Road—which is the main drag through downtown Clayton, up and down which people who have cars drive them every Saturday night—there is no other place that is more of a "scene" than the Clayton High School cafeteria. You can’t just grab your food and go and sit down at a table and eat at Clayton High.
No, you have to walk down this long aisle of tables to get to where the food is sold—even if all you want is milk or a soda or whatever.
And while you walk down that aisle, every eye in the caf is on you. Seriously. It is in the caf that reputations are made or broken, depending on how cool you look as you walk up and down that aisle.
Unless, of course, you’re me. Then, frankly, no one cares.
Luke, however, didn’t know that. He stood in the doorway, staring in horror at the aisle, down which Courtney Deckard and some of her posse were sashaying.
"My God," he breathed. It was kind of hard to hear him above the noise. "It’s worse than Sky Bar."
Trina piped up with, "We call it the catwalk. You ready to strut your stuff?"
Still looking stunned, Luke followed us as we made our way down the catwalk and toward the concession line. I didn’t exactly notice the din lessen any as we went by, but I was definitely conscious that we’d managed to capture the attention of every female—from the tiniest freshman all the way to the most senior lunch lady—in the room.
Luke hardly seemed aware of the buzz he was creating. It was like he was in shock. When I handed him a tray, he took it wordlessly. When the lunch lady asked him if wanted corn or green beans, he seemed unable to make a choice. I told her corn, since it seemed to me that Luke, as a visitor to our state, might want to try the vegetable for which it is best known.
Once our trays were full, we made our way to the cash register, where Luke was still apparently too stunned to fish out the two bucks his lunch cost. I paid. It’s a good thing I’m such a popular baby-sitter—being boyfriendless, I am always available on Saturday night—because, otherwise, if I have to keep paying for Luke everywhere we go, I might go broke.
Trina and I put our trays down at the same table we’d been sitting at every day since freshman year—exactly in the middle of the room between the popular kids—the trendsetters—and the kids who weren’t sensitive enough to have to eat in the choir room but weren’t popular enough to sit with the jocks—the trend followers.
Trina and I aren’t the only ones at the middle table. There’s a bunch of other people who sit there, too. Those people include, but are not restricted to, by any means, most of the school’s Merit scholars, brainiacs, computer geeks, drama freaks, punks, and the staff of the Clayton High
Register
.
Geri Lynn nearly choked on her flat Diet Coke as Luke Striker sat down in the chair beside hers and stared broodingly down at his food.
"Oh, hi," she said. "You must be Lucas."
See? See how fast word travels? I hadn’t even seen Geri Lynn yet that day, and she’d already heard about the new guy. Could you imagine if word got out about my being Ask Annie? How short a time it would take to make it all the way around the school?
Luke didn’t even look at Geri. Instead, he picked up his fork and stabbed at the food on his tray.
"What
is
this?" he wanted to know.
"Salisbury steak," I said. I myself had gotten pizza. I probably ought to have warned him to order off the concession line and not get the school lunch. But I’d figured that maybe, in his eagerness to experience everything midwestern, he’d want to try the steak.
"I’m a vegetarian," Luke said, mostly to the steak.
"They've got a salad bar," Trina, who wavers between ovo and lacto, depending on her mood, offered helpfully.
Scott had brought his own lunch, as he does every day. It’s usually whatever he had cooked for dinner for himself and his dad the night before, neatly packed in Tupperware containers. Today’s seemed to contain baked
No, you have to walk down this long aisle of tables to get to where the food is sold—even if all you want is milk or a soda or whatever.
And while you walk down that aisle, every eye in the caf is on you. Seriously. It is in the caf that reputations are made or broken, depending on how cool you look as you walk up and down that aisle.
Unless, of course, you’re me. Then, frankly, no one cares.
Luke, however, didn’t know that. He stood in the doorway, staring in horror at the aisle, down which Courtney Deckard and some of her posse were sashaying.
"My God," he breathed. It was kind of hard to hear him above the noise. "It’s worse than Sky Bar."
Trina piped up with, "We call it the catwalk. You ready to strut your stuff?"
Still looking stunned, Luke followed us as we made our way down the catwalk and toward the concession line. I didn’t exactly notice the din lessen any as we went by, but I was definitely conscious that we’d managed to capture the attention of every female—from the tiniest freshman all the way to the most senior lunch lady—in the room.
Luke hardly seemed aware of the buzz he was creating. It was like he was in shock. When I handed him a tray, he took it wordlessly. When the lunch lady asked him if wanted corn or green beans, he seemed unable to make a choice. I told her corn, since it seemed to me that Luke, as a visitor to our state, might want to try the vegetable for which it is best known.
Once our trays were full, we made our way to the cash register, where Luke was still apparently too stunned to fish out the two bucks his lunch cost. I paid. It’s a good thing I’m such a popular baby-sitter—being boyfriendless, I am always available on Saturday night—because, otherwise, if I have to keep paying for Luke everywhere we go, I might go broke.
Trina and I put our trays down at the same table we’d been sitting at every day since freshman year—exactly in the middle of the room between the popular kids—the trendsetters—and the kids who weren’t sensitive enough to have to eat in the choir room but weren’t popular enough to sit with the jocks—the trend followers.
Trina and I aren’t the only ones at the middle table. There’s a bunch of other people who sit there, too. Those people include, but are not restricted to, by any means, most of the school’s Merit scholars, brainiacs, computer geeks, drama freaks, punks, and the staff of the Clayton High
Register
.
Geri Lynn nearly choked on her flat Diet Coke as Luke Striker sat down in the chair beside hers and stared broodingly down at his food.
"Oh, hi," she said. "You must be Lucas."
See? See how fast word travels? I hadn’t even seen Geri Lynn yet that day, and she’d already heard about the new guy. Could you imagine if word got out about my being Ask Annie? How short a time it would take to make it all the way around the school?
Luke didn’t even look at Geri. Instead, he picked up his fork and stabbed at the food on his tray.
"What
is
this?" he wanted to know.
"Salisbury steak," I said. I myself had gotten pizza. I probably ought to have warned him to order off the concession line and not get the school lunch. But I’d figured that maybe, in his eagerness to experience everything midwestern, he’d want to try the steak.
"I’m a vegetarian," Luke said, mostly to the steak.
"They've got a salad bar," Trina, who wavers between ovo and lacto, depending on her mood, offered helpfully.
Scott had brought his own lunch, as he does every day. It’s usually whatever he had cooked for dinner for himself and his dad the night before, neatly packed in Tupperware containers. Today’s seemed to contain baked
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