When the bell rings after third period, my spirits lift. I’m at ease, having survived another class without becoming a target. Navigating the school hallways today reminds me of tiptoeing through a minefield—one wrong step, and boom! After yesterday’s humiliation, the last thing I need is another round of public mockery.
Lunchtime, however, is a whole different battlefield. Stephanie, Ian, and I enter the cafeteria together, forming our own triangle of solidarity as we get in line for food. The noise is deafening, laughter and chatter all around us as people slowly crowd tables, trading gossip and complaints about classes.
“Hey, Dorkella!” someone calls from behind me. I remain still, but my face flushes at the reminder of that stupid note on my back. I take a steady breath. It’s not worth getting riled up.
Stephanie isn’t as eager to let it go as I am. She turns around, her voice loud and clear. “Knock it off.”
The laughter fades, and the kids avert their gaze, pretending they never said a word.
Ian turns to me and offers a sympathetic shrug. “People suck.” He sounds like he’s delivering some profound universal truth. And honestly? He’s not wrong.
With our trays in hand, we scan the room for an open table—one far away from the center where the Queen Bees usually gather. Theirs is the biggest table surrounded by all their subservient friends. They’re like a mini monarchy, ruling over the lunchroom like it’s their kingdom.
In the tables orbiting them are the wannabes—the kids who aren’t that popular but hover close enough to maybe, one day, be invited to sit with them. They’re the ones who laugh too hard at their jokes, like it’s a competition to earn a golden ticket to join their popular circle.
By the windows, you’ve got the artsy types—kids who seem to live in their own world of sketchbooks, indie music, and coffee shop poetry readings. I catch sight of one girl doodling in her notebook, probably sketching some deep, abstract piece no one else will get. I admire them from a distance, but it’s clear they’ve carved out their own corner of the cafeteria, one they aren’t keen on inviting outsiders into.
And then, in the far back, you’ve got the gamers and anime fans. They’re huddled together, likely swapping Dungeons and Dragons strategies and arguing over the latest anime plot twists. I’d fit in with them if it weren’t for the fact that they value in-game rankings and niche knowledge as the key to entry.
Finally, there are the band geeks and theater kids, putting on a show as they rehearse lines. They’re loud and inseparable—a community all their own, where everything and anything becomes a performance.
The far corner, near the garbage cans, is all that’s left for us. I lead the way, and we snake through the crowded lunchroom, dodging elbows.
Halfway to our destination, someone behind us shoves Ian, who stumbles forward and crashes right into Paige, knocking her milk carton onto the floor, where it explodes into a brown puddle.
“Look what you’ve done, you idiot!” Paige stares in horror at the milk splashed all over her designer shoes. She confronts Ian, fury burning in her eyes. I glance at Ian, whose face has gone completely pale. Is he terrified because Paige finally noticed him? Or is it the spilled milk that’s making him look like he might pass out? Hard to tell. Ian’s always had a weird thing for Paige—half afraid of her, half fascinated. Or maybe he’s just like any other guy in school, mesmerized by her good looks. Honestly, I don’t know what they all see in her.
Everyone in our immediate vicinity quiets down as they form a circle around us, and the students farther back crane theirnecks to see the commotion. Ian’s face turns beet red, and he stammers, “S-Sorry . . . I . . . someone pushed me.”
“He didn’t mean it,” I say, stepping forward. “Someone shoved him, and he accidentally bumped into you.”
Paige’s eyes narrow as she looks at me. “Oh, look. It’s Dorkella.” A ripple of laughter spreads through the crowd, feeding off her every word, and her lips curl into a condescending sneer. “I’ve had just about enough of you.” Her hand snatches the unopened chocolate milk from my tray.
“Paige, come on,” Stephanie says. “That’s unnecessary.”
“Oh, I think it’s perfectly necessary,” she replies, holding the carton up. “Your friend here spilled milk on my shoes, so it’s only fair I get even.” She flips the carton open and, with a satisfied grin, tips it over my head.
The liquid drips down my scalp in cold trickles, sinking into my hair and spreading across my favorite cream-colored sweater—the one Mom gave me for my birthday last year—before the shock of it all wanes and I leap back. I dodge some of the milk, but the damage is already done. Dark brown stains bloom across my shoulders like an ugly watercolor painting.
Once again, I’m on display for everyone to see. Some students point and whisper behind cupped hands, some gape open-mouthed, and others laugh at me. A few of the nicer kids wince in sympathy, but nobody—not a single person—steps forward to help. Shame crawls up my neck and sets my cheeks on fire.
“Hey, what’s your problem?” Stephanie says, stepping in between me and Paige, her shoulders squared and chin jutting forward like a boxer ready for a fight.
The laughers die down as everyone waits for Paige’s response. There’s my hammering heart again. Knowing her, this will only make things worse.
Paige cocks an eyebrow, her lips curling into that smirk I’ve grown to dread since freshman year. Her eyes flick from me to Stephanie, calculating and cold. “You must be thirsty, too.”
I grab Stephanie’s arm, pulling her back. “Don’t. She’s not worth it.” My cheeks flame with embarrassment, and I know full well if this escalates, it’s going to be us getting detention, not them.
“Oh, look who’s got a backbone now,” Paige taunts, poking me in the shoulder with one manicured finger.
“That was uncalled for,” Ian says, his voice small but defiant. He puts on a brave face, but his trembling hands betray his fear.
Paige’s eyes widen. “And you think your opinion matters?” She steps closer to Ian, tilting her head. “Aww, you’re kind of cute.”
Ian’s eyes fly wide. “I . . . I am?”
Stephanie elbows Ian on the side, and he winces. His gaze shifts to Stephanie, who’s glaring at him, then back to Paige. “Right . . . you shouldn’t have done that. You’re better than this.”
