The Mother's Promise(8)
When the bell went, she made for the line, snatched up a tray—something to hold on to—then slunk toward the cashier, trying to blend in. The trio of girls in front of her loaded up their trays with oily white food—Tater Tots, mac ’n’ cheese, fries. They were caught up in a conversation about reality TV, a conversation so easy and natural it made Zoe want to cry. All around her, people chatted easily while Zoe pretended to be totally gripped by the disgusting food behind the steamed-up glass. She shot a longing look at the lunch ladies, wishing she could be one of them: busy at her station, not required to sit, be sociable, make small talk. When she reached the end of the line, she swiped up some onion rings (she wouldn’t eat them, but she could push them around her plate for fifty minutes to give herself something to do) and proceeded to the cashier.
Having paid, Zoe did a discreet assessment of the room. She and Emily didn’t have, like, a regular spot; they “freestyled”—a term Emily had coined to mean that they moved around. Zoe would have preferred to have a regular table, a place she knew she could always head toward, but if Emily wanted to freestyle, they freestyled.
Zoe and Emily weren’t geeks exactly; they were more like nobodies—didn’t register on anyone’s dial at all. This was fine by Zoe, but Emily was determined to improve their social standing at any cost. She’d taken to brazenly talking to the coolest guys as if they were good friends. (“Hey, Fred, great game last night, man! Next stop, Super Bowl?”) Her optimism was sweet, if majorly embarrassing. (Like the day she stopped Amber in the parking lot and asked for a ride home. Amber hadn’t even tried to contain her amusement and roared with laughter as she drove away. Em’s cheeks had pinkened a little but she got it together and waved as Amber screeched out of the parking lot.) Zoe knew Emily longed to be part of the cool crowd, but rather than get down about being on the outer circle, she stayed focused on having a plan—the next person they could befriend, the next party they could attend. Luckily for Zoe, Emily’s plans never quite worked out.
Zoe had sat next to Emily in homeroom on the first day of school and Emily had latched on to her (weirdly, it wasn’t the other way around) saying she thought she had “this mysterious vibe going on” and she “so wished she could be mysterious.” Zoe doubted that, but she welcomed the friendship. Emily had invited herself to Zoe’s house that first day, and Zoe was floored to find that the prospect didn’t make her freak out. Her mom nearly choked on her wine when Emily bounced in, all bubbly and happy. Zoe’s previous “friends” had been made up of freaks and creepers (like Carla, the morbidly obese kid who, during a sleepover one night, had crept into their kitchen and eaten the entire contents of their fridge, including the condiments, and then stole away into the night and never talked to Zoe again). Then along came Emily, this fairly normal, nice girl, who thought Zoe was awesome. And around Emily—as long as they were alone—Zoe was awesome. There was no good explanation for it; Emily was simply one of her safe people. She’d come up with the term “safe people” in one of her few therapy sessions, and it seemed to fit. But there weren’t many safe people. There was her mother. Emily. Her grandpa before he died. Some of the old people her mom looked after (there was something so wonderfully nonthreatening about the elderly). And once upon a time, a few of her misfit friends, who, once they’d realized what was wrong with her, had moved on to greener pastures of friendship. Like Emily was bound to do eventually.
Zoe walked slowly, searching for somewhere to sit. There were a few tables that had spaces, but none had room for two. There were some empty tables at the back of the room, but they were a bad idea—anyone could come and sit there and she’d be stuck with them for the entire hour. Harry Lynch, she noticed, sat alone at a corner table, rather than in his usual spot with the other football players—but when you were as cool as he was, you could do that. A sandwich was in his hand, suspended halfway between his plate and his mouth. He observed it for a moment then returned it to his plate.
Zoe hurried on.
Finally, she sat at an empty table, crossed her legs, and pushed her onion rings around her plate. Zoe didn’t have an eating disorder exactly; she simply didn’t eat in front of people. The way she figured, there was just so much potential for it to go bad. She became consumed by the way she chewed, the way her mouth opened and closed, whether she’d left a shiny oil residue on her lips. Not to mention the unholy minefield of something sticking in her teeth. They were normal worries, but where a normal person would carry a mirror or wet wipes in their purse, Zoe stopped eating in public.
“Sorry!” Emily said, clattering her tray against the table. “Whew.”
“Where’d you go?” Zoe asked, then immediately chastised herself. She didn’t want to be that possessive friend who wanted a full report every time her friend went to the bathroom. Mostly because Emily had told her she’d once had a friend like that and it had really annoyed her.
“I have news,” Emily announced, dragging the word “news” out and making it two syllables, and delivering it in an opera-style voice. It was cute and endearing, just like Emily. It made Zoe long to be cute and endearing.
“What is it?”
Emily pierced her with her blue gaze. “Um, just the most amazeable thing that could possibly happen. You’re not going to eat these, right?” She gestured to Zoe’s onion rings.