Lunch.
In most schools, it's a peaceful interlude. A chance to rest, reflect, and consume something vaguely edible.
In Greenville, it's war.
"Stick close to me," Blake said, nudging me as we stepped into the hallway. "The last time I went to the cafeteria alone, I accidentally joined a cult."
"I don't want to know what kind of cult serves pudding."
"It wasn't pudding, Peter. It was custard with purpose."
The hallway was already swarming. Students moved like a stampede with WiFi. Someone zip-tied their desk to the ceiling. A girl was roller-skating backwards while reading Macbeth.
And I swear—I swear—there was a pair of twins arguing in perfect rhyme while playing chess on a skateboard.
"This can't be real," I muttered, clutching my tray voucher like a lifeline.
"Nothing here is real," Blake replied dreamily. "This place operates on narrative energy and weak supervision."
We had only made it halfway to the cafeteria when it happened.
A blur of motion whizzed past us like a caffeinated comet.
I instinctively ducked.
Blake waved.
"Yo, Jett!"
"Was that… was that a person?" I asked, slowly standing back up.
"Yup. Jett Van Doren. He's in Year 12. Rumor says he's part hummingbird."
"That's not—"
"He runs laps during lunch to keep his metabolism synchronized with cosmic frequencies."
I stared down the hallway in the direction the blur had gone.
Sure enough, I saw him at the far end—mid-air.
Mid-air.
A full, majestic leap over a row of lockers like a caffeinated gazelle.
His arms were outstretched. His uniform flapped behind him like a superhero cape.
And in one hand…
A bright yellow rubber duck.
Just… dangling there.
As if it was completely normal.
"Why does he have a rubber duck?" I asked, because somehow, somehow, I still wanted answers.
"That's his emotional support duck," Blake replied like I was the idiot. "He never goes anywhere without it. Its name is Doug."
"Doug the duck."
"Yeah. It helps him 'quack down' before exams."
I stopped walking.
I needed a moment. Possibly a therapist.
"Blake…"
"Yeah?"
"Why is no one else reacting to this?"
"Oh, we tried that in Year 8. Got a group nosebleed."
The cafeteria doors swung open ahead of us, spilling out the scent of something fried and legally ambiguous.
I sighed.
This was my life now.
And somehow, I still wasn't sure if I hated it…
Or if I was slowly, terrifyingly starting to get used to it.
After a long journey filled with various negative and guy wretching experiences, we finally arrived at the cafeteria.
The cafeteria smelled like fried mystery and mild anxiety.
The noise level hovered somewhere between "busy restaurant" and "riot rehearsal."
I had just picked up a tray of something the lunch lady called spatially uncertain lasagna, and I was now scanning the tables for a spot not occupied by gymnasts, beatboxers, or suspiciously still groups whispering in Latin.
"There," Blake said, pointing with a celery stick. "Empty seats. Prime location. Great lighting, low spill risk, reasonable acoustics."
We made our way toward the table, weaving between a boy balancing spaghetti on his head and a girl trying to convince a toaster to grant her a wish.
And then I saw it.
Sitting casually, legs crossed, eating what looked like a color-coded protein bar—
Was an alien.
Not metaphorically.
Not some weird new student with a skincare obsession.
An actual alien.
He was humanoid, yes. But his skin was a pale, glowing blue—like a frozen glacier had been given a face. His eyes shimmered like mirrored marbles, and his hair looked like it had been combed with a fork made of moonlight.
And worst of all?
He was wearing the Greenville uniform. Tie and everything.
"Blake…" I whispered, stopping dead in my tracks.
"Hmm?"
"There's a literal alien sitting at our table."
"Don't be silly," Blake said, already sitting down. "That's Kyle."
"His name is Kyle?"
"Yeah. Kyle 5-Kar'nex-something-long. We just call him Kyle. He's in Algebra II."
"He's blue, Blake."
"That's cultural."
"His pupils just rotated sideways."
"Adaptive optics. You'd love it, super efficient."
"He just hissed at his juice box."
"We all have moments."
I stared. Kyle nodded politely, then proceeded to levitate a fork into his mouth like that was completely normal behavior on a Tuesday.
"You're telling me," I said slowly, "that an alien goes here, wears the uniform, eats lunch with humans, and nobody finds that even remotely odd?"
Blake chewed thoughtfully. "Well, I find you odd and I haven't reported you to the government yet, have I?"
I had no response to that.
Kyle finished his meal, cleaned his tray with a miniature black hole (I think?), and walked off calmly—waving goodbye with a hand that may have briefly split into three.
I turned to my tray.
My lasagna was glowing slightly.
I didn't even flinch.
I'd reached the point where the universe was no longer shocking.
I was just… tired.
And mildly concerned about radiation.
"Peter," Blake said gently when he surprisenly notices the tiredness in me, "Welcome to Greenville."
I took a deep breath, picked up my fork, and accepted my fate.
I had just taken my third bite of whatever this lasagna actually was when the doors to the cafeteria exploded open.
Again.
"JETT VAN DOREN!" someone shouted.
And then he was there—midair, somehow, flipping over a table, still clutching that same rubber duck, now wearing ski goggles and a neon cape.
"Incoming!" he yelled, ricocheting off a lunch cart.
Milk flew. A tray spun. Someone screamed "DUCK!" unironically.
Not only that sadly, but I caught a glimpse of the trypan which held the food am currently trying to eat got spilled on the floor.
And immediately, flowers horrifying began to sprout out of the ground the food layed.
Jett slid across the floor on his knees like a rock star at the end of a concert and fist-bumped a vending machine on his way out the back door.
Total chaos.
And me?
I didn't even blink.
I picked up my glowing lasagna.
Took another bite.
And calmly said,
"Huh. Seems like I will go for checkup after school."