Slow Burn (11 page)

Oh, but the cafet
eria is like a Las Vegas buffet.  I can’t believe the selection of food, and the quality of it.  I could write a poem about the salad bar.  No, I couldn’t.  I don’t like salad that much.  But it’s amazing!

Instead of l
ong tables like in Jefferson’s cafeteria, Leclare has round ones like in a restaurant.  I notice Nick and Mack, and the others in the center of the room, at what looks to be the tables of honor.  The rest of the tables form circles around them, with the popular kids in the inside circle, and the less popular ones on the outside.  If they gilded the table and hung a neon sign proclaiming “This is the Elite,” it would be less obvious.  Of course, we had the division of social classes at my old school, but…not so obvious as this.

Back at Jefferson, I knew my place
.  Heather and I got along with mostly everyone, though we didn’t hang out with any one clique.  We were popular in our own way, I guess.  Of course, my status raised considerably at the end of junior year when I started dating Johnny. 

If I were still dating him, I would be assured a place at the elite table.  I could be a sea harpy.
 

I slink through the
lunch line, noticing Nick occasionally glancing around the cafeteria—is he looking for me?  I am not sitting with them.  I’m not sitting with the sea harpies.  I unconsciously pick food that would do a fair amount of damage if thrown at someone’s face.  They have chili.  Not my favorite dish, but it’s the perfect food to dump over a mean girl’s head.

Well, now that I have my tray, what now?  I quickly scan the
crowded cafeteria, looking for an open table, or maybe a friendly face.  I catch the eyes of several guys who smile at me.  But it’s not the “come sit with me, I’d like to get to know you” kind of smile.  It’s the other kind, the “yeah, I’m looking at you, but only ‘cause you’re female” pervert smile.

I could have stood there like an idiot forever, but then I notice a table in the corner whose occupants look like they’re getting ready to leave
.  Gripping my tray tightly, I make a beeline for that table.

Only to get beat there by an obnoxious
group of girls.  And they get there just before I do—which leaves me standing at their table with my tray and a sour expression, while they settle their butts on the chairs, cackling at me.

At least it’s not
the spiteful kind of laughter.  More like, “ha, we beat you!”  One of the girls even looks like she’s going to say something to me, maybe ask me join them (ha).  She looks up—then past me, her eyes growing wide.

I glance over my shoulder to see what she’s looking at
.

Dean.

I love how he’s suddenly the center of attention.  How could he not be?  He looks too perfect to be real, tall and beautiful in his crisp school uniform.  Like someone stole him from a sexy cologne ad, and Photoshopped him into a high school cafeteria scene. 

The table-stealers react as if a celebrity has dropped into their midst.  They blush and
giggle, staring up at Dean in awe.  He ignores them, looking down at me with his extraordinary eyes.  They look incandescent under the harsh glare of the fluorescent lights.

I blink up at him.  “Um.  Hi.”

He grabs my tray while I’m trying not to stare at the thin scar above his mouth.  “Come with me.”

I haven’t lost m
y grip on my tray.  I try to pull it back, but Dean’s a lot stronger than I am, and the tray doesn’t budge.  “No, thanks,” I say firmly, tugging harder.  “I don’t really feel like sitting with everyone today.”

His expression holds a hint of impatience at our little tug of war
.  “We’re not staying here.  Come on.”

Surprised, I let go.  “Where are we going?”

He doesn’t answer, and I have to hurry my pace to keep up with him.  The two of us together doesn’t escape the notice of—well, the whole cafeteria.  I hear my name being called.  Mack is waving at me and gesturing for me to come over.  I wave back, but continue to follow Dean toward the exit.  Along the way, he dumps my food in the trash bin and sets the tray on a nearby rack.

“Hey,” I say, catching up to him as he heads out through the double doors.  “I was going to eat that.”

Finally, he spares me a glance.  “No, you weren’t.  I’ll take you to get some real food.”

“What?”  I stop abruptly in the hall.

With a sigh I sense more than see, Dean slows down, and half turns to face me.  “Do you want to eat, or not?”

“I was planning to,” I say.  “Until you threw my food away.”

“You were going to eat five stale rolls and two bowls of lukewarm chili?”

“Maybe I was. 
Why do you care?”  I cross my arms over my chest, and wait for his reply.

Dean pauses, running a hand quickly over his jaw.  “Johnny told me to look out for you,” he mutters
at last, glancing away.  “I owe him a favor.”

Of course!  I should have known.

“Ugh!” I exclaim, throwing my hands up in the air.  I start to stomp away, then suddenly stop and whirl around again.  “Look, I appreciate you rescuing me from a potentially awkward situation in there, but I don’t need anyone looking out for me—especially on Johnny’s behalf.  You don’t have to take me out for a pity lunch.  I’ll be fine.”

A flash of annoyance crosses Dean’s
perfect features.  He stares down at the keys in his hand.  “Don’t make a big deal out of this.  It’s a meal, not a date.”

“I know it’s not a date,” I say through clenched teeth, my temper rising.  “And I’m not making a big deal out of it.  I’m simply saying I’d rather not. 
So, you know, don’t do me any favors.”

“I’m not.  You need to eat, I need to eat.
”  He shrugs his broad shoulders.  “Might as well do it together.”

Why is he hassling me about this?  “No, thanks.  I’m
suddenly not hungry.”

Again, I try to walk away, but his deep growly voice stops me.

“You have something against lunch, or you have something against me?”

I glance at him over my shoulder.  “Do you really need to ask?”

He shakes his head slightly.  “You’re still stubborn.”

“And you’re still a bully.”

I toss this out without turning around again.  Still, I can feel Dean’s stare burning into my retreating form.  I don’t look back.

So,
I’m irritated and hungry, and now there’s no time to grab something from the cafeteria.  Not that I wanted to go back in there, anyway.  I change course and head for the bathroom down the hall.  I guess I’ll just hide in there for the few minutes I have left.

Pathetic, I know.

I luck out in Bi
ology.  Ms. Sepulveda, a tiny woman, looks too tired and depressed to give a damn.  She whispers something incomprehensible when I introduce myself to her, and gestures vaguely toward some empty seats at the back of the class.  While I head straight to the last row, she flicks off the lights, and pops in a video about cell cycles.

My stomach is growling so loud right now. 
I try coughing to disguise the telltale roar, but I know the people around me aren’t fooled.

After a pa
rticularly vicious growl, the girl at the desk in front of me turns around, grinning.  The first thing I notice about her is her nose, which is large and slightly off-center.  Strangely, it works with her face, giving it a quirky appeal.  Also, she has some big hair.  The wild black curls that swirl around her face give the impression of sentient life.  I can easily imagine a lock of it springing out and wrapping itself around my neck.

“Hi,”
she says in a loud bright voice.  “Your name’s Juliet, right?  I’m Tanya.  So, where are you from?”  Her curls bounce nervously with her most minute movement.

I kind of want to stick a hand out and see if her hair will shake it.  “Hey,” I say, sitting up straight, and forcing a smile to my lips.  “I actually just transferred from Jefferson.”

“Oh?”  She tilts her head, curious and birdlike.  “How come?”

Well, there’s one person who hasn’t heard the gossip.  I shrug one shoulder.  I decide to give her a half-truth.  “My grandmother offered to pay for my tuition.”

“Nice grandmother.  I have a cousin who goes to Jefferson.  Cecily Patel?  She’s a sophomore.”  She watches me expectantly for recognition.

I shake my head slightly, and smile regretfully.  “Sorry, I don’t know her.”  Why am I apologizing?

It’s her turn to shrug.  “Eh, I’m not surprised.  She’s not exactly popular.  Got the family nose.”  She points proudly to the beaky protuberance on her face.  It seems to wiggle a little.  Did she do that on purpose?  Fascinating!

She twists all the around in her seat so she can face me
, swinging her bony legs around.  “So, you know Dean Youngblood?  I saw you talking to him in the cafeteria.”

She says his name so reverentially, I kind of want to say it, too.  To see if she’ll fall to the ground in supplication. 
The worshipful way she says it cancels out her cool self-deprecation. 

She waits breathlessly for me to reply, hair seemingly on the ready to strike.  I glance toward the front of the room, checking the alertness level of Ms. Sepulveda.  She appears to be asleep with her eyes wide open.  Most of the peopl
e in class are blatantly taking advantage of her inattentiveness, talking amongst themselves and completely ignoring the video.

I turn my attention back to Tanya.  “Not really,” I say.  I probably look I’m about to say more, but I don’t. 

“But he was talking to you,” she says, enunciating each syllable.

“Yeah, that was…he was just letting me know I had something in my teeth,” I mumble, baring my teeth to illustrate.

Tanya’s upper lip lifts slightly, reflexively imitating my expression, and revealing a cute little “fang.”  “Right,” she says sarcastically.  “Well, don’t get your hopes up over him.”

“What do you mean?”

She leans in conspiratorially.  “Dean Youngblood doesn’t
date
.”

She pauses, waiting for me to demand clarification.  I don’t.
  “Okay,” I say.  “Thanks.”

Then I focus my gaze on the stupid video. 
I can see Tanya’s disappointed frown out of the corner of my eye, but I don’t care.  I’m pretty sure she only talked to me so she could find out about Dean.  I had thought  her quirky and interesting-looking, but now she looks like an evil tree. I’m probably being a bitch right now.  I get really crabby when I don’t eat.  I blame Dean.

My stomach makes
horrible noises, like there’s an epic battle being fought in there.  Heads swivel to look in my direction, and a few of them start chuckling.  I sink down in my seat, mortified.

The day’s almost over, the day’s almost over, the day’s…

Rawr!

Never going to end.

I was looking forward to AP Lit—until I remember that Dean will be there.  I hope we can just go back to ignoring each other.  I also hope my stomach will behave itself.

Oh, wait!  I put a granola bar and an energy drink in my backpack this morning, I’m almost positive.  I don’t know if it’ll be enough to appease my rumbly tummy, but it’s better than nothing—and I have to go by my locker to get to class, anyway.

I’m sucking down my cherry flavored drink when I spot Ben in the hallway, leaning against the wall, and doing something on his phone.  I’m so relieved to see a familiar face, I don’t really pay attention to the bitch patrol as they head toward me.

They’re giggling in that nasty superior way that girl
s have when they’re about to decimate another girl.  They make sure to look directly at me as we cross paths—in case I don’t realize that I’m the object of their ridicule.

“Slut,” one of them says distinctly.

Another girl reaches out, snake quick, and suddenly I feel the back of my short skirt yanked all the way up, exposing my lacy boy shorts for everyone in the crowded halls to see.

Adrenaline shoots into my blood, and my face flames with fury and embarrassment.  I immediately turn and throw my cherry-colored drink in the offending girl’s f
ace.  Not the container itself—just the entire contents. 

There are several outraged gasps, as well as cackling laughter.
  Everyone stops to rubberneck, and few male voices start chanting, “fight, fight!”

“You bitch!” Cherry-Flavored Girl screeches, wiping the sticky juice off her face with both hands.  She stares incredulously down at her uniform, stained
bloody by the dark liquid.  Her friends simultaneously glare at me while trying to stifle their laughter.

“Sorry
,” I say when she gets up in my face.  “This really strong wind just blew through here.  It lifted up my skirt, and made me throw my drink in your face.  That was so weird.”

CFG i
s not amused.  Her face is red—or is the dye?  “Do you have any idea how much trouble you’re in?!” she seethes.

“She’s right,” a familiar male voice speaks up.