The Wilds of the Cafeteria

Saramus Dent had just returned to the all-too-familiar plane+ of Cafetariana. He had +o admit, he didn’t want to be there or speak to any of the other Green Forces.

“I don’t think I’m actually from this planet,” he thought to himself as he stepped out of his Litecraft. When he saw the other hunchbacked Green Forces with their frog-like legs and bulging red eyes, he thought, “Yep. I’m DEFINITELY not from here.”

Lunchtime is basically the worst thing about Halsey School. I’ve been here since fifth grade, so I’ve kinda gotten used to the drill.

One, go through the most putrescent lunch line ever.

Two, look around at all the tables, filled with friends talking or looking at their phones.

Three, see the table with the Doomsday Geeks. Think, Man, I don’t want to sit with them again.

Four, heave a sigh and go sit with the Doomsday Geeks anyway. They’re usually talking in some kind of code that sounds like a mix between Star Wars and The Matrix. Don’t get me wrong, those are two of my favorite movies, but sometimes you don’t want to talk in secret code.

Today is no different. Over the sound of their “digital language,” I can hear the squeals of the Sweets. They’re the most popular and feared girls in school. I don’t turn around—I can tell from the pitch of those squeals that they’re laughing at someone. Well, at least it’s not me.

Samantha Cho is pretty much the only person at the table who sometimes speaks like a real-live human. Today, she’s completely lost in her calculator screen. I watch her punch a long string of numbers into the keys. It’s like she’s making a sentence out of numbers. I wait for a moment, hoping she’ll look up and notice me—maybe even smile. No luck.

Instead, I pull out my notebook, which is what I do when I don’t know what else to do. It has a smooth leather cover with my initials, D.O.S., burned into the corner. My dad gave it to me last year. Every time I open it, it makes me feel calmer. Its soft leather smell creates a quiet, peaceful world where no loud people interrupt you. In that world, if you want to get noticed, you don’t have to score the winning goal in the game or think of the perfect thing to say. You just have to exist.

The sound of the lunchroom is like an orchestra, I start writing in my notebook. The sound of S.C. tapping keys on her calculator is the drums—no, wait, the percussion. The Sweets and their ringleader, Stella, screech like really annoying violins. S.C. keeps playing her calculator song. Her hair is so shiny. Her eyelashes—

Just then, my neck starts to prickle, like it does when someone’s looking at me. I put my hand over what I’ve been writing and look over my right shoulder.

It’s Samantha Cho. She’s not playing with her calculator anymore. She’s leaning over the back of my chair and reading every . . . last . . . word. . . .

“Hey!” I squeak, snapping the notebook closed. I feel my whole face turn red. It starts in my chest and moves up through my neck, into my cheeks. My face feels like it’s being toasted over a fire.

Samantha doesn’t say anything. In fact, she looks almost as embarrassed as I am, even if she doesn’t have the crazy Fire Blush to give her away. My blushes are a special thing about me. Well, special or horrible. Hildy calls them my Fire Blushes, and the name kind of stuck.

“Nice writing,” Samantha says, with a shrug. She has a way of doing that—shrugging so that it seems like she’s already moved on from what she’s saying.

“Saramus Dent. Is that, like, a made-up guy?” she asks.

“Yeah,” I say, relieved that she wasn’t reading the more humiliating side of the page. “He’s from a book I’m writing. About space.”

“Cool,” she says, shrugging again.

And with that, the end-of-lunch bell rings. The Fire Blush, however, doesn’t go away.