“I’m trying to be more normal,” she says. Maybe I should adopt that as my life mantra.
I needn’t have worried about the cafeteria either. Meg plops down at the nearest empty table and starts gabbing away to me about the livestream, reliving all the funniest moments, before I’m even sitting. Her chatter lasts through every slow-chewed bite of my sandwich and at least partway through my apple, and it’s distracting enough that it makes this whole sitting-in-the-cafeteria thing okay. Or mostly okay. Okay enough that I can handle it.
As I start on the baby carrots, though, her voice fades away, and I look up to see her surveying the room.
I follow her gaze around the place—the lunch line, the back windows, the throngs of people filling the cafeteria’s long tables. Nowhere in particular, it seems.
“Hey, do you know that guy over there? I keep seeing him around. The way he clenches his jaw when he’s thinking reminds me of Legs.” Her voice is airy, as if she’s trying to whisper but forgot to turn down the volume knob.
“Which one?” There are at least a hundred guys in here.
“Over there. Floppy brown hair, red shirt. White, but kind of tan. Boxers usually showing, though you can’t see that from here.”
That doesn’t help at all, but considering that I know the names of approximately two people in this entire school, the chances are that I don’t know him. So many people, and I don’t know any of them. I shake my head.
“I call him Boxer Boy. Because of the boxers thing. I mean, not to his face. I don’t actually know him. I think he’s a grade above us. But he’s got a jawline just like LumberLegs, so I bet he’s as hilarious as Legs. Well, no one’s as hilarious as Legs, but I bet he’s close. If I can’t marry Legs, Boxer Boy would definitely do.”
I scan the room again, searching for red shirts. Literal red shirts, not Star Trek crew members destined to die. There are so many people. So many annoyances attacking my brain. The prattling strangers, the fluorescent lights, the ever-present aroma of nacho cheese. One disco ball . . . two migraine . . . three stampede . . .
I was wrong; I can’t handle this. “Want to go to the library to work on our science project?” I ask, a little too abruptly.
Her head snaps back to me. “Oh hell no! Are you kidding me? It’s like a cardinal sin to do homework at lunchtime. The only homework I’ll do at lunchtime is history, and that’s not really homework, it’s just reading random books about epic and weird stuff.”
“Well, when are we supposed to do it then? We still need a topic.”
“You can come over to my house this weekend. You said yourself that we have lots of time.”
I’ve never said that—she’s the one who repeated it as she settled into our home like she owned it—but the bustle of the cafeteria and the daunting thought of going to Meg’s unfamiliar house and the smell of that plastic cheese are all too loud and jumbled in my head to say that. Four unexplored territory . . . five fluorescent lights . . . six science project . . .
“Fine. Any chance you want to get out of here and go for a walk then?”
“Yes!” she practically shouts, and leaps to her feet, then sits right back down again. “Sorry, it’s just—no one ever wants to go for a walk at lunch. They just sit around blabbing on and on.”
I don’t bother pointing out the irony in her statement. “Well, let’s go then,” I say, rising. I gather the remains of my lunch. I should finish the baby carrots to prevent heart disease and eyesight deterioration, but sometimes I chew and chew and chew carrots to mulch in my mouth and still can’t figure out how to swallow them. I head toward the door, and Meg scurries after me and snatches the bag of carrots out of my hand. She pops one into her mouth like a gumdrop. “Don’t choke on that,” I warn her. “I don’t know the Heimlich.”
“Can’t I just throw myself over a chair or something?”
Okay, I lied—I do know the Heimlich, at least in theory. But we’re almost out of this noisy place, and I’m not stopping to explain.
I shrug and Meg pops another carrot in her mouth as we make it out the door.
We spend the rest of the lunch hour wandering about the school yard, walking laps around the football field and parking lot. Or at least, I walk. Meg’s walk is more of a saunter—sometimes forward, sometimes backward facing me, sometimes almost skipping around me like those whirling green shells in MarioKart.
It’s admittedly not the worst way to spend lunch. Better than being in the caf. Maybe tomorrow I’ll eat my lunch outside before going to the library to play LotS.
But at the end of lunch, Meg walks with me to my locker, then says, “See you tomorrow! Same time, same space! No, place. You know what I mean.” Then she’s off running down the hall.
So . . . I guess this is a thing now. Which shouldn’t make me smile, but for some reason it does.
LEGENDS OF THE STONE
[]Sythlight has entered the waterlands.
KittyKat: I like your new cloak
[]Sythlight: Thanks. I designed it myself.
KittyKat: really? how?
[]Sythlight: You can upload your own textures to the online profile. Not many people do it because it’s uber complex.
KittyKat: well it looks amazing. I <3 the black hood.
[]Sythlight: Thanks. I did one with a red hood too . . . couldn’t decide which looked better. Want to give me your opinion? www.blog.sythlight.com/art
[]Sythlight: So what do you think?
[]Sythlight has entered the barrenlands.
[]Sythlight: Found another rift.
[]Sythlight: You still there?
KittyKat: sorry, got distracted by all the stuff on your page. this artwork is incredible. I love the painting with the rocks and the darkening sky and the little duckling. it feels lonely. in a good way.
[]Sythlight: Thanks . . . I think. I did up that one for my final project last year.
KittyKat: I love it. what are you working on now?
[]Sythlight: For art class? Nothing. My dad thinks that since I’m a senior, I should be taking all “serious” classes to increase my chances of getting into university.
KittyKat: aren’t your grade ten and eleven classes more important? since they won’t even see this year’s marks until after you’re accepted?
[]Sythlight has entered the waterlands.
[]Sythlight: Don’t tell my dad that. He’ll figure out some way to create a time machine, go back in time, and retroactively remove me from grade ten and eleven art. Then, poof, that painting will disappear into nonexistence.
KittyKat: noooooooooo! not the painting! not nonexistence!
[]Sythlight: lol
[]Sythlight: waterling behind you
KittyKat: thanks
[]Sythlight: So which do you like better?
KittyKat: what?
[]Sythlight: The hoods . . . black or red?
KittyKat: oh right
KittyKat: black
KittyKat: the red is good too, but the black is particularly . . . I don’t know . . . . . . dark?
[]Sythlight: Profound. :P
KittyKat: shut up. I’m not an artist. how am I supposed to know what to say about artwork?
[]Sythlight: You don’t draw or do crafty stuff or anything?
KittyKat: nope, I can barely draw a circle