When I introduced rich, perky Lucia to Rainie, I worried Rainie would squeeze the life out of her. Rainie’s reputation among strangers ranges from a wastrel (an insult from Mr. Clay that Rainie so enjoyed, she renamed our group chat) to a delinquent.
To everyone’s surprise, Rainie developed a soft spot for Lucia. Lucia is the most well-protected senior on campus, because Rainie will use her three-inch spiked combat boots to stomp the stuffing out of anyone who breathes at her wrong.
Meanwhile, it took years of effort to convince Aida to open up to us. Aida, the quiet, reclusive artist had spent middle school as the only Black girl in our grade, and in a tiny town like Ward, where the Mr. Clays make it their mission to suck the joy out of every day, I didn’t blame Aida for keeping to herself until high school.
The first time we had a real conversation was in the library. I was checking in the tattered third book in a paranormal vampire series, smoothing down the laminated cover before I slipped it into the return slot. Aida was sitting behind the circulation desk, and she’d tentatively asked me how I liked the twist at the end. We spent the next two hours passionately arguing the merits of the ending, and I’d sped read the rest of the series to give myself an excuse to keep coming back to the library. By our tenth argument, I had shored up the nerve to invite her to eat lunch with us.
“I don’t know,” she said, picking at the plastic spiral of her sketchbook. “I usually eat in the locker room.”
I was aghast. “Thegymlocker room? With the shower mold and the smells?”
She grinned briefly. “That’s the one.”
She’d finally agreed to a trial lunch if I promised not to get angry if she decided to leave halfway through.
To my knowledge, she never ate in the locker room again. She still spends most of her free time sketching or reading, but now she doesn’t mind doing it around us.
No one has ever seen Aida’s art. If we even joke about glancing into her sketchpad, she’ll slam it shut.
Aida glances over, and I quickly drop my gaze, blinking away the sting in my eyes.
Iwillget them back. I have to.
I spread my lunch out on the grass, brushing aside the jacaranda petals scattered everywhere. A legion of ants stir at the base of the tree, tiny black specks vibrating with anticipation.
“Never say I don’t spoil you guys.” I wag my finger. “We’ve got a turkey sandwich on the menu for today.”
I’m peeling the rest of the plastic from my turkey sandwich when someone slides into a cross-legged seat in front of me. Whip-quick fear slashes across my insides, spewing a million scenarios that span the next two minutes. Most of them involve a rotting smell and orange eyes in a familiar face.
My apprehension fades at the sight of scratched-up work boots. It’s just Jesse.
I snort, wadding the plastic into a ball. Just Jesse.
“Are you lost?” I ask bluntly. Seeing my friends has left me too raw—too likely to bleed under one of Jesse’s casual barbs.
He peers at me with a distinctly unimpressed air. Then, to my shock, he grins. The expression transforms him, and for a split second, my mind goes blank of everything but one word:whoa.
Unfortunately, all my appreciation for his looks disappears the minute he opens his mouth.
“Damn, Mansour. I wish I’d known earlier you had such a mean streak. I might not have had to get up at dawn Monday through Friday to avoid running into you. Do you know how much sleep that adds up to?”
My jaw drops. I don’t even know which part is most offensive. “You woke up early just to avoid seeing me on the way to school?”
He shrugs. “You kept asking how my morning was going. I ran out of answers.”
“You mean you ran out of ways to grunt in my general direction.” I figured Jesse wouldn’t be a morning person, but it takes a staggering level of commitment to rearrange your entire schedule simply to avoid a few minutes of awkward small talk.
“I was worried you’d start in on the weather or how I slept last night,” Jesse continued, undeterred by steadily climbing aggravation. “I once had a nightmare about you asking me my plans for the weekend.” He shuddered.
When he pulls out a notebook, clearly intending to stick around for a while, I recover long enough to snap, “What are you doing?”
He makes a show of looking down at the notebook and back at me. “Take a wild guess.”
“But you didn’t even bring lunch.”
Another nonchalant lift of his shoulder. “I’ll eat when I get home.”
I wait, but no luck. He’s serious. Does he think I can actually continue eating my food while he has none of his own? I’m Masriya. My parents had drilled into me the etiquette of never keeping my plate full while someone else’s was empty.
