ziti and garlic bread, which Scott had heated up in the caf’s microwave. It smelled really, really good.
"Are you going to eat that?" Scott asked Geri, in reference to the brownie in front of her.
"No, honey," Geri said, her gaze still locked on Luke. "You go ahead."
Scott picked up the brownie and took a bite. Then he made a face and set it down. The cafeteria staff’s culinary skills are not equal to his own.
"You eat here every day?" Luke asked, closely examining a piece of Salisbury steak he’d skewered.
"It’s a closed campus," I informed him. "Only seniors can leave school grounds at lunch. And even then, they only have Pizza Hut and McDonald’s to choose from. Every other place is too far to make it back before sixth period."
Luke sighed and scraped the steak off his fork.
"You want some of this?" Scott asked, indicating what was left of his ziti. "It’s got meat in it, but—"
Luke lowered his fork into Scott’s Tupperware container without waiting for further invitation. He took a bite of ziti, chewed, and swallowed. As he did so, I could not help noticing that the gaze of every female in the vicinity—from Trina to Geri to the Japanese exchange student, Hisae—was riveted on his manly jaw.
"Man," Luke said, after swallowing. "That’s good. Your mom make that or something?"
Scott isn’t at all sensitive about the fact that he likes to cook. Unlike some guys, he would never think to deny that he knows how to make ziti He didn’t do so in front of "Lucas" either.
"Nah, I made it myself," he said. "Go ahead, finish it up I’m gonna go get another soda."
Luke was scarfing down Scott’s ziti with an enthusiasm surprising for one who professed not to eat meat, when all of a sudden, the cafeteria erupted in moos. Seriously. It was like we’d suddenly wandered into the 4-H tent at the Duane County Fair or something.
Luke spun around in his seat, trying to figure out what was going on. But all he saw was what the rest of us saw every single day, Cara Schlosburg making her way down the catwalk from the concession line.
Poor Cara. It’s too bad she never made it into show choir. (She auditioned and everything, but didn’t get in. Some of the snottier sopranos said it’s because there aren’t any bras padded enough to mimic Cara’s chest and give us uniformity of appearance.) Because at least then she’d have had a safe place at lunchtime.
Instead, she tries to eat in the cafeteria like a normal person, and, frankly, that’s never quite seemed to work out for her.
Cara’s eves, as they always did, filled up with tears as the mooing increased in volume the farther down the catwalk she got. She was holding a tray containing her usual low-cal lunch—a plate of lettuce, dressing on the side, a few bread-sticks, and a diet soda.
But Kurt and his friends have no respect at all for the fact that Cara is trying, anyway, to lose weight. They just went on mooing, hardly even seeming aware they were doing it. I saw Courtney Deckard let out a moo, then go right back to her conversation with another cheerleader across the table from her, as if there hadn’t even been an interruption.
"Shut up, you guys," Cara screamed at the side of the room where the popular kids sat, which was where most—though not all—of the mooing was coming from. "It’s not funny!"
The saddest part of all is that I know Cara would have given anything in the world to be sitting there. You know, at the popular table with the mooers. Cara is one of those girls who worship the jocks and the cheerleaders, the popular people. I don’t know why, because I've taken part in conversations with them, with Courtney Deckard or whoever, and they always go something like this: "Did you check out the sale at Bebe this weekend? Wasn’t it the
best
?" or "I told them I wanted a French pedicure to show off my tan, but they made it way too pink, don’t you think?"
Not, you know, that the conversations at my lunch table are more
"Are you going to eat that?" Scott asked Geri, in reference to the brownie in front of her.
"No, honey," Geri said, her gaze still locked on Luke. "You go ahead."
Scott picked up the brownie and took a bite. Then he made a face and set it down. The cafeteria staff’s culinary skills are not equal to his own.
"You eat here every day?" Luke asked, closely examining a piece of Salisbury steak he’d skewered.
"It’s a closed campus," I informed him. "Only seniors can leave school grounds at lunch. And even then, they only have Pizza Hut and McDonald’s to choose from. Every other place is too far to make it back before sixth period."
Luke sighed and scraped the steak off his fork.
"You want some of this?" Scott asked, indicating what was left of his ziti. "It’s got meat in it, but—"
Luke lowered his fork into Scott’s Tupperware container without waiting for further invitation. He took a bite of ziti, chewed, and swallowed. As he did so, I could not help noticing that the gaze of every female in the vicinity—from Trina to Geri to the Japanese exchange student, Hisae—was riveted on his manly jaw.
"Man," Luke said, after swallowing. "That’s good. Your mom make that or something?"
Scott isn’t at all sensitive about the fact that he likes to cook. Unlike some guys, he would never think to deny that he knows how to make ziti He didn’t do so in front of "Lucas" either.
"Nah, I made it myself," he said. "Go ahead, finish it up I’m gonna go get another soda."
Luke was scarfing down Scott’s ziti with an enthusiasm surprising for one who professed not to eat meat, when all of a sudden, the cafeteria erupted in moos. Seriously. It was like we’d suddenly wandered into the 4-H tent at the Duane County Fair or something.
Luke spun around in his seat, trying to figure out what was going on. But all he saw was what the rest of us saw every single day, Cara Schlosburg making her way down the catwalk from the concession line.
Poor Cara. It’s too bad she never made it into show choir. (She auditioned and everything, but didn’t get in. Some of the snottier sopranos said it’s because there aren’t any bras padded enough to mimic Cara’s chest and give us uniformity of appearance.) Because at least then she’d have had a safe place at lunchtime.
Instead, she tries to eat in the cafeteria like a normal person, and, frankly, that’s never quite seemed to work out for her.
Cara’s eves, as they always did, filled up with tears as the mooing increased in volume the farther down the catwalk she got. She was holding a tray containing her usual low-cal lunch—a plate of lettuce, dressing on the side, a few bread-sticks, and a diet soda.
But Kurt and his friends have no respect at all for the fact that Cara is trying, anyway, to lose weight. They just went on mooing, hardly even seeming aware they were doing it. I saw Courtney Deckard let out a moo, then go right back to her conversation with another cheerleader across the table from her, as if there hadn’t even been an interruption.
"Shut up, you guys," Cara screamed at the side of the room where the popular kids sat, which was where most—though not all—of the mooing was coming from. "It’s not funny!"
The saddest part of all is that I know Cara would have given anything in the world to be sitting there. You know, at the popular table with the mooers. Cara is one of those girls who worship the jocks and the cheerleaders, the popular people. I don’t know why, because I've taken part in conversations with them, with Courtney Deckard or whoever, and they always go something like this: "Did you check out the sale at Bebe this weekend? Wasn’t it the
best
?" or "I told them I wanted a French pedicure to show off my tan, but they made it way too pink, don’t you think?"
Not, you know, that the conversations at my lunch table are more
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