I could save five dollars. It was an accident and I will try to make it up to you. I think all this in Darla’s direction, as a kind of silent apology in case Catherine rips her face off before I can calm her down.
“It’s probably just another girl named Darla. That’s a pretty common name. Nowadays.” I shrug. Smile.
Catherine grimaces. “Were you dropped on your head as a child?”
Distraction is my best defense right now. Like tanking in a MMORPG, taking all the damage so your weaker allies can do their thing without getting smashed. And maybe run away.
“Sooo . . . bread, huh?” I gesture to the package of Wonder Bread on our table. “Sliced bread—gotta love that. That’s why people are always saying stuff is ‘the best thing since sliced bread.’ Were you gonna make toast? Toast is awesome.”
“You’re an idiot,” she says.
And then the bell rings. Saved! I gather up my books and proceed to drop them, trip, and sprawl out on the floor in front of Catherine—“Oops! Sorry, sorry!”—so that Darla has a chance to haul her scrawny butt out of danger.
Catherine regards me with so much scorn she could totally scorch toast with her eyes. “Uh, see you at lunch?” I call after her. She shoves past me and doesn’t bother to turn around.
The friend count stays firmly at one.
6
LUNCH USED TO BE the highlight of my day. I’d sit with my friends, chill, eat whatever nutritious meal my mom packed for me without worrying that someone slipped a razor blade into my sandwich, and I’d copy Henry’s math homework so I didn’t have to do my own. But now? It’s sad to say this, but I’d rather be in class.
It’s like anarchy central in the cafeteria. Here, the students are free to roam and attack whomever they want. Without a teacher to actively ignore, their focus is entirely on chaos and mayhem. Which, you know, I might enjoy if I were totally unhinged.
Did I mention that adult supervision is almost nonexistent in the cafeteria? The music teacher and the math teacher are standing next to the garbage can, making sure nobody misses and throws their trash on the floor, trading stories about the times they’ve knocked naughty students unconscious by clocking them with a yardstick. (Okay, so I’m making that part up. But I wouldn’t put it past them.)
Are they paying attention to us? Noooo, not really.
I unpack my lunch (turkey sandwich, Oreos, apple) and wave when I spot Darla. She bustles through the crowd, her huge backpack sagging behind her.
“Hi!” She grabs a seat next to me. “Looks like we both survived!”
“About that . . .” I cough. “You know Catherine? In our science class?”
“The, uh, your lab partner?”
Darla slurps extra hard on her juice box—a sure sign that she’s hiding something.
“Right. Well, she kind of thinks you’ve been stalking her. And she wants to eviscerate you.”
The extra-loud slurping has now turned to choking. I pound her on the back (lightly!) and she coughs it up.
“Don’t worry—I think we can call a truce. But I have to know what’s going on. Do you have a crush on her or something?”
“Ohmygod what?! ” Darla squeezes her juice box and apple juice sprays into my eye.
Tingly. Ow.
“No, I don’t have a crush on her!”
I wipe my eye with the back of my hand. “Well, whatever’s at the root of your stalkerish behavior, it’s making her uncomfortable. I think we need to work on your social skills.”
“But—I’m not stalking her! I’m trying to get to know her better! So that we can, um . . .” She peers at me, almost meekly. “I’m not sure if I can tell you yet.”
“Yet?”
“We have to be friends first, so you don’t think I’m a freak.”
“Darla?” I give her a look. “You’re wearing an ‘R.I.P. Marie Curie’ shirt and size sixty-two jeans. Anything you tell me can only improve things.”
“Not necessarily,” she mumbles.
“All right, look: you think about it. I’ll be right back. If
“It’s probably just another girl named Darla. That’s a pretty common name. Nowadays.” I shrug. Smile.
Catherine grimaces. “Were you dropped on your head as a child?”
Distraction is my best defense right now. Like tanking in a MMORPG, taking all the damage so your weaker allies can do their thing without getting smashed. And maybe run away.
“Sooo . . . bread, huh?” I gesture to the package of Wonder Bread on our table. “Sliced bread—gotta love that. That’s why people are always saying stuff is ‘the best thing since sliced bread.’ Were you gonna make toast? Toast is awesome.”
“You’re an idiot,” she says.
And then the bell rings. Saved! I gather up my books and proceed to drop them, trip, and sprawl out on the floor in front of Catherine—“Oops! Sorry, sorry!”—so that Darla has a chance to haul her scrawny butt out of danger.
Catherine regards me with so much scorn she could totally scorch toast with her eyes. “Uh, see you at lunch?” I call after her. She shoves past me and doesn’t bother to turn around.
The friend count stays firmly at one.
6
LUNCH USED TO BE the highlight of my day. I’d sit with my friends, chill, eat whatever nutritious meal my mom packed for me without worrying that someone slipped a razor blade into my sandwich, and I’d copy Henry’s math homework so I didn’t have to do my own. But now? It’s sad to say this, but I’d rather be in class.
It’s like anarchy central in the cafeteria. Here, the students are free to roam and attack whomever they want. Without a teacher to actively ignore, their focus is entirely on chaos and mayhem. Which, you know, I might enjoy if I were totally unhinged.
Did I mention that adult supervision is almost nonexistent in the cafeteria? The music teacher and the math teacher are standing next to the garbage can, making sure nobody misses and throws their trash on the floor, trading stories about the times they’ve knocked naughty students unconscious by clocking them with a yardstick. (Okay, so I’m making that part up. But I wouldn’t put it past them.)
Are they paying attention to us? Noooo, not really.
I unpack my lunch (turkey sandwich, Oreos, apple) and wave when I spot Darla. She bustles through the crowd, her huge backpack sagging behind her.
“Hi!” She grabs a seat next to me. “Looks like we both survived!”
“About that . . .” I cough. “You know Catherine? In our science class?”
“The, uh, your lab partner?”
Darla slurps extra hard on her juice box—a sure sign that she’s hiding something.
“Right. Well, she kind of thinks you’ve been stalking her. And she wants to eviscerate you.”
The extra-loud slurping has now turned to choking. I pound her on the back (lightly!) and she coughs it up.
“Don’t worry—I think we can call a truce. But I have to know what’s going on. Do you have a crush on her or something?”
“Ohmygod what?! ” Darla squeezes her juice box and apple juice sprays into my eye.
Tingly. Ow.
“No, I don’t have a crush on her!”
I wipe my eye with the back of my hand. “Well, whatever’s at the root of your stalkerish behavior, it’s making her uncomfortable. I think we need to work on your social skills.”
“But—I’m not stalking her! I’m trying to get to know her better! So that we can, um . . .” She peers at me, almost meekly. “I’m not sure if I can tell you yet.”
“Yet?”
“We have to be friends first, so you don’t think I’m a freak.”
“Darla?” I give her a look. “You’re wearing an ‘R.I.P. Marie Curie’ shirt and size sixty-two jeans. Anything you tell me can only improve things.”
“Not necessarily,” she mumbles.
“All right, look: you think about it. I’ll be right back. If
Similar Books
