“I had my earbuds in. I didn’t know the two of you were in here until I pulled them out,” he adds tossing his bag over his shoulder and crossing the room to where we have our things scattered across one of the tables. “This year, Headmaster Trejo is making sure athletes participate, male athletes specifically.”
“I’m not following,” I say as I tap my marker against my lips.
“To boost involvement and give the school board what they want. More well-rounded portfolios for Ivy League colleges to scout.” He leans against one of the desks.
I pace in front of the printer and search for a solution.
“What if you volunteer?” I whip around, excited that I may have just found a solution. He’s on the lacrosse team.
Eldridge and I aren’t close, per se, but I’m friends with Emma, and while the two of them throw jabs at each other regularly, they’re actually really close. The three of us have hung out together more than once. I can’t say that he likes me, but I also don’t think he hates me.
“Can’t. The polo team drew the short end of the stick. From what I heard, when the coaches got word of Trejo’s plan, they all got together with a plan of their own. None of them want their teams focused on anything outside of winning a game. This student council election would do that.” My face visibly deflates as I try to think through another plan, and he adds, “If you want, I’ll run for treasurer.” His tone peaks with playfulness as he tries to lighten the mood. That’s the one thing I’ve always liked about Emma’s brother. When the people around him are down, he tries to pull them back up.
“Let me guess,” Emma says flatly. “Because you’re a treasure?” Her eyes narrow, and her voice drips with unimpressed sarcasm.
“You’re finally catching on,” he mocks before heading toward the door. “It only took you, what, fifteen years?” His hand slaps the doorframe, garnering my attention. “If you’re there, I’m there, Fairfield. See ya around.”
“Sorry about that,” Emma sighs when he’s out of earshot.
“You have nothing to be sorry for,” I say as I start packing up my supplies. “Eldridge is always trying to make light of the heavy stuff. He’s harmless.”
“I’m not so sure that’s all that was.” She grabs her bag off the floor.
“Are you implying your brother likes me?”
“The better question would be,who doesn’t?”
“That’s your op—” I start before slapping both hands on the table. “I got it. I’ll just make Hollis run against me. He doesn’t care about winning, but running will satisfy Headmaster Trejo’s participation requirement. He might want them to run, but he can’t make them win. Class presidents are elected, not appointed.”
“See, in the bag.” Emma pops her hip out. “Now help me roll this up. Lunch is almost over, and I need to eat something, evenif it is just a piece of fruit. My stomach feels like it’s going to eat me from the inside out.”
I consider going back to her comment, the one where I was about to tell her that the way she perceives everyone liking me is her perception, not reality. Instead, I leave it. Emma has made those comments offhandedly since we became friends, and I've never liked them. They make me feel like she puts me on a pedestal—one I never asked for. While they still bother me, I don't see them the way I once did. It's not ameproblem. It's aherproblem. She had a falling out with her friends—one she never talks about—so I can't be sure what exactly went down. But I think her comments about how everyone likes me stem from her own insecurities about herself.
I glance at the Cartier watch my father got me for my birthday over the summer. "If we hurry, we'll make it to the lunch hall before the lines close."
“Mrs. Jean, did you make me one of your veggie packs?” I raise up on my tippy toes and lean over the glass a little to ask my favorite lunch lady for the special snack she makes me when she’s chopping up vegetables for the salad and soups.
“I’m sorry, Asha,” she says regretfully. “Lunch was almost over, and I thought maybe I’d missed you coming through the line. I just gave your snack to another student.”
“You gave my snack bag away?” I say, a little upset because I’m missing out on my snack, but more so surprised. No one knows about her veggie snacks. That’s our thing.
“Yes, there was a boy asking a lot of questions about ingredients and holding up the line, so I sent him on his way with the veggie sticks, quinoa, and hummus.”
“It’s okay. I understand,” I offer. “Just don’t let it happen again,” I say teasingly.
I grab a wrap, an apple, and water before joining Emma at the cashier.
"What's with the face?" she says, doing a double take.
"I didn't get my veggie sticks," I say, thoroughly irritated.
"Veggie sticks? Since when have those ever been an option?" She glances over her shoulder.
"They aren’t," I rush out, internally scolding myself for slipping up and almost giving someone else the ability to steal my snacks. "Hence why I'm upset."
"Okay…" she draws out, my bizarre behavior clearly too much for her to process. "Where do you want to sit today?"
The second my eyes scan the commons, they fall on the boy who Mrs. Jean gave my veggie sticks to. Even leaning against a pole, he's tall. His dark hair is longer on top, long enough that a stray lock is dusting his forehead. He reaches for his water bottle on the table, and the fabric of his polo stretches tightly around his bicep. My eyes drag down his body, cataloging every detail as my mind races to put a name with his face, only to come up blank.
