The Real Real by Emma McLaughlin, Nicola Kraus

We own you .”
    Knowing there is no “after,” that Caitlyn and I don’t cross paths again following lunch on Thursdays, I shuffle into the bustling cafeteria with twisted lips. I take my place at the end of the hot dog line and stare at the twelve rows of full tables that run from Loser Town by the beverage dispensers to Hipville at the windows. I have always sat comfortably in the middle, surrounded by other reasonably attractive people, like Rob DeNunzio, Emily Franken, Jennifer Lanford, people who have unembarrassing clothes, decent social skills, and solid senses of humor, but who lack things like sports cars and nose jobs and Elsa Peretti silver. I inch toward my tepid lunch meat and wonder if my ass hitting the orange Formica bench of Nico’s table will trigger the beginning of some Indiana Jones–
    style action sequence. Sand will pour out of the wall, and the whole table will gradually submerge, letting Nico and me into an alternative culture of friendship just waiting to 59

    be exposed all these years.
    Or she’ll finally tell me she hates my haircut.
    As the camera sharks over to Nico, I follow, now wondering if this has all been the most elaborate Punk’d ever.
    But across from Melanie and Nico is an empty spot.
    “Hey, is this Trisha’s?” I ask, pointing to the tray-sized space.
    Nico pauses the overstuffed bun to her mouth, already flecked with sauerkraut. “Trisha’s MIA, babe. C’mon down.” She exposes her palm in invitation.
    I rest my tray down, listening for sand. “What do you mean, MIA? I thought she was still recovering from her . . . accident.”
    Melanie looks up from where she’s carefully slicing fruit into her yogurt. “She hasn’t returned our calls.”
    “And her batshit insane mother will only say that she
    ‘needed a break’ and has gone to her aunt’s in West Palm.”
    Nico pauses to swallow. “What, like, she’s Britney and has to hide out and recoup?” She looks to Melanie. “She’s our best friend. I mean, I get you’re pissed but at least answer your phone. What if I needed her?” I lean forward to commiserate about Caitlyn, but Nico plows on. “She didn’t make the show. Get over it.” The edge to her voice in contrast to the dulcet maternal cooings in the bathroom suddenly makes me question if she knows about Trisha and Jase after all. She holds up her condiment-smeared hands, and Melanie reaches into her bag and passes her a Wet One. Nico blows her a kiss in gratitude.

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    “So . . . ” I start, knowing I should be bringing something to the table conversation-wise, but the nerves and camera stymie me.
    “Wait, is that Drew sitting with Jase ?” Nico asks in disbelief, swiveling her long torso on the bench.
    “Yes, XTV has sponsored Adopt-a-Dork Day,” I say on our collective behalf.
    “I didn’t mean it that way.” She reaches across and squeezes my forearm with her freshly cleaned palm. “It’s, just, what will they have to say to each other?”
    “Sex and sports.” I shrug.
    “Does Drew do either?” she asks, still swiveling and swanning to get a better look. “He doesn’t have a MySpace page, a Facebook page—he doesn’t Twitter.”
    “He runs cross-country. And I’m sure Jen broke him in,” Melanie quips.
    Nico snorts with laughter. Full-on snorts. Someday I would love to be able to be tall enough and blond enough that I could snort and still look cool.
    At the end of the day, with my camera-fueled adrenaline flatlining, I push out the front door into the biting air and watch as the yellow buses slowly snake out of the gates. I spot the Camry parked at the periphery of the emptying lot and, ignoring my bike, run over, my bag hitting against my hip. Leaning down on the passenger side, I see Caitlyn staring out the window, the tip of her thumbnail between her front teeth. “You okay?”

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    She nods but won’t look at me. I open the door and slide in. “Cay?” I start to lean forward, but she puts her other hand up in my