I’m so busy glaring at my former friends that I don’t even look at the food I shove into my mouth.

I gag.

Spit the food back on the tray.

It’s not food.

It’s long thin tendrils of seaweed covered in sludge, and the Parmesan is nothing but glittering fish scales.

I blink.

Wait for it to vanish, to become normal again, like the pizza I had last night.

It doesn’t.

Disgusted, and before anyone else can see what’s happened, I leap from my seat and throw my lunch—tray and cutlery and all—into the trash.

From across the lunch room, I hear Rachel laugh.