EMILY DICKINSON
At lunch, I use a limp pickle to poke at the ham sandwich on my Styrofoam plate.
“That bad?” Ayla asks, sliding into the seat beside me.
It was nice of her to ask me to sit at the lit-mag table, so I dig down deep and force a half smile. As I drop my soggy spear, she reaches inside her metal Wonder Woman lunchbox.
“At least you’re sitting with the coolest kids in the building.” She raises one eyebrow.
I can’t help but laugh. I know she’s totally joking. But from what I’ve seen, the student literary magazine crew is actually pretty cool. Jules sits at this table. Katsu, a Japanese guy with glossy black hair and eyes to match, sits here too. He’s always glancing at Ayla, unless he’s immersed in his sketchbook. Or maybe not. Maybe his interest in Ayla is another instance of my social antennae misinterpreting a frequency.
“Yeah.” I smile. I owe her one. She invited me into her group, which is more than anyone else in this lunch period has done, and it’s way better than hiding in the bathroom. Which I may or may not have done earlier this week.
Ayla smears hummus on a stalk of celery. “You might even start coming to the meetings. You seem like the writer type,” she says, then tilts her head to look at the clock.
I turn as well. When I do, I notice Chatham two tables over. Maddie sits beside him, sipping a bottle of water and talking with such enthusiasm that the massive bow in her hair bounces up and down, punctuating her sentences. The North Ridge Cheer logo plastered on her chest screams “Look at me!” Apparently, she’s on the debate team and the cheerleading squad. That’s actually kind of impressive.
Chatham nods at me. I sit frozen, mesmerized by his genuine smile and . . . full lips. When Maddie jiggles his arm with a French-manicured hand, he looks away, and I remember to exhale.
Ayla crunches a carrot stick. I try to swallow, but a bit of rubbery pickle catches in my throat. Ayla pounds me on the back until a tiny chunk of green shoots out my mouth, landing near the tray of the girl seated across from me. Thankfully, the girl doesn’t notice. She’s deep in conversation with a guy in glasses about the layout for the next edition of Over the Ridge.
“Sorry,” I cough. “I don’t know what that was all about.”
Ayla raises that flawless brow again. Without a stitch of makeup, she is beautiful. She’s got this whole artsy, natural thing going that I could never pull off. Maybe Mom and I should substitute the TV dinners with more of Ayla’s crisp veggies.
“It’s just—I’m supposed to tutor Chatham after school. And I know it’s going to be . . . awkward.” I push my tray away. My stomach is no longer inside the cafeteria with me. It’s moved ahead to this afternoon’s study session in the media center. There’s no way I can eat the food on my plate, even if it was actually digestible.
Two minutes before the bell, Chatham pushes back his chair and heads toward the trash can with his tray. I see this because I’ve been unsuccessfully trying not to watch him out of the corner of my eye for the entire twenty-seven-minute period.
I focus on Ayla as she delivers another sales pitch on the benefits of being a part of the lit mag. Ever since Ms. Ringgold read part of my first essay to the class, Ayla’s been after me to join. I love to write, but I’m not so sure I want to share my private thoughts. I’ve never written for anyone but myself, and I don’t know what I’d have to say that the rest of the school would want to read.
When Ayla pauses in the middle of a sentence about creative writing, the hair on the back of my neck tingles. Without looking, I know someone is standing behind me. I don’t move—until Ayla nudges me under the table and a lightbulb flickers in my dense head. It must be Chatham.
I turn around. He smiles down at me. “Hey, tutor.”
“Um, hi.” The tables on either side of us hush as if they’re trying to overhear our conversation. Maybe they’re curious what the golden boy has to say to the quiet new girl.
“Can I have your number?” he asks, ignoring their prying eyes.
“My number?” I glance at Ayla and back at Chatham, confused by the request.
He nods. “Your phone number.”
Someone at the table behind us snickers.
“Oh, uh, yeah. My phone number.” Flustered, I jumble the first three numbers and have to correct myself.
He adds me to his contacts. “I’ll text you.”
I try to nod, but the muscles in my neck don’t work. Ayla pinches my thigh, and I snap out of it. “Yeah. Right. Text—”
The bell interrupts me. Hundreds of kids push back their chairs, ready for the mad dash to fourth period. When I stand to join the masses, a huge upperclassman bumps me with his overloaded backpack, pushing me chest-first into Chatham.
I gasp.
My. Boobs. Are. Touching. Chatham. York.
“S-sorry.” I apologize, tilting my head back to meet his eyes. He’s so tall, the room spins when I lean back to look up at him.
He places a steadying hand on my waist, the left side of his mouth turning up in a half smile. “Please. Don’t apologize.”
With a wave, he turns to go. I suck down a lungful of air in an attempt to steady myself, unsure whether he’s flirting or teasing or both. He only wants my number because of the tutoring thing this afternoon, but I have a flock of seagulls flapping in my belly—a flock of very unruly seagulls who must be restrained before I reach fourth period.
I search for Ayla’s steadying face in the masses. When I can’t find her, I head out to the main hall completely on my own.