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His gaze feels like an incision in my chest.
“Everyone has something someone else wants.”
I blink. That’s not what I expected him to say, and he’s looking at me the same way he did earlier...like he has X-ray vision clear to my soul.
“You should stop doing that,” I say. It feels like I’m standing next to a heater.
He looks confused. “What?”
“Staring at me like that.”
He smiles a little and lowers his eyes to the floor, attempting to hide the pink coloring on those high cheekbones. I feel the loss of his gaze immediately—where I was warm before, now I’m cold.
“Sorry. I...didn’t mean to.”
I want to cram those words back into my mouth and swallow them whole, but I can’t, and I don’t speak. What can I say anyway? I take it back, stare all you want? This is best. Pretty boys are trouble—hadn’t I learned that?
Lennon rejoins us and carries on the conversation. I keep waiting for Shy to leave, but he moves through the line beside me, and invites us to sit with him at an already-crowded table. My chest tightens and my stomach flutters, but not in the good way, no butterflies. This is like a spider has burrowed deep in my belly, spun a web, and captured flies. That’s pretty much how I feel right now—like a fly, trapped. Especially when I notice Natalie at the table.
If I weren’t trying so hard for Mom, I’d have left the congested cafeteria and found a spot outside to eat my lunch where there is no fear my true self will peek through a crack I haven’t managed to seal. Then I think of that spirit who left her spot above the doors at Emerson Hall to come looking for me and decide it’s best if I stay inside.
I sit wedged between Shy and another student I don’t know. Lennon takes a seat diagonally across from me. I keep my eyes on my plate. The lumpy thing at its center is called a soy burger. I’m wondering if it is edible when someone places the ketchup near my hand. I look beside me and meet Shy’s stare.
“Just douse it in ketchup. It tastes fine.”
I scrunch my nose but take his advice. It seems he’s survived a few years on Nacoma Knight cafeteria food.
Soon, Shy’s friends direct their attention to me. I let my hands fall in my lap, fiddling with the hem of my skirt as they begin their interrogation.
“So, where are you from, Anora?” A boy with short, black hair and a great smile asks me. His name is Jacobi. From what I gather, he’s on the football team and one of Shy’s best friends. I notice others have started to stare, and I feel like a lion’s prey. I think about Roundtable—what do these people want from me that they haven’t found there?
“Chicago.”
“Why’d you move to Oklahoma?”
“My mom moved here for a job.” It is the easiest thing to say—and the most normal. Lots of kids move because of their parents, right? I catch Shy’s gaze as I answer, it says: That’s not so complicated.
“Oh, that’s cool,” Jacobi responds.
“I heard you got kicked out of school,” Natalie’s declaration surrounds me like a net cast out for capture, and I go rigid, tightening my fists in my lap. She stares at me and the voices at our table go quiet. I wonder if people believe everything that comes out of her mouth since her father is headmaster.
“Starting rumors already, Natalie?” That question comes from Shy and surprises me—how does he know she’s lying?
She lifts her chin and her eyes narrow. It reminds me of the look a cat might give a mouse before it pounces. “It’s not a rumor.”
Everyone’s watching me, but I don’t owe them an explanation. Maybe I started fights, maybe I set fires, maybe I broke down because I can see the dead. I prefer any of those over the truth.
At Shy’s dismissal, Natalie lets the subject drop, and the table lapses into a discussion of Friday’s game and next week’s homecoming events. It’s the third time I’ve heard about homecoming today, and with Shy sitting beside me, his heat invading my space and warming my skin, I start to entertain the idea of going...which is dangerous.
I make the mistake of looking at him and find he’s watching me.
I don’t tell him to stop this time.
He nods to my plate, encouragingly. “The food’s really not so bad.”
I reach for the burger and take a big bite, ketchup oozes onto my fingers. The food is gritty and all I can taste is tomatoes. I want to spit it out, but I still feel like everyone’s watching me—Shy, in particular—and how attractive would that be?
Just as attractive as throwing up, I remind myself as I manage to swallow my mostly un-chewed food, wincing as it goes down.
