31. Lunch Buddy

This is high school.

The smell of bad burgers and gym class drifting in the air.

Nameless, faceless ghouls strolling by listening to iPods with blank stares.

Colorless bathrooms with red and black graffiti covering the stalls and cracked mirrors waving back.

A guy named Gus walking in the hallway and blocking the way, taunting you, trying to get something started.

A girl named Poe dressed in a black dress with Converse shoes and some kind of strange monotone top blocking the way to lunch with a disappointed stare.

All I want at this particular moment is to find Jocelyn and try talking to her.

Seeing Poe, I suddenly wonder if that’s going to happen.

“What’s up?”

“Hello, Chris.”

“Something wrong?”

“Yeah, unfortunately,” she says.

“Jocelyn?”

She nods, a look of glee on her face.

“I just want to talk to her.”

Poe shakes her head. “Uh-uh. Give her some space.”

I don’t feel like getting into this with Poe. I start to walk past.

“Look, she doesn’t want to see you.”

I stop and turn. “What’s that mean?”

“Well, let’s see. I think it means that she, Jocelyn, doesn’t want to see you, Chris. Yeah, I’m pretty sure that’s what it means.”

“You don’t get it.”

“I didn’t have to go to some lame dance to get it.”

“No, you really don’t get it.”

“Look, moron. Listen to me. I’ve sat and watched the guys at this dump come and go for two and a half years, treating Joss like some toy, some thing. Something they hold and put on a pedestal and then toss away whenever they feel like it. And we thought you’d be different.”

My mouth hangs open for a second in disbelief. “You have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“Guys are guys wherever they’re from.”

“And so are girls,” I say, walking away from Poe and going to get some food.

I’ll have to find somewhere else to sit today.

“You mind?”

Newt looks up through his oversized glasses, away from the paperback novel he’s reading, and shakes his head.

“What’re you reading?”

“Dennis Shore. Marooned. Read any of his stuff?”

“No. I’ve seen some movies.”

“The books are better. The books are always better.”

I nod. He has a really ripe banana, some pretzels, and a half-eaten sandwich that looks like someone sat on it. The thing on my tray is supposed to be a chicken sandwich and fries, but I bet scientists would say otherwise.

“Hungry?” I ask.

He looks at me, then down at my plate. “You don’t want that?”

“Not really.”

“Okay.”

He takes some fries and eats like a prisoner of war. Watching him, I suddenly get over my hesitation to sit with him. Instead of feeling sorry for myself, I feel sorry for him.

Newt, on the other hand, seems used to his life as a high school doormat. He eats as if nobody else is watching him.

Which they weren’t, until I sat down with him.

“Girl problems?” he asks, mouth full.

“Yeah, something like that.”

“Probably for the best.”

“Hey—you know that article you gave me—”

“Shhh!” Newt shakes his head, and bits of fries fly from his mouth. “Remember what I said.”

“About what?”

“They’re watching.”

“Look—did you give me this note today?”

“What note?”

I grab the crinkled thing out of my pocket and hand it to him. He looks around, then opens and reads it. He looks at me. “I’d never sign a letter like that.”

“What? As a ‘friend’?”

“That’s right,” he says.

“Well, okay.”

“I say that whoever gave you this note can’t be trusted.”

“Really,” I say with an exaggerated tone and look. “Maybe you can’t be trusted.”

“Don’t mock me.”

“You seriously didn’t give me this note?”

“I seriously did not give you that note.”

“What do you think it’s talking about?”

“It depends on who gave it to you,” Newt says.

“Maybe it’s talking about you.”

Newt ignores my comment and starts to read again.

“You know, maybe you’ve been reading a few too many horror novels.”

“These are supernatural thrillers,” Newt says the way a librarian might. “And furthermore, one can’t read too many books.”

“You gotta live life sometime.”

“I plan to do so the moment I leave this town.”

“Yeah, well, I hear you there.”

I stare at the mystery meat and then put the bun back on top. “Want my chicken sandwich too?”

“Only if you don’t,” he says. In a millisecond half of it is in his mouth.

I get that feeling that someone is looking at me, so I turn around.

Seven tables away, Jocelyn is looking at me.

We stare at each other for a moment until a group of girls blocks our view. When the girls move past, I look for Jocelyn, but she’s no longer there.