I pack my stuff quickly and leave for math class, aka the emotional black hole of my schedule. Easily the low point of my day. My brain already shuts down whenever math is involved, but at least he isn't in this class. So there's that.
After that, things actually get… easier. Somehow. Art is chill. English is fine. Forensics is weirdly interesting. No one calls on me, and more importantly, no one looks at me like I'm about to start crying or combust into flames. Which feels like a win.
Then lunch rolls around.
And just like that, I'm back to feeling like a misplaced extra in a teen movie. The cafeteria is huge and loud and packed with kids who look like they've known each other forever. Everyone's already seated in their little cliques all laughing, yelling across tables, sharing snacks. You'd think I'd walked into the third act of something I was never invited to.
I take a deep breath and scan for the emptiest table I can find. Something far away. Corner of the room. Zero social expectations. I spot one with no one around and beeline straight for it.
I sit down and immediately look busy poking at my food like it's the most fascinating thing I've ever seen. Which is a lie. The grayish mushroom on my tray looks like something that was cooked last week and just now remembered to die. I don't even bother tasting it.
Then, without warning, another tray drops onto the table in front of me.
"Mind if I sit?"
My eyes flick up, half-expecting someone else here to be messing with me. But no, it's a guy. Maybe an inch or two taller than me. He had very pale skin. Red hair that flops a little in the front. Freckles. The sleeves of his sweater are bunched up weirdly, like he didn't care enough to roll them properly, and his shirt's untucked on one side like he got dressed while falling down the stairs.
"Um… yeah. Sure."
I give him a small smile...awkward, a little shy...….and shift my tray to make room.
He drops into the seat across from me with a loud exhale, staring down at his plate with something almost close to despair.
"Disgusting, isn't it?" he says, gesturing dramatically to the food like it personally offended him.
I huff out a quiet laugh. "Honestly? I've had worse. Public school lunches build up your tolerance."
He gasps like I just told him I survived a war. "Ah yes, the horrors of the American public school system. A real gastrointestinal battlefield."
I grin, more than I meant to. "It's like eating vomit, but… colder."
Gross, I know. But it's true. And honestly, I was lucky enough to get free lunches back at my old school, so cold vomit was usually better than an empty stomach. I still qualify for free lunch here too, but the look the lunch lady gave me when I brought it up? Full-on disgust. Like I asked for gold bars and a kidney instead of food.
"So," the redhead says, leaning back in his chair with a raised eyebrow. "What made you hop off the hell train of public school life" he slips into an exaggerated British accent….."and board the posh express to overpriced uniforms and repressed emotions?"
I hesitate. It's the kind of question I've been hoping no one would ask today. But it's not like I can say, "Well, my parents disowned me when I was twelve and I've been scraping by alone ever since, so I figured a scholarship to a private school might be the only way I don't end up working nights forever." Hell no, too…. Revealing.
Instead, I go with the safer option. The lie that still sort of feels true.
"I just wanted a change of pace," I say, shrugging a little.
He looks at me for a second longer, like he knows there's more to the story. But he lets it go.
"Well then!" he says, straightening up and clearing his throat. "I, Gerrard Henderson, do humbly welcome you to our strange little corner of the world." His British accent is still hanging on, and now he's holding out his hand like we're onstage in some school play.
I laugh, for real this time, and reach out to shake it.
I smile more genuinely than the last time, taking his hand. "Well, I, Philip Blue, do humbly accept your welcoming." Gerrard sits down as if only now realizing that he has been standing throughout the entirety of our exchange.
Gerald takes a huge bite of the gray mess on his tray, barely chews it, then pauses mid-mouthful like he's just remembered something really important.
"Also, no offense man but seriously… you've got to get a uniform that actually fits you," he says, mouth still kind of full. "You look like you got dressed in a Goodwill fitting room… blindfolded."
He says it like a joke, but there's just enough truth in his tone to make me want to sink into my seat.
And yeah, okay, rude.
I want to fire back with something snarky. Maybe like, "What exactly is wrong with Goodwill?"
Because, hello, I shop there.
Regularly.
Proudly.
Where else can you get halfway decent jeans for six bucks and a hoodie that doesn't scream look at me, I'm broke?
Also, I'm very aware of how ridiculous I look in this oversized uniform. I feel like Harry Potter in his cousin's hand-me-downs.
The pants are sagging, the sleeves are rolled twice and still hanging past my wrists, and the polo is basically a tunic. I even laughed inwardly when I looked at myself before.
"Oh, uh… yeah," I mumble, pushing some unidentifiable cafeteria food around on my tray. "They're doing my uniform fitting on Monday. This one's just a loaner or whatever. It doesn't really fit at all."
Gerald raises an eyebrow like he's just learned the most obvious fact in the world. "Really? Hadn't noticed," he says flatly.
I roll my eyes. "Ha ha. You're hilarious."
"I do try," he grins, shoveling another forkful into his mouth like he hasn't tasted anything in weeks.
He swallows, then leans in just a little, a bit more curious now. "So, how's the first day treating you?"
I almost laugh. Like, really laugh. Because how am I supposed to answer that?
Should I say, "Oh, you know, it's been interesting. Got shoved into a locker before second period by some too-hot-for-his-own-good human hurricane. Felt weirdly turned on about it, so I've spent the entire day spiraling emotionally."
Instead, I go with something way safer.
"It's… been fine," I say, nodding like I believe it. "Only one person's been actively mean to me, so that feels like a win."
Gerald lets out a little huff. "Let me guess, Mateo."
I squint. "Is that his name?"
He nods. "Dark hair, smug face, clearly knows he's attractive? Drives an actual motorcycle even though no one asked?"
"Yep," I say. "Lowkey a dick."
Gerald snorts. "I don't know about lowkey. Feels more like full-blown 'capital D' Dick to me. But yeah, that sounds like him."
Before I can reply, Gerald's eyes suddenly flick up behind me. He freezes like someone just hit the pause button on his brain.
I start to turn, confused, when I feel a warm breath at my left ear and hear a voice that sends a full-body shiver straight down my spine.
"I'm a little hurt that you don't know my name," the voice says, low, husky and way too close. "But you still think I'm a dick?"