better working conditions for the factory workers.” I stood up even taller. “We’ve come too far—we can’t turn back now.”
“We haven’t even started,” corrected Ari.
“We’re starting right now,” I said. “Come on.”
With that, the three of us walked across the cafeteria with the same amount of purpose as if it were downtown Baghdad and we were part of the ABC World News Tonight team.
I just prayed we didn’t step on any land mines on the way.
From the second we got up on The Ramp, it became clear that Dylan Schoenfield made Mrs. Tashlock, my trig teacher junior year who took points off if your paper had any creases in it, seem like the most easygoing person on the planet.
“Here’s a few more do’s and don’ts,” she said as we sat at a table with her, Hannah and Lola, and their three very bland-looking salads. Not one of them had bacon bits or croutons on them. “Josh. Josh . Are you listening to me?”
I wasn’t. I was too busy gazing down at the cafeteria floor from this new vantage point. I hadn’t really had a chance to take it in when I was up here before. I think I had expected it to look like the view from an airplane, but it wasn’t all that different. The people on the main floor looked exactly like they always did. It was a bit disappointing, to be honest.
“Sorry. What?” I asked, turning my attention back to her.
She thrust a few typed pages in my hand.
“‘Rule number 22: Do NOT shoot me from the right’,” I read. “ How come?”
“Because I don’t want anyone to see the hideous chicken-pox scar on my eyelid,” she replied, undoing her blonde ponytail and smoothing it out so it fell in front of her face.
“What scar?” I asked.
She yanked her hair off her face and leaned forward.
“Watch it!” I yelped, yanking her open Diet Coke can out of the way before it could spill on the expensive postdivorce-guilt camera my dad had bought me.
“ This scar,” said Dylan as she pointed to her eyelid.
Steven leaned in for a better look. “I don’t see anything.”
“Welcome to my world,” grumbled Lola, who was chewing each small forkful of salad at least fifty times before she swallowed. What was up with girls and the food stuff? I bet Amy Loubalu didn’t have weird food stuff going on. As beautiful and graceful as she was, I had a hunch that not only wasn’t she afraid of meat, but that she could jam three fries in her mouth and still look great.
“Look—there’s Asher,” Dylan said.
He was walking up The Ramp carrying a tray with two pieces of pizza, three cartons of milk, onion rings, and a cupcake.
“Asher!” she yelled, waving. Who knew such a tiny body could contain such a loud voice?
Like the other day, he tried to ignore her and keep walking.
“Babe! Over here!” she yelled louder.
He looked at his table of surfer buds and with a sigh trudged toward us. “Hey,” he said with the amount of enthusiasm usually reserved for a dentist visit.
“Sit next to me,” she said, pushing Ari off his seat so Asher could have it.
He looked like he’d rather do anything but. “Nah, I’m going to sit with my hombres,” he replied, gesturing with his chin at the next table.
“Oh,” she said, looking disappointed. “Text me later, then?”
He shrugged. “I guess,” he replied as he walked away.
“We’re really good at making sure we don’t spend every minute together,” Dylan explained. “’Cause that’s so not healthy.”
“Yeah, codependence is a killer,” said Steven.
As Dylan settled back
I shook my head and stood up tall, which was a rare occurrence seeing that slumping was my default mode. “No. This is our opportunity to make a difference, like Robert Redford and Dustin Hoffman as Bob Woodward and Carl Bernstein in All the President’s Men when they exposed Watergate. Or Sally Field as Norma Rae in Norma Rae when she got better working conditions for the factory workers.” I stood up even taller. “We’ve come too far—we can’t turn back now.”
“We haven’t even started,” corrected Ari.
“We’re starting right now,” I said. “Come on.”
With that, the three of us walked across the cafeteria with the same amount of purpose as if it were downtown Baghdad and we were part of the ABC World News Tonight team.
I just prayed we didn’t step on any land mines on the way.
From the second we got up on The Ramp, it became clear that Dylan Schoenfield made Mrs. Tashlock, my trig teacher junior year who took points off if your paper had any creases in it, seem like the most easygoing person on the planet.
“Here’s a few more do’s and don’ts,” she said as we sat at a table with her, Hannah and Lola, and their three very bland-looking salads. Not one of them had bacon bits or croutons on them. “Josh. Josh . Are you listening to me?”
I wasn’t. I was too busy gazing down at the cafeteria floor from this new vantage point. I hadn’t really had a chance to take it in when I was up here before. I think I had expected it to look like the view from an airplane, but it wasn’t all that different. The people on the main floor looked exactly like they always did. It was a bit disappointing, to be honest.
“Sorry. What?” I asked, turning my attention back to her.
She thrust a few typed pages in my hand.
“‘Rule number 22: Do NOT shoot me from the right’,” I read. “ How come?”
“Because I don’t want anyone to see the hideous chicken-pox scar on my eyelid,” she replied, undoing her blonde ponytail and smoothing it out so it fell in front of her face.
“What scar?” I asked.
She yanked her hair off her face and leaned forward.
“Watch it!” I yelped, yanking her open Diet Coke can out of the way before it could spill on the expensive postdivorce-guilt camera my dad had bought me.
“ This scar,” said Dylan as she pointed to her eyelid.
Steven leaned in for a better look. “I don’t see anything.”
“Welcome to my world,” grumbled Lola, who was chewing each small forkful of salad at least fifty times before she swallowed. What was up with girls and the food stuff? I bet Amy Loubalu didn’t have weird food stuff going on. As beautiful and graceful as she was, I had a hunch that not only wasn’t she afraid of meat, but that she could jam three fries in her mouth and still look great.
“Look—there’s Asher,” Dylan said.
He was walking up The Ramp carrying a tray with two pieces of pizza, three cartons of milk, onion rings, and a cupcake.
“Asher!” she yelled, waving. Who knew such a tiny body could contain such a loud voice?
Like the other day, he tried to ignore her and keep walking.
“Babe! Over here!” she yelled louder.
He looked at his table of surfer buds and with a sigh trudged toward us. “Hey,” he said with the amount of enthusiasm usually reserved for a dentist visit.
“Sit next to me,” she said, pushing Ari off his seat so Asher could have it.
He looked like he’d rather do anything but. “Nah, I’m going to sit with my hombres,” he replied, gesturing with his chin at the next table.
“Oh,” she said, looking disappointed. “Text me later, then?”
He shrugged. “I guess,” he replied as he walked away.
“We’re really good at making sure we don’t spend every minute together,” Dylan explained. “’Cause that’s so not healthy.”
“Yeah, codependence is a killer,” said Steven.
As Dylan settled back
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