And he said thanks.
And next thing I knew, John Paul Reynolds-Abernathy the Fourth was sliding his tray down next to mine.
“Oh, hi, J.P.,” Tina said. She shot a warning look at Boris, since he was the one who’d objected so strongly when I’d suggested inviting J.P. to join us, back when we’d only known him as the Guy Who Hates It When They Put Corn in the Chili.
But Boris wisely refrained from saying anything about not wanting to eat with a corn hater.
“Thanks,” J.P. said, squeezing into the spot we made for him at our table. Not that he’s fat. He’s just… big. You know, really tall, and everything.
“So what do you think of the falafel?” J.P. asked Lilly, who looked startled at being spoken to by a guy who for, the past two years, we’ve sort of mocked.
She looked even more startled when she realized they both had the exact same things on their trays: falafel, salad, and Yoo-hoo chocolate drink.
“It’s good,” she said, staring at him with kind of a funny look on her face. “If you put enough tahini on it.”
“Anything’s good,” J.P. said, “if you put enough tahini on it.”
THIS IS SO TRUE!!!!!
Trust Boris to go, “Even corn?” all mock-innocently.
Tina shot him another warning look…
…but it was too late. The damage was done. Boris was clearly unable to restrain himself. He started smirking into a napkin, while pretending to be blowing his nose.
“Well,” J.P. said, cheerfully falling for the bait. “I don’t know about that. But maybe, like, erasers.”
Perin brightened at this statement.
“I’ve always thought erasers would taste good fried,” she said. “I mean, sometimes, when I have calamari, that’s what it reminds me of. Fried erasers. So I bet they’d taste good with tahini on them, too.”
“Oh, sure,” J.P. said. “Fry anything, it’d taste good. I’d eat one of these napkins, if it was fried.”
Tina, Lilly, and I exchanged surprised looks. J.P., it turns out, is kind of… funny.
Like, in a humorous, not strange, way.
“My grandmother makes fried grasshoppers sometimes,” Ling Su volunteered. “They’re pretty good.”
“See,” J.P. said. “Told you.” Then, looking at me, he went, “What’re you working on so diligently over there, Mia? Something due next period?”
“Don’t mind her,” Lilly said with a snort. “She’s just writing in her journal. As usual.”
“Is that what that is?” J.P. said. “I always kinda wondered.” Then, when I threw him a questioning look, he went, “Well, every time I see you, you’ve got your nose buried in that notebook.”
Which can mean only one thing: The whole time we’ve been watching the Guy Who Hates It When They Put Corn in the Chili, he’s been watching us right back!
Even freakier, he opened his backpack and pulled out a Mead wide-ruled composition notebook with a black marbled cover with KEEP OUT! PRIVATE! written all over it.
JUST LIKE MINE!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
“I, too, am a fan of the Mead Composition notebook,” he explained. “Only I don’t keep a journal in mine.”
“What’s in it, then?” Lilly, always ready to ask prying questions, inquired.
J.P. looked slightly embarrassed.
“Oh, I just do some creative writing from time to time. Well, I mean, I don’t know how creative it is. But, you know. Whatever. I try.”
Lilly asked him immediately if he had anything he’d like to contribute to the first issue of Fat Louie’s Pink Butthole. He flipped through a couple of pages, and then asked, “How about this?” and read aloud:
Silent Movie
by
J.P. Reynolds-Abernathy IV
All the time we’re being seen
By Gupta’s silent surveillance machine.
What type of fly needs so many eyes?
Every turn of a hallway another surprise.
Gupta’s security is not so secure
since we know it’s based on nothing but fear.
If I had my way, I would not be here
Except that my tuition’s paid to the end of the year.
Wow. I mean… WOW. That was, like… totally good. I don’t really get it, but I think it’s about, like, the security cameras, and how Principal Gupta thinks she knows everything about us, but she doesn’t. Or something.
Actually, I don’t know what it’s about. But it must be good, because even Lilly seemed really impressed. She tried to get J.P. to submit it to Fat Louie’s Pink Butthole. She thinks it might bring down the entire administration.
God. It’s not often you meet a boy who can write poetry. Or can even read anything. Beyond the instructions on an Xbox, I mean.
How weird to think that the Guy Who Hates It When They Put Corn in the Chili is a writer like me. What if the whole time I’ve been writing short stories about J.P., he’s been writing short stories about ME? Like, what if HE’s written a story called “No More Beef!” about the time they put meat in the vegetarian lasagna and I accidentally ate some and threw that giant fit?
God. That would kind of… suck.
Friday, March 5, G & T
Grandmère called back right as the bell signaling the end of lunch started ringing.
“Amelia,” she said prissily. “You wanted me for something?”