What We Saw by Aaron Hartzler Page A

Speck last year:
    Iowa was once an ocean.
    Most days the varsity Buccaneers live up to their name—swashbuckling through lunch at full volume, but there’s an eerie, quiet urgency about their table today. Dooney and Deacon exchange terse whispers with Greg Watts. Randy Coontz is trying to convince them all of something, but seems to be failing.
    I leave the food line with a tray but before I walk down the three stairs to the level with the tables, I pause to scan the decks from this crow’s-nest view. Not too long—or everyone might stare at me—but enough time to chart my course.
    Lately, I’ve been hoping I’ll catch Ben’s eye from this top step and see that he has saved a seat for me right next to him, across from Phoebe and Dooney. This hasn’t happened yet. It’s one thing to talk to somebody. It’s another thing to eat lunch with them. The basketball Buccs keep tight ranks.
    Today, I don’t see Ben at all—or Phoebe for that matter. Ben may have snuck off campus with a couple of the seniors. Juniors aren’t supposed to leave for lunch, but the varsity players get a free pass on most of the little rules like that.
    Christy waves me down toward our usual table with Lindsey and Rachel. I am about to join them when I see a flash of long dark hair and bright red nails at the Coke machine. Something loosens in my chest—a knot I hadn’t realized was there. Stacey is here after all . I turn toward her as she grabs her Diet Coke and spins around—but it isn’t her after all. It’s a freshman I remember from JV tryouts when I helped Coach Hendrixtime the hundred-meter dash. She was fast, but afraid of getting kicked. I knew she didn’t stand a chance once scrimmages began. There are two types of team hopefuls: those who pull up short, close their eyes, and brace for impact, and those who race toward the ball almost longing for the possible pain of a collision. Only the latter makes a good soccer player.
    I walk down the stairs with my taco salad and sit across from Christy, who is finishing off everyone’s fruit cup. I hand her mine without a word and begin fishing the tortilla strips out of the lettuce. Every other Monday, I ask them to put the tortilla chip strips on the side. Every other Monday, I am ignored. As quickly as I pick them out, Christy crunches them down. This is our system.
    Lindsey and Rachel are both staring at their phones. We only have these scant twenty minutes to tap and tweet and text before fifth period begins and our blinking handheld portals to Anywhere But Here must be switched to silent in our lockers for another fifty minutes.
    â€œWhat’s with everyone today?” I ask Christy.
    She shrugs, chewing. “Whadayamean?”
    I point my fork toward Lindsey and Rachel. “Everybody with their faces buried in their screens. Are they looking for clues to find the horcrux? What’s so interesting?”
    â€œJust catching up on Dooney’s party,” says Rachel, without looking up. “Hashtag ‘doonestown.’ Some crazy pictures.”
    â€œAs long as none of them are of me . ”
    Rachel laughs it off, but it makes me nervous.
    â€œHey—what’s this hashtag?” Lindsey holds her phone out to Christy, who takes it from her and shows me. The picture of Stacey passed out is somehow worse now that I know she’s not at school today. There are three hashtags: #doonestown #buccs #r&p. I shrug and keep taking bites of my salad, but the ground beef is tough. I think of Ben’s contention that the tacos are made of cats and smile to myself.
    â€œWhat’s so funny?” Lindsey misses nothing.
    â€œHuh? Oh—nothing. Just . . . thinking about something . . .”
    All three of them start in at once:
    â€œOh, I’ll bet you are.”
    â€œYou mean some one .”
    â€œI won’t tell you his full name, but his initials are B-E-N-C-O-D-Y.”
    I am