He comes back with two plastic squeeze bottles, one red, one orange.
"Raspberry and orange," he announces.
I squeeze a line of red across my snow mound and watch it sink in, staining the white with a pink that reminds me of cough syrup. I scoop some with my fingers. It tastes like sugar and it's divine.
"This is disgustingly amazing," I tell Jack.
"This is genius," he says, squeezing more on his mountain.
Other students filter in from outside. A kid with a shaved head and a dragon tattoo on his skull drifts closer. Santana. I know almost everybody's name by now and at least a little of their reputation. Santana was in a street gang, but he's alright.
"Can I have some?" he asks in a much more polite way than I'd have imagined.
"Help yourself," Jack says. Santana grabs a handful of snow with syrup, shoves it in his mouth, and grins.
"Yo! Marsal and Perry got snow cones!" he screams at nearby kids.
Within seconds, there are six, seven, eight kids crowded around us, everyone reaching, pouring, and the snow is getting more watery, now more slush than ice, more syrup than flavor, dripping through fingers and onto the serving line and the floor in sticky rivers of color. Someone tips a tray and snow slides across the counter. A kid steps in a puddle and slides three feet, catching himself on the counter with a yelp that only makes everyone laugh harder.
The cafeteria is a wreck.
I don't hear Griff approach. No one ever does. He’s that good, that scary motherfucker. One moment the cafeteria is a riot of laughter and dripping syrup, and the next there's a complete silence, something that never happens when you live with sixty delinquents.
Gray hair in that military-precise cut. Green eyes looking at every spill, every overturned tray, every guilty face. His jaw is set in the way that means someone is about to wish they'd made better choices. Most of the kids bolt or step back, leaving Jack and me alone. Uh oh.
His gaze lands on me. Slides to Jack. Returns to me.
"Marsal. Perry." He looks like he's about to snap. "I'd ask for an explanation, but I think the state of this cafeteria speaks for itself."
He doesn't yell. He hardly ever needs to. He starts a scolding about respect. For the facilities that other people clean. For the staff who prepare food on these counters. For ourselves, because boys who want to be treated with dignity need to extend it to their surroundings.
"Why on Earth did you think this would be a good idea?"
Jack and I stare at our feet, trying to look very sorry.
"You will clean this. All of it. Right now. While your peers go to free time." He turns to the room. "I don't want to see anybody else here." He steps back, crosses his arms, and watches us with a frown.
Jack grabs a mop from the supply closet, accepting his sentence. I grab a rag. The other students file out slowly, some shooting us looks of sympathy, others of amusement. The cafeteria doors close behind them.
The mop water turns pink immediately. Jack dunks, wrings, pushes the mop across the floor in wide arcs. I'm on my knees with the rag, scrubbing syrup from the serving line. We don't talk for a minute. Then Jack catches my eye and his mouth twitches and I have to look away before the laughter comes back, because Griff hasn't left, and it’s so fucking hard not to laugh that my chest hurts with the effort.
My rag turns orange. My knees are wet. I'm embarrassed and happy at the same time, which is a common combination for me.
The cafeteria looks almost normal when we finish. It still smells like raspberry syrup mixed with cleaner. My knees ache. My hands are pruned and sticky despite the washing.
Griff gives us a final nod before leaving. Still not amused, but he looks like he wants to murder us slightly less now.
"Phew," Jack exhales. "I'll put these back." He gathers the bucket and rags and kicks the supply closet door open with his foot.
I lean against the stainless steel of the serving counter and let my head drop forward. My hair falls over my eyes. I'm tired in the good way. My shirt is damp, my socks are wet from kneeling in mop water, and there's a faint ache between my shoulder blades. But I'm still thrilled. I could stay like this for awhile. Just breathing.
When I lift my head, he's already there.
Three feet away with his hands at his sides, watching me with those green eyes and an amused frown that only he can create.
He knows I've been bad.
Oh, hell yes.
