A List of Cages(5)
At the same time I twist my body sideways, winding through the dangerously crowded room. My friends and I have to cram into a table that shouldn’t seat more than ten, which means finding a chair’s like a game of Twister. When you combine the sudden heat, stripping, and intertwining limbs, lunch is basically soft-core-porn-time.
I manage to squeeze in next to Emerald, and our thighs press together. As usual, her reddish-blondish-brownish hair is up and twisted into a complicated style most girls would save for prom. Her eyes lock onto mine—so blue I’d figure she was wearing contacts if I hadn’t known her since the fifth grade.
“Hi.” I smile, kind of mesmerized by her, like always. She looks like a 1950s starlet with her perfectly painted red lips, pale skin, and the mole on her cheek—basically way too glamorous to be sitting here eating greasy french fries out of a Styrofoam container. There are about a million things I want to say to her right now, but I’m distracted.
Across from me, Camila’s just whipped the scarf off her neck to reveal a shirt so low-cut that if she sneezes, her nipples are going to fall out. I try to pretend I’m not looking, mostly out of courtesy to her twin brother, Matt, who’s sitting beside her. The pair of them stare at me for a second in that eerie twin way, reminding me how much they look alike—both small with dark hair and skin. When we were kids, they dressed alike too, till she started wearing tight skirts and four-inch heels.
I tear my eyes away from Camila when Charlie slams down his tray, looking even more menacing than usual, then with great difficulty folds himself into a seat. I used to envy his height till it got to ridiculous levels. When you’re six foot five, you just don’t fit anywhere. He’s forever complaining about his cramped legs and sore knees. But then again, he’s forever complaining, period.
Case in point: “Fucking freshmen. Do you know how long it takes to get through the line now?”
I do in fact know. He’s been telling us every day this year. Allison (Charlie’s on-and-off-again girlfriend since sophomore year) sits on his thigh, which is as long as a freakin bench, and gives him a sympathetic pat. Calming Charlie is a big part of her job description. The tall blonds look enough alike to be another pair of fraternal twins—the time I said that aloud to Charlie didn’t go over so well, though.
“You should start bringing a lunch,” I suggest, lifting my glass container.
“Tofu?” Camila asks suspiciously.
“I’m not going vegan or whatever you are,” Charlie adds.
“It’s lemon chicken. I eat meat—occasionally—as long as it hasn’t been raised in a factory. Come on, try some.”
Emerald spears a small piece with her fork and chews precisely, as if this is a formal dinner, then dabs her perfect mouth like her napkin’s made of cloth. “This is amazing,” she says. “Why don’t you cook for me?” She takes another neat little bite, and this time she hums around it.
Charlie gives the two of us an annoyed look, so I wave a piece in his direction. “You sure you don’t wanna try? This food’s much better for you. It makes you stronger, gives you more energy—”
“Exactly what you need,” he interrupts. “More energy.” Everyone laughs, which seems to make him proud, because he doesn’t get a lot of laughs. Then he takes a deliberately huge bite of his pizza. “I shouldn’t have to bring a lunch. They shouldn’t be here.”
“LET IT GO, MAN.” Jesse’s voice is too loud, probably because an earbud is still stuck in one ear. He leans forward, his latest growth spurt making him look like a scarecrow, and he sets his drumsticks on the table. He carries them everywhere, but he gets away with it since drums are the one instrument you’re allowed to play and not get called a band nerd. “It’s been like a month.”
“Come on, Charlie.” I grin. “Don’t you think they’re just a little bit adorable?” I ask this knowing he hates kids even more than the word adorable. He looks like he’s tempted to punch me, but then he always looks ready to commit an act of violence.
He was, in my opinion, irrationally livid when he found out we’d be sharing the cafeteria with the freshmen. Last year a group of concerned parents complained that their kids didn’t have time to eat, so this year instead of four lunch periods—one for each grade—we have two. Longer lunches, yeah, but twice as crowded, and for people who actually eat school food, now half their time’s spent in line.
We were told that putting the freshmen and seniors in the same lunch period was purely a numerical decision. We were the smallest class; the freshmen were the biggest. A few days into the semester I started to suspect a more deviously brilliant plan.
The cafeteria was chaos. Freshmen were running around like kindergartners. Worse maybe, because even kindergartners know to stay in their seats and not write on their tables in ketchup and pull each other’s hair. It didn’t take long for unrest to rise among the seniors. We all wanted sanctity restored, but the faculty just stood there looking traumatized.
Naturally it was Charlie who confronted them. He Terminator-marched to a table that was having some kind of green bean launching competition, and told them to sit down and shut the fuck up. As they looked up at him with fear and awe, they reminded me of a cage full of big-eyed, terrified mice, and I know exactly what that looks like.