Chloe
Having flushed most of my Lucky Charms cereal down the garbage disposal this morning, I feel my stomach gnawing on my backbone by lunchtime.
I snag a slice of pizza, fries, and a fudge cookie, and try not to count the carbs. Shala, who used to have a bit of a weight problem, was a walking, talking carb meter, and even after all this time, I can still count carbs as fast I can eat them.
It's a good thing I don't gain weight easily because I've never a met a carb I could resist. From the pictures of my mom, she was naturally thin, too.
I hand the cashier my money. She lifts her face.
Her blond hair is in a ponytail, and some of it hangs in front of her face, almost as if she's trying to hide. She tucks the loose hair behind her ear, her blue eyes meet mine, and she smiles. I remember her kind of doing that yesterday, too.
It's a different kind of smile. As if she recognizes me. Probably has me mixed up with someone else.
"You are extra bright today," she says.
I look down at my navy shirt and jeans. I don't understand what she means, but I smile and take my change. As I walk away, I feel her gaze stuck to my back.
She's an odd duck.
It's only when I look and see my peers, all sitting in groups, laughing and chatting like friends do, that I remember how much I hate lunch period. Why is it that you're never as lonely by yourself as you are in a crowd?
I head to a spot at the end of a table with several empty seats. I'm seated and taking a good long sip of my water when someone drops down next to me.
I almost choke on my water when I see it's Hannah. My first thought is that she's here to confront me about the letter, which causes my appetite to take a dive. I set my water down and wait for her to start accusing me.
But she doesn't even look at me, just starts forking at her salad.
After a few awkward seconds, I throw in the towel and say, "Hi."
"Hi," comes the one-word echo.
She's mentally immersed in her food tray, and not me, so I pick up my pizza and take a bite. It's cardboard with tomato sauce, but the cheese makes it edible.
"Word is you're cool as shit," she says, still studying her salad.
I swallow. "What?"
"Your car. Sam and Dex were talking about it in math."
Dex must be the other boy.
"I'm not cool as shit," I say.
But I remember that almost the same thing happened at the last school. My car makes a big impression on some people. But then they find out my dad is a mortician, and my cool status bites the dust.
Does he have to touch 'em? Does he hug you when he comes home from work? What does he do with the blood he drains from their bodies? Does he smell like dead people?
Verbal jabs have been tossed at me for as long as I can remember. I've basically come to the conclusion that there are some careers that should require sterilization.
And mortician is one of them. The only other person who got teased more than me in school about their father's career was Marla Butts.
Her father was a proctologist. The man could have at least changed his name.
"You lived here long?" I ask, a little curious as to why she doesn't seem to have friends.
"A year." She forks a cherry tomato, holds it up and stares at it. "Where did you move from?"
"Dallas." I pop a fry into my mouth. It's cold, but salty and greasy.
"I'm sorry," she says.
Say what? I study her eyeballing her fork. "Sorry for what?"
I don't think she's looked at me since she sat down, and it feels weird talking to someone who seems more emotionally invested in a cherry tomato than our conversation.
"Dallas," she says.
"You don't like Dallas?"
She pushes the tomato off her fork and stabs a piece of lettuce. "No, it's great. I lived right outside of Dallas for eight years. I'm sorry for you having to move here. This is a sad, screwed-up, boring town."
I don't know what to say to that, so I just shrug. Not that she sees it. Her attention is now on a cucumber she's chasing around her bowl.
"Why did you move here?" she asks.
I flinch at the question
"My father's job."
Please don't let her ask what he does. I'm not ready for that. And knowing my dad works at the funeral home where Bessie is might connect me to the letter.
"What brought you here?" I toss out, hoping to distract her from the career question.
"My mother got tired of her latest live-in boyfriend beating the shit out of her."
I don't know what to say to that either. But I force out a "Sorry."
"I'm not. Not that she left him. Just sorry that my grandmother lived in this half-ass town."
So, Bessie was her grandmother? I pick up the pizza and as I do I see her bracelet. It reads, Black Lives Matter.